#Black Avenue Music | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starseungs · 5 months ago

Text

a phoenix's ashes. ksm.

kim seungmin x gn!reader — from a love that burned bright to a love that fell like ashes. only a sincere wish from the heart would make a love twice as better rise from its remains.

genre/s — exes to lovers, second chance, angst with a happy ending, pianist!seungmin, violinist!reader • 1.5k words

warning/s — not much other than pain, lack of communication as a theme

note — another seungmin fic because i need to get over this man 🧍‍♀️ its messing with my brain chemistry... | song inspos are « i don't want to watch the world end with someone else - clinton kane » and « huling sandali - december avenue »

2024 ⓒ starseungs on tumblr. do not steal, repost, or edit.

In the windows of your sight, the view tints green.

They were a startling contrast to the bright white lights illuminating the stage ahead. It framed the picture of the scene well, you suppose. With the two performers seemingly glowing in the tints of yellow provided by the Brazilian maple flooring. You couldn’t help but be mesmerized by one of the two, who was donning a beautifully polished violin in her hands. The strings sang in delight as the woman delivered the intricately thought-out vibrations to all those who could hear.

And those who did, listened. Down to every last sound.

To word it in the simplest way you could muster, it would have to be perfect. The type of playing every person who has learned the violin even once has dreamed of achieving. A small but content smile makes itself known on your face as desires and memories paint themselves in splashes. You were once like that; you hummed to no one in particular. Acknowledgement lost in the silence of muted praises. The green you were presented with made much more sense in the moment of awareness.

Envy. It was an emotion you've come to know, admittedly very well. Drips of resentment seeped through the river of flowing emotions that were overwhelming you. Despicable as it was, you let it be. After all, it was what kept you grounded. Only a fool would discard an anchor when heading into the chaotic sea. The precaution may not always apply—especially not in the depths of the darkest waters—but the thought is what keeps a lost sailor hopeful with the dreams of land.

A certain ring of a key brought you back to the moment at hand. In what seems like a flash, your eyes lost sight of the violinist you were dedicating your absolute attention to. Instead, your gaze shifted to her side, where a male was sitting in front of a sleek black grand piano. The furrowing of your eyebrows proved to be an unstoppable action as your mind connected the face to a name. One that you had refused to utter from the moment his figure stepped on stage. A dark, almost black, blue tie hung securely around his neck. It was in a shade that made you shudder with an awful interpretation.

Longing. You deciphered the tingle of desperation. Every piano key he pressed seemed to grow louder in your ears. It almost scared you to think that the pianist would overpower the strings of the violin you adored so much. A clawing feeling sank itself deeper into your skin, wishing to avoid memories of the time when the two sounds co-existed as a symphony. But it was eventually deemed unfruitful as the score ran to its end.

If only—oh, if only you could retrace your steps back to that time. Back when the music floated carelessly through the air. Without fear or judgement of those who were out of the equation. Back to when you loved with a passion. The days that let your heart skip in a melody resembling the piece being played. You let out a silent chuckle.

Maybe in another life. For now, the present will have to do. A soft smile graces your lips once again as you watch the pianist stand, plastering a content-looking smile at his splendid performance.

You could only clap in respect.

Witnessing the last stage of the day brought an odd feeling. With the hall lights appearing to guide the audience away, the darkness being chased away was akin to multiple weights being lifted off your shoulder. That itself would have been the best way to end your afternoon.

If only that didn’t mean having to walk under the dimming evening sky.

“You came,” a voice called out. The two words were short and concise. Straight to the point. A statement rather than a question. The frigid tone of someone who, in your memories, was always so warm made you exhale too shakily for your liking. It was humorous, as it was a great complement to the vibrant orange sunset amidst the chilly air of the incoming night.

The pavement crackled under your feet. “And you made it,” you stated back. His stare shot straight into yours from the minute you turned around. “Congratulations, Seungmin. You did well out there.”

“Even if it’s not the same?”

“What was there to be mourned about? The dynamics sounded heavenly in my ears,” you admitted. The moment of hesitation before your last sentence lingered in the air. You watched a lone leaf swing downward in the space between the two of you.

His next words were spoken through gritted teeth. “It could have been better.”

“Seungmin, you should know by now that I’m never going to be the mind reader you expect me to be.” You sighed in defeat. “I could know you, but I could never be you. So, tell me what you actually want to say.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” he spits out. “You knew me too well that I let myself take advantage of the security you gave me. But that didn’t mean you had to break what you’ve built for yourself just because of me! How much more selfless do you want to be, to the point that you become a selfish coward!”

A car rushed by the barren sidewalk the both of you stood on. The sun had long since been gone, replaced by the moon to be the sole spectator in the exchange between two old flames. Lines of streetlights resembled the lights on the stage you had abandoned, imitating previous performances you once shared with Seungmin. You clenched your fists at the flashes of memory.

“You can’t just hold on to the past like that, Seungmin—”

“Not if it was the present and future that I wanted!” He cries out. “You would never understand what I had to go through when you stepped off that stage for good. The endless nights that I thought to myself, how you could just make that decision like it was nothing. But in the end, it was just me refusing to acknowledge that you had given up. You gave up on me. On us.”

The spear that had lodged in your heart long ago started moving again. You had so much to tell him—that you couldn’t. Not when your conversations with the constellations had you blaming yourself the same way he did to his own. It was never about whatever thought Seungmin made into a conclusion on his own.

It was the complaint-turned-advice that you failed to apply to yourself.

“Stand on stage again, Y/N.” You flinched at the emotional cracks in Seungmin’s voice. “Stand beside me again.”

In that moment, you proved him right once again. Exactly how long are you going to act selfless to shield your selfish cowardice? You claimed that you wanted to be the muse for Seungmin’s harmony. Yet the moment your skills were questioned, you let go of everything without even a second glance. Now, did you really have the right to dictate whether you were enough for Seungmin or not?

“The violin is no longer for me,” was what came out as a whisper. You watched as Seungmin’s eyes glistened to produce clear beads resembling diamonds. Fear that he might have caught on to the undertone of weariness you were trying to hide after a year of endless convincing. “I’ve left it behind me. It’s been a year.”

A storeowner nearby shuts the front doors of his shop.

“Even the person I fell in love with?” Seungmin asks. “The person you were at the beginning of what we used to call us? The person who shone brighter than the high-grade theater lights, no matter who else was beside them? The same person who could never compare to the stars in the night sky with how much they burned with passion? If so, then tell me right here and right now. That the one I loved has long been left behind by the year as well.”

Your hands twitch to grip an imaginary violin and bow.

“Seungmin.”

“Please,” he pleads desperately. “Break what’s left of the man who loved that version of you. I refuse to let the fragments of what you were continue to be the reason I keep myself understanding of the pain you bring to me. This is my last wish to you, Y/N. Please let my heart hate you as well.”

Something wet fell in droplets right by your shoes.

“I can’t.”

There were streams flowing down your face.

“I haven’t left that version of me behind.”

A bubbling wail makes itself present in your throat.

“I never forgot how much I loved the violin.”

Slow footsteps echoed through the area.

“And especially not how I continued to love you even throughout that one year.”

Warmth. Like the yellow tint emitted from the Brazilian maple flooring when the overhead lights hit it during a performance. Like the heat of the moment when you reach the climax of a piece. You were back in Seungmin’s arms. In the stage where only you and him existed.

Just where you needed to be.

SERIES TAGLIST ━ STATUS: OPEN — ASK OR COMMENT 🫶

@fairyki @hysgf @euncsace @comet-falls @starlostseungmin @ameliesaysshoo @hyunverse @wnbnny @xocandyy @minluvly @moon0fthenight @estellaluna @hanjsquokka

275 notes · View notes

feartoxinjelloshot · 8 months ago

Text

The Black Mask was both with the name Roman, to Charles and Ruby Sionis, the wealthy proprietors of a cosmetics business empire based in Gotham City.

By all accounts he was a normal toddler. He was weaned off of milk and sent to preschool and potty-trained and all of the other things small children were bound to do. He was a quiet, polite, intelligent little boy who did his parents proud - they had been trying for a child for a long time, someone to inherit the business when they passed on. They made sure tiny Roman was aware of his importance early on. What better way to make a child feel special, feel loved? They were going to trust him with everything. He was going to be just fine at it.

The company, really, was Ruby's world. She was a woman, and cosmetics were a feminine empire. Charles - though he held his fair share of business responsibilities - was always more dedicated to his lifelong passion for hunting and taxidermy, which had been instilled in him by long family trips with his own father, out to remote stretches of forest, mountain and grassland to take down all kinds of exotic trophy prizes. When Roman got old enough Charles bravely attempted the same with him, even buying him his first very own gun for his tenth birthday. Roman was shy and hesitant, sometimes to the point of vexing his father with his lack of confidence, but Charles was patient and understanding and slowly coaxed the hunt out of Roman as well. The kid had a real talent for it, when he got over himself enough to calm down and aim. He was a genuine crackshot, and his father bragged about it at every chance, talking him up and ruffling his hair fondly. Those were some of the few times Charles saw his son show him a real smile.

The other side of it was not as comforting.

See, both sides of Roman's family line, in varying quantities and distributions, had always been prone to hereditary psychosis. This particular affliction had miraculously skipped both of his parents, and in a superstitious attempt to ward it away from themselves and their son, they neglected to ever mention it to him. In fact, they made a concentrated attempt to prevent him from ever figuring out what psychosis was in any meaningful way that might affect his development.

Roman grew up surrounded by animals. Sometimes they were whole animals, deer and tigers and caribou; sometimes they were just the head, set into a wooden plate on the wall. Each had a different personality and a different voice. They had been his friends since he was a baby, and he considered them truer confidants than even his parents. They comforted him when he was at his worst, spoke to him in quiet tones that he had learned by that point not to respond to in front of his parents: it's okay, you're okay, champ and you only did what he made you do and but you won't pick that awful gun up again, right?

But he never forgave himself for killing their sisters, the ones in the woods that looked and moved like them, with beating hearts in their chests and big shining eyes that went flat when his father finished them off. He never forgave himself for skinning them with a silver knife and eating their flanks when there was nothing else in the camp at night, because his father said he was proud of him and his chest was cleaved down the middle by a child's sick loyalty.

At a lack of other avenues Roman constructed himself into two faces. The first one was a happy, healthy little human boy who went to school and smiled at his parents and never made eye contact with any of his father's taxidermy or walked around the house at night on soft padding feet. The other one was his true self - an animal, among other animals, whose face looked less like the one in the bathroom mirror and more like a black thing with white eyes, too big to be a wolf and too small to be a bear, that howled its gleeful music up the chimney along with the chorus that lit up the mansion's crowded hallways just before dawn.

And for a while he survived like that: with his mask in the day and his life at night, not content but not wholly unhappy either.

But he had done his job well. He had done his job so well that his parents, through a combination of their own prideful ignorance and Roman's genuine deception of them, had not noticed that anything at all was wrong with their son. He passed his classes and didn't make trouble and spoke of his friends on occasion, and went hunting with his father every summer, and he was fine. They were all fine.

So on his eighteenth birthday they gathered him up and had a party for appearances and said Son, we had you late. We were old then and we're older now. We want to retire. And we love you, and we trust you, and so we're going to give you the company.

And Roman thanked them, gathered every shred of his human mask up to his face, looked at it, realized it wasn't going to be enough to cover himself up, and went deep into the house with his friends and didn't come out.

His parents were devastated. They'd been working so hard for this. The past eighteen years, and they'd been raising him for this. He loved them. They loved him. How could he be unhappy? And throwing a tantrum like a child? What had they raised him for if not this moment?

Roman, in the house, had been busy with the process of taking one of his father's unused taxidermy mounts, a deep dark glossy lacquered thing, and using his hands and a whittling knife to carve it into his real face.

The black mask. The wolf.

It came out looking more like a skull, but he figured that it was penance, after all, for all the siblings he had killed. He put it on and was overcome with hysterical calm relief, which was when his parents found the spare key to his rooms and broke in.

Their anger at him for what he had done quickly turned to rage at each other, and the company, and then Roman again, and each other, and through their screaming match and Roman's hysteria and the ceaseless chattering of the animals on the walls, nobody remembered the leftover sconces of candles downstairs until the smoke alarm went off.

To be short: Roman made it out. He was the only one.

Obviously, he was the primary suspect for the fire. They didn't believe that he couldn't have engineered the physical evidence, or that he wasn't lying about where he was at the time. There was nobody else alive from the house to confirm his statement. His face would never be the same again, that much was clear: the detectives and psychiatrists made quick work of the family mental history that he claimed he had never even heard about before that point - fat chance, kid - and by the time he got around to blabbering over his so-called siblings nobody took him seriously at all. They wrote him up. He couldn't be officially accused until the hearing, but it was an open-and-shut case. Poor bastard, but hey, it's Gotham. Shit like this happens every other week.

Roman Sionis never made it to the hearing.

He was out of the hospital for three hours before anyone noticed he was gone and his trail stopped cold at the exit doors. In forty-eight hours he had gone from one of the richest teenagers in the city to homeless, penniless, barefoot, and permanently disfigured - the fresh lacquer on his wooden mask had melted in the heat and fused straight onto his face, unless he wanted a complete transplant, skin and all.

Roman didn't. He figured that he had hidden enough. In his abject shock, he was starting to show some of his father's confidence, something he really always had hidden somewhere in the back but had always been pressing himself down too hard to show. He went into the guts of the city and stole a new set of clothes - all black, like the mask. If he was going to do this, he might as well do it in style. He was intelligent, a fast-talker, knew when to be quiet, and he really was still a crackshot, even after all those years. That was shit that could get a man pretty far down where he was.

The police never found Roman Sionis. They found the man who wore his body, sure, but the boy had been gone for a long, long time.

#black mask backstory piece because i felt like it #uneditied and its 1am btw. which is to say IGNORE ANY TYPOS PLEASEEEE #scribbles #clipsverse #black mask #roman sionis #its been haunting me that the image i have of kid roman in my brain is literally just thst one guy from metal family. can anyone here me #i WILL practice music all summer. etc

163 notes · View notes

semischarmed · 1 year ago

Text

Demonizer

Hope you’re not religious…

———

Parker Mills here sure was. The cross, dutifully hanging on his neck in every other post. The obligatory bible passage quoted on the profile. A “#believer” given every other caption. The works. By all accounts, religion had been good for him. He seemed like a genuinely nice guy. Friendly to all, despite the evangelizing. Virgin too- saving for marriage, of course. His parents on the other hand were vile fucks. The Mills often terrorized our small town’s tiny lgbt community but by some stroke of divine luck, the son of those demons turned out completely normal. Better than normal. Parker was probably the nicest jock in town. Parker also turned me the fuck on. With Parker, I just knew. Just knew that those kind blue eyes and gentle smile adorned that angelic face and ripped body. Knew that with his family’s wealth and that face, he had the makings of the town menace. Knew that despite all this, he was entirely clueless on his appeal and unwilling to share his god-given gifts. Many have tried to corrupt poor Parker, but the man was a saint. He even looked uncomfortable doing anything beyond a quick peck on the lips. I just knew I could make him my own cocky motherfucker.

There were a handful of options in the dark web. Entirely different avenues ranging from a neurosurgeon offering direct transplant to a ritual for astral projection. It took 1 month just to sift through all the possibilities and options. Each one felt messy or required some form of constant maintenance. They wouldn’t do. I wanted Parker permanently. All of him-body, mind and soul. At last I had landed on the Demonizer Potion. The effects seemed to vary drastically, though they all seemed to warn of its corruptive properties. In the end, I chose it because it filled the most important niche for these products for me- I could actually afford it.

Finding a witch to procure this particular potion was… surprisingly easier than expected. In fact, it was downright effortless. Miranda, a witch just a town over, scoffed when I mentioned it to her. “A girl’s gotta pay her bills. Besides, It’s a lot easier and a lot cheaper to hide out here than it is in the big city.”

And that was that. For the “low-low price of $500”, I had the demonizer potion in hand. The drink was pitch-black. Darker than black even. And it seemed to pull all warmth from the room in an otherworldly, sinking feeling. I had no doubt this thing was the real deal. I read the instructions: “Drink with your intent.“ I imagined mine.

- - -

I knew the perfect time to strike. It felt oddly fitting to take him during a service. In the church’s bathroom, I took a quick swig of my future. Just a third of the black substance. I gagged as I felt it stream down my throat. And I winced, expecting a burning sensation. No-not a burning sensation. It was more like a pit of nothingness spreading throughout my body to my fingertips. The burning came after. All at once, the world around me spun as I felt my body leave physical manifestation. I watched as my spectral hands flashed white then black in a pulsating pattern, before finally settling on a grey.

Parker Mills sat, listening attentively. They seemed to be playing some religious music. My only religion sat right in front of me. In devilish glee I began to stream into him. Inch by Inch, I flooded into his thick dick. He made a small grunt at first insertion.

Parker shifted in his seat as the worship choir continued singing. His face grew red as he tried to hide a growing boner. The worship singing droned and I felt a sharp pain in my head. As if empowered, Parker’s own soul began to push me out.

In the end, I only managed to slip a bit of the grey essence into him. It did not seem to have much effect, aside from giving him an inexplicable need to grab the flask from the bathroom floor. I tried to make a mental note of that.

I sighed, defeated, as I fled into the night. In the darkness, I recuperated as I planned my next visit.

- - -

This time, there would be no fanfare. No choir to welcome our joining and my rebirth. I wasn’t sure how long I could stay in this world without his warm flesh tethering me mortal, so I knew I had to get in him fast.

I followed the man to his apartment, sitting patiently in a dark corner of his bedroom as he went about his day.

When he was close to sleeping, he turned off the light and sat on his bed in a meditative tone. I watched in anticipation as he closed his eyes and began to pray. “Lord, ple-“

“Mmhhmph!” I struck the man a snake, prying his full lips open and forcing his body to gorge itself with me.

This time, no music. Just the sounds of a teary-eyed Parker choking on invisible mass. Drool ran down his cheeks as I inched more and more of my form inside. His neck bulged and eyes grew wide and bloodshot as he tried badly to reject the intrusion. Lubricated by Parker’s own saliva, by the taste of Parker, I greedily dug into his insides.

Parker’s body began to move involuntarily. Deep in violation, it tried in vain to get me out. He smashed his head over and over again across the apartment wall trying to shake me out. I only forced myself inside harder. His head shook as it contorted in odd angles. Biceps started scratching at his own throat, trying to get me out to no avail. Eventually, they were forced splayed open as Parker’s body began to travel up the apartment wall. At first, his legs began to kick, then shake, then they begun to dangle ominously off the ground. In a perverted facsimile of his religion, I strung Parker up his own apartment wall, arms outstretched in a blasphemous pose as if to welcome me. “All are welcome..no, I am welcome,” I thought to myself. I continued my assault.

As Parker screamed, I weaved through each crevice until I could find the core of his soul. It looked pure and white, aside from the small speck of gray in my earlier intrusion. Gingerly, I pried the soul’s own mouth open as I laughed. I wanted Parker to his depths. Parker to his very core. And so I burrowed and coiled. Shackled myself to it. Shackled him to me. Like a trap jaw, his soul’s mouth closed. Forever sealing me in nice and tight as I continued squirm and fill into Parker. His spirit was mine. It bent in odd and unnatural angles, contorting until it tore. Outside, I felt Parker’s thrashing head slow into a twitching.

I wanted-no needed every part of Parker to myself. So I begun to fill into the tears of his ravaged soul. I then felt the the fibers of those tears heal- with me embedded. Euphoric. Stillness.

Parker’s pale blue eyes shot wide open, dilated. “P-Please,” he whimpered, before they go glassy and a smile began to form on his lips. Parker’s flesh collapsed into a pile on the floor, body, mind, and soul spent.

- - -

My first breath as Parker felt out of this world. Parker’s body was his temple after all. When I felt his lungs fill for me, and air flow into us for the first time, I felt the power in his drawn breath- Like having an athlete’s lungs chained to my whims. I felt our drawn air circulate inside me, tickling bits of me in drunken pleasure. Granted, I was not that unhealthy in my previous flesh, but this new home was unreal. Merely existing in his flesh felt like an unburdening. Energy brimmed from fingertip to fingertip and my mind raced with a clarity I did not know possible.

“I can’t believe you just feel like all the time” I teased as I twirled my new perfect hairs. I couldn’t help but giggle in my new perfect voice. Hearing it vibrate into a low moan was music to my ears, as the man’s hand travelled and cupped his own perky ass. “Fuck,” I panted breathlessly as I massaged my new right asscheek. The Jock’s face twitches in vain retaliation. “Fuck you feel so good…” I twisted his nipple. “Thank you for saving yourself for me.” Hearing and feeling this Parker, a Parker the world has never seen- A Parker he himself had never seen, drove me mad with lust. This was a private Parker, my Parker, one bound to me for my personal enjoyment. A moment exclusive to us. This seemed to light a fire in the original Parker and I felt my soul shiver as his encapsulated mine. “g…g-get the fuck out of me!” He spat.

With newfound agency, the original Parker ran to his desk and managed just one action before I could wrestle back control.

I gulped. My shaking hand dropped the empty flask as I felt his intent hung around me like a death sentence. “Cast this demon out of me”.

Control over my perfect meat-suit went dark. Like a barrier emanating from within, I felt myself squeezed out of my home. Then falling. Falling for an unbelievable amount of time. I blacked out.

- - -

I awoke with the smell of sulfur in the air, the sky was dark and glowed a faint orange. I stood as I surveyed my surroundings, horrified. I saw a sea of bodies writhing and groaning.

“Is this..?” I couldn’t bring myself to finish that sentence. I closed my eyes as I thought of the potion and the life I gave all to come to this. I didn’t even have a chance to play with my new body. A sensation stopped my racing mind abruptly.

It was a hand.

One of the bodies on the floor moaned as it spoke in velvet. “Are you joining or what?” I shook it off me as the realization slowly dawned on me. It wasn’t groaning… it was moaning. They were not damned. At least, they were certainly not upset about it.

Then I felt something else stir inside me. Hope? No- At least, not my hope. I grinned as I realized what had occurred. I took note of my spirit- a spirit that was a part of Parker’s. Partially superimposed. Partially one. We were bonded together, even as souls. When his sleeping soul came to, I felt that hope of his immediately vanish. He grabbed our merged face in horror, before looking around.

“B-but, I never did anything… I was perfect…” Parker trailed. I felt a blackness pour out of me. That’s it? Is that all there was to being a demon? These people were not suffering in the slightest. If anything, this was something to look forward to. This time, I felt no resistance from Parker as our shared soul began to fondle itself. Our face, however, was stone cold. Parker was in control.

Feeling all that he had to look forward to, something shattered in him. I felt as much- Rage. Betrayal. Then, Liberation. He looked up into the sky with a sneer and hands outstretched. “This what you wanted, asshole? I do everything right and you still put me here? How much time did I waste in those stupid lectures? How many people did we turn down?” I immediately felt the pieces of this new Parker worm into my psyche. “Fine”. He said with a broken satisfaction.

Like a root, he spread throughout me. Bonding each of us tighter and tighter. This time, I felt a natural cockiness exude from Parker, and by extension me. It felt wrong, coming from Parker. At the same time, a part of me felt like this truly was Parker. This time, the disillusioned man continued fondling himself on his own volition. He brought me into the fold, guiding my movements. “Bro…” . I felt mind mind dull in euphoria. “Bro….”. It rolled off our tongue lazily. Something about it just felt natural. “Parker, if you don’t stop… we’ll”. His mouth opened in a wide smile as he gave both pecs a squeeze. “I know. Enjoy the ride bro”. All at once the pieces of Parker rooted into brimmed with energy. “Fuck it, right? You should be thanking me for this… My body is my temple… and I’m letting you live in it. Thanking me is the least you could do.” Searing pain hit us both. Despite all this, he retained a crazed expression as he kept defiling his own soul. Bit after bit, I felt him kneed soul into mine. Though terrified, I couldn’t help but soften. This was truly a side of Parker I had never seen. Here he was, tainting himself- tainting us both- locking us to eternal damnation. Into one being. And he laughed while doing it. I could feel it in his depths. A raw aggression. A depraved, sexual hunger in him. One that swallowed me infinitesimally. One that strung me up inside him, fed me pieces of himself. Fed me too much of himself. Fed me to him. My head was spinning as the lines between us blurred even further. This new Parker coursed through me as he guided me to finish the job. Let’s sin in this temple together. The last, innocent piece of the original Parker spurted out of our soul in a torrent of spectral cum. We could see the weightlessness of it. We watched as it floated up to the dark sky. This remnant of the original Parker-the original me, would be mine. I drew the land into me, felt empowered by the flames as I jetted up. In unbelievable pace we ascended back to the living world.

- - -

Final bits of soul continued to ascend but with a swift, dark grip, we grabbed it and jammed it into our body’s chest. I watched my meat shudder at the feeling. It breathed into life, but remained unconscious. Our soul now brimming black, I caressed my perfected form in satisfaction. We were Parker. And we needed every bit of ourselves to be whole. On that note, I jammed our dick right into the Parker Meat body’s chest and watched as it shuddered. Caressing the face now wholly mine, I jammed our dick in again and again, reveling in the body’s shaking. I watched it claw into the floor, legs kicking and flaying in some automatic attempt to keep its own soul out. I only continued with faster and faster pace, grunting in his manly tone until finally-release. The invisible barrier around flesh punctured and I willed my spirit to pump bit after bit of myself into the small orifice. The Parker body only made gurgling noises as I streamed inside. Once all of me was finally home, I felt my flesh begin to enclose me and laughed as I felt the barrier reforge- only with me inside it this time. I made quick work of the last piece of the original Parker’s soul. Staining it black and integrating it into myself.

Tears now flowed freely down Parker’s flush cheeks. His hands caressed his thick biceps in gratification. We were finally complete.

I moaned as I felt myself overcome a familiar sensation that my old body often experienced. However, this sensation was entirely foreign to this Parker-flavored bod. Electricity coursed inside me, and moans turned into screams as shook back and forth in a downright religious experience. My back arched in violent delight and I felt the lights go out from my new pale, blue eyes. Parker’s first cum- our first cum together- absolute pleasure. My jaw slacked and drool began to escape as I was still reeling from the sensation.

Mess. I sat there panting for a second, chest and stomach soaked and coated in our liberation. I scooped a bit of the white and stared at it in my hand, watching this body’s own seed violently shudder and contort unnaturally before phasing into a dark mist. In demented glee, I felt the mist like an extension of myself and began feeding it into the rest of the untouched cum still outlining my abs. I licked my lips in savage pleasure as I watched as the rest of it slowly turn dark and soon felt it also under my control. Exquisite. I sent the small package of myself into the air, flying towards one of my teammates. Just a small piece to convince him to submit himself to Parker’s temple.

I couldn’t wait to show the town our new self. We are Parker. And all are welcome to worship at this temple. “Let us pray”.

- - -

Now, have you accepted Parker as your personal lord and savior?

#male possession #male body control #male merge #male takeover #malepossession #soul possession #male corruption

458 notes · View notes

somethingsgottasaveyou · 1 year ago

Text

blasting your comfort album on full volume through your headphones on a bad day is a must

1K notes · View notes

otrtbs · 6 months ago

Note

any jegulus fic recs??

heyo !! here are a few !!

meet me on telegraph avenue by ani_wahstan

giggled, kicked my feet, screamed into my pillow. it’s ‘90s american marauders. california boy james who listens to the red hot chili peppers and the beastie boys and he works at a record shop with regulus and iris by the goo goo dolls is all up in it and the cranberries. (<- basically the music is incredible) has queer history sprinkled in, i love 13/10 reading experience

living in border lines by inthesquare

this will rip your heart out of your chest. just. btw. and it is one of the most well-written reflections of grief. i love what the author does in this fic, how they experiment with sentences. the whole thing is so cool and will make you sob violently and leave you tender.

nothing fades like the light by rollercoasterwords

already mentioned this on briefly in my last fic rec but it’s soooo good! 1890s cowboy jegulus. with zombies. yeah. exactly. regulus steals james’ horse, tom is there fucking shit up, there’s literally zombies! the whole atmosphere of the fic is phenomenal another 13/10

creaking in my bones (it’s not pain, it’s applause) by perfectsnaccccccc

LISTEN TO ME. regulus black is a curator of his family owned museum. james is a sculptor. an artist. there’s art, there’s angst, there’s drama, there’s crime. james is so wonderful in this i could combust.

#asks #fic recs!

128 notes · View notes

coolprettyleo · 5 months ago

Text

know it's for the better - ryan leonard ☆

wc: 1.4k

tw: angst. endings. sad. crying.

ryan leonard x oc

death by a thousand cuts au

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

frankie stood in DC with a heavy heart.

she had taken the nearest plane out to talk to ryan when she realized her decision was final. hoping to try and salvage her relationship in any way she can, trying to stop the crashed ship from sinking.

the couple had been having problems ever since she made the move. they lacked communication, and that was the most dangerous territory to be in when it came to a relationship. she tried to tell herself it was only because they were busy, but even when they weren't, they still didn't really talk, and when they did it would end in an argument.

"I feel like we haven't talked in days," she said, propping the phone up on her makeup stand as she got ready to get some drinks with some friends.

"because we haven't," ryan said, basically snapping at her.

"i've been busy," she said looking at the phone to see ryan

"yeah but not busy enough for your friends," he said moodily as she furrowed her eyebrows.

"what's that supposed to mean?" she asked him, sensing he was pissed off at something, pissed off at her.

"who were those guys from your private story?" he asked her, talking about a TikTok she had made drunk the night before with a couple of new friends.

"these guys we met at the avenue; why?" she said, her eyebrows still furrowed as ryan sighed. he seemed to only sigh nowadays as if he was holding back from saying something.

"it's nothing. how was your day" he said, trying to change the subject, not wanting to argue but frankie was better than that to let it go, knowing it would just blow up in their faces later on. if only she knew what was to come.

"you're obviously mad about something, so I'm just going to let you go," she said, ignoring him as ryan sighed, once again; and hung up first before she could even hit the button.

ryan wasn't stupid. he knew he had an attractive girlfriend, and even though he trusted her, he still didn't like that they were hugging her; that was his girlfriend. insecurities that he never seemed to have began to claw at him like a cat and he didn't think he could handle it. but what was he supposed to say? that she can't have guy friends? he would never ever be that guy, so keeping it all bottled up was his answer. if only he knew.

___

frankie called ryan as she pulled into his hotel.

"hello?" he answered over loud music.

was he at a party? ryan didn't like parties.

"where are you?" she asked him

"the guys wanted to get some drinks, hold on," he said as he searched for a quiet place to hear her. part of her felt kind of annoyed he was partying when he never wanted to party with her.

"i'm in dc, outside your hotel," she told him straight forward.

"why didn't you tell me you were coming?" he said already bidding goodbye to his friends. he missed his girl, and he wanted nothing but to run into her arms, hoping that everything would feel okay again.

"it was very spur of the moment," she told him, but ryan could tell in her voice that there was something she wasn't saying.

"i'm five minutes away. don't you have work?"

"I have tomorrow off. but I have a shoot the day after that at 9," she told him as ryan sighed, once again. frankie couldn't help but think everything about her new life bothered him.

ryan soon pulled up and got out of the car. wearing a black t-shirt with some shorts, looking as handsome as ever. frankie almost forgot why she had come.

"hi" she said with a small smile

ryan looked at his girlfriend. she looked mature and as beautiful as ever. he didn't fail to notice the bags under her eyes as he pulled her into a hug.

"god, I missed you," he said, pulling away and giving her a sweet kiss that she had been longing far. she pulled away, knowing she had to tell him; she couldn't lie to him.

"I need to talk to you," she said with a hand on his chest as he looked down at her with furrowed eyebrows.

"okay," he said, nodding as he pulled her inside and took her up to his room.

"I'm rooming with chesley, but I don't think he'll be back tonight. he was talking up some blonde at the club," he said with a chuckle as frankie held a faraway look on her face.

"I'm not going back to BC," she blurted out as ryan turned to look at her, looking for any form of jokiness, but all he saw was his timid girlfriend in front of him.

"please say something," she said after all he did was stare at her like a kicked puppy.

"i don't- i don't know what to say to that," he said honestly.

"i know what you're thinking, and that this seems like it's the end for us, but it isn't ryan. i want to fight for us. I've only been so busy because I had to prove myself, but once I do, it'll die down. we can do this-" she said grabbing his hands as he did nothing but stare at her.

ryan wanted to believe her. he really did. but he felt nothing but like dead weight to her. he couldn't help but think he was holding her back. he could see it in her eyes, that she was the happiest she's ever been and he couldn't take that away from her.

he truly didn't know what to do. his eyes began to water as he looked away from her, praying to god he'd keep them at bay.

"I don't want to get in the way of your dreams," he finally said as she stared at him with a heartbroken look. they were sinking and she was holding on for dear life, but so was he.

"you aren't. we can do this, i know we can-"

"i don't think we can" he said shaking his head at her.

"ry-"

"I call you every day; you answer maybe once a week. that's not a relationship, and you know it" he told her as she looked down.

"what are you saying?" she said as her heart began to crack, afraid of his answer.

"I love you more than anything, frankie hughes. but I think we both know what I'm trying to say," he practically whispered, as if he was afraid she'd hear it, but she heard it loud and clear.

"so that's it? you're giving up? you're just going to push me away?" she said with a shaky voice with a hint of anger.

"im not pushing you away frankie, i'm holding on for dear life. i just won't keep feeling like some chore in your life. I want the world for you, and I don't think I'm a part of that anymore, at least not at this point in your life," he told her as she looked down. tears beginning to outline her face.

the two stood there shattering one another's hearts as they took deep and shaky breaths.

"please don't do this, ryan," she said after a long silence. if it was anyone else, she would be embarrassed, but here she stood begging the boy she saw as her best friend, her boyfriend. she'd beg forever, seemingly being the only thing left to do.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking anywhere but at her, not trusting himself, knowing he'd break and apologize forever. he knew he had to do this for her; it was for the better, and they both knew that.

frankie stood up and grabbed her bag as she walked over to the boy who held her heart and was letting it slip between his fingers.

"I love you, ryan," she said with nothing but pure emotion as the tears flowed freely down her cheeks. Ryan couldn't help himself and wiped them for her. he wanted nothing more but to wake up from this bad dream, but he knew this needed to happen; they needed to grow.

the freckled boy only wanted happiness for her life, even if it meant he wasn't a part of that. she kissed him sweetly one last time before walking out, out of his room, and out of his life. for seemingly forever.

#nhl imagine #nhl imagines #hockey fic #ryan leonard #bc hockey #frankie x ryan #ryan leonard x reader #ryan leonard imagine

74 notes · View notes

earlycuntsets · 6 months ago

Text

"your star

MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE

The Black Parade is Dead!

At this point, MCR needs no introduction. The band led by Gerard Way is an icon of current punk-rock and every day thousands of fans around the world join their "carnival". The good news is that the quintet will release The Black Parade is Dead! this month and we will invite you to its launch!

BY: XABIERA SAN MIGUEL B.

When My Chemical Romance visited South America with their world tour last February and we learned that Chile and Argentina were included in the tour, we perfectly understood that thousands of fans would fulfill their dream of seeing their favorite band live, however, not all of them could attend the event, and for that reason, when we found out that the CD+DVD The Black Parade is Dead! would be arriving in record stores on July 5th, we got our act together and got ex-clusive tickets for the launch. Yes, just as you read it, we will invite you to the premiere of My Chemical's new material…, but first things first, you should first know what all the musical fuss is about.

Why not miss The Black Parade is Dead!

To begin with, this is the second live DVD in the career of the quintet from New Jersey, which began its history in the winter of 2001. The first was Life on the Murder Scene and was released in 2006.

The dual-format material includes completely live images and sounds, and compiles two concerts from The Black Parade World Tour, but they are two completely different concerts from each other.

MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE

DEAD

The tour, which began in February 2007 and ended on May 9 at New York's Madison Square Garden, included 138 dates of electrifying concerts, in which Gerard Way, Ray Toro, Bob Bryar, Frank Lero and Mikey Way

they gave their best.

On the one hand there is the CD with the complete recording of the show that the band offered last October 7 at the Palacio de

www.theblackparadeisdead.com"

[next page]

The boys performed on October 24, 2007 at Maxwell's Club in Hoboken, New Jersey, in front of about 200 people.

The DVD was directed by Adam Rothlein, an expert in the field, who had already worked on DVDs for Green Day, System of a Down, All-American Rejects and Disturbed.

As this is a limited and collectible edition, edited especially for fans, the material comes in a digipack (cardboard box with two compartments, one for each disc) and includes a booklet.

20 pages with exclusive photos from both concerts.

The second envelope of the packaging includes a sheet printed on both sides, with thanks from the group and photos of the merchandising available online.

Mexico City Sports. On this occasion, MCR reviewed its entire album The Black Parade.

The album will be available at the Record Fair the first week of July and its reference price is $15,000. Both materials will not be sold separately.

On the other hand, there is the DVD that rescues the very intimate concert that

If you were one of those who attended the show that MCR offered in Santiago de Chile, you probably remember that on that occasion, unfortunately Frank Iero, the band's guitarist, could not be present. Well, this is your chance to see it in all its dimensions.

We invite you to the launch of The Black Parade is Dead!

For the only time in history, Warner Music has organised a DVD Avant Premiere as a DVD release, so you can watch the concert on the big screen! So pay attention and come get your tickets. Tú Magazine and Warner Music invite you to the DVD Avant Premiere

The Black Parade is Dead!

To attend the Avant Première, redeem

Free! This coupon for an invitation

for two people in our office,

Located at: Rosario Norte 555, 18th Floor.

Neruda Building. Las Condes, Santiago.

The function will take place on Tuesday

July 8, 2008, 7:00 p.m.

at Cinemark Alto Las Condes (Kennedy Avenue 9001, Las Condes. Santiago, Chile).

Don't be left out: We have 40

double invitations.

We will be open between 10:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m.

Promotion valid until Friday, July 7, 2008, or while supplies last

invitations.

On the day of the event, The Black Parade is Dead! will be sold prior to the performance."

tu mexico 06/2008

link to the black parade is dead full show with the mentioned maxwells hoboken nj 10/28/2007 show

#my chemical romance #frank iero #mcr #gerard way #not my scans #mikey way #ray toro #the black parade is dead #2008 mcr #black parade is dead era #2008 #mcr scans #interviews #mcr scans spanish

85 notes · View notes

rosewaterandivy · 7 months ago

Text

Summary: it’s always the best laid plans of mice and men, isn’t it?

Pairing: s.h. x f!oc

W.C.: 5.4K

Warnings: gilded age!au, miscommunication, a comedy of errors/manners, society snobs, a masquerade ball mishap, arranged marriage, steve ‘down bad’ harrington, and a reader/mc who doesn’t have time for this shit - she was educated abroad, she went to Vassar with Miss Nancy Wheeler, okay?!, back on my iliad bullshit (i know, i know)

playlist | m.list

I. Coup de foudre

It’s a dreary December evening in Manhattan. The streets are damp and slick accompanied by the cacophony of hooves, equipages and carriages trundling down the way. Somber topcoats and fur-trimmed capes hide the tailored waistcoats of the men and ornate skirts of the ladies, as is to be expected with the current onslaught of weather.

Small white flurries of snow that are sure to bring a swift end to laborious dinners and engagements at the club. And the man in the sleek black equipage himself is all too relieved about it— at least he would be released from the obligation of hearing his father’s friends complain about these upstart robber barons descending like a horde of locusts on Fifth Avenue.

A quiet night in his study would be a welcome distraction.

That is, if they can ever get home in this weather.

He can hear the whinny of the horses from up front and the soothing tones of the driver. The streets are probably close to icing over at this hour, making it difficult to find traction.

Suddenly, the equipage swings quickly to the side and careens into something with a loud thud, sending its sole occupant straight into the door with a smack. He hisses lowly at the twinge in his forehead as the driver descends with a flurry of apologies.

He opens the door himself and steps outside before the driver can assist him. The white puffs of his breath speak to how quickly the weather had turned. He draws his coat closer and approaches the two drivers as they attempt to settle the horses.

“Gentlemen,” He greets, “What seems to be the problem?”

“Noting to worry about Mr. Harrington,” His man, Andrew, assures him, “The ice just snuck up on us is all.”

He nods taking in the damage, dents and scuffs on both vehicles but the horses appear to be fine. Reaching into his coat pocket, he brings out a small notebook and a pencil to scribble his information down for the other driver. Is about to tell the man to bill him directly when someone steps out from the carriage opposite.

The footsteps themselves are delicate and tentative. He tears his gaze from the driver’s, glancing back only to find a young woman emerging from the carriage. She’s holding her skirts in one gloved hand, shivering in the cold.

“Is everything all right Jesse?”

Her voice is like music to his ears, melodic almost. And she looks like something stolen from a painting— bright and alluring.

The winter light is quickly fading, and the lamplighters were sure taking their time this evening. Her cape is dark, like his coat, but the split at the front reveals a purple skirt trimmed in demure black lace, signifying an exit from her period of mourning.

Her man, Jesse, shepherds her back toward the coach, “Let’s get you back inside Miss, don’t want you to catch a chill.”

“Of course,” She says with a shake of her head, “How silly of me.”

And before Steve can embarrass himself in an attempt to introduce himself, she’s safely ensconced back in the carriage. Her driver returns and takes the paper from Steve, tucking it into his coat.

“Apologies gentlemen, but I must be on my way.” He pulls himself back onto the driver’s box, “Have to get the young Miss home to her brother’s, you understand.”

He tips his hat, and with a tug of the reins he’s gone.

Steve finds himself standing right where she left him, feet riveted to the very spot where she once stood. He must have taken a step toward her at some point, like an utter madman, probably startled the poor girl half to death.

Despite their disastrous non-meeting, he can’t seem to shake her from his mind. As if everything had been in black and white until she stepped down from the carriage and breathed color into his world, spring bursting forth at the sound of her voice. It sounds positively insane, even to himself, but if Robin were here, she’d understand.

Hell, she’d probably have a word for it too.

Something French, inevitably.

“Mr. Harrington,” Andrew says, a hand tentatively resting on his shoulder, “Is something wrong?”

Steve blinks; a feeble attempt to clear his mind from thoughts of the mystery woman.

Andrew refrains from rolling his eyes, “Right sir, let’s get you home then.”

The journey back to the Harrington family manse was uneventful. The familiar brownstone facade came into view as Andrew swung the equipage onto the street outside the house. Luckily, the home was large enough that his late arrival wouldn’t be noticed.

He thanks Andrew and watches as he takes off with the horses for the carriage house a few blocks away. Stepping into the house, he makes quickly for his study slipping through the door just as one of the maids turns down the corridor.

Steve shucks his coat onto a nearby chair and tugs off his cravat with one hand, the other pouring a healthy portion of bourbon into a highball glass. He downs the amber liquid too quickly, the burn welcome against his throat.

After pouring another glass to sip from, he settles into a heap on a club chair by the window. Resting his jaw on a hand, he faces the glass panes, eyes trailing the flurries of snow outside, unsettled by the quiet of the street. His mind won’t stop racing, vacillating between kicking himself for not getting her name and hoping he’d run into her again, albeit this time under better circumstances.

Little did he know, that several blocks away a man was questioning poor Jesse about his whereabouts when a slip of paper was placed into his hand. He scans it quickly, face paling at the name scrawled there: Steven Harrington.

“How could you let this happen Jesse, really? The accident, I understand, but allowing my sister out of the carriage unaccompanied?”

“Sir, I had no—”

“I’ll not hear your excuses.” Christopher Fairchild balls his hand into a fist, the paper crumpling in his grasp. “You said he saw her, Harrington, that is?”

“Unfortunately,” Jesse admits, “I intervened as best I could and got her back into the coach. He seemed rather transfixed by her.”

His employer grunts, “Yes well, that is unfortunate. What if someone had seen her with that man, no chaperone in sight?” He turns to the sideboard and pours himself a drink, says with a scoff, “Not even out to society and potentially scandal-ridden.”

At this point, his wife, Marian, chooses to enter, having seen the young lady to her rooms and getting her settled for the evening. She places a tentative hand on his shoulder while Jesse trains his gaze to the floor.

“Darling,” She soothes, “Your sister is asleep as is the baby, don’t get yourself into a fit at this hour.”

He sighs as her palm moves in slow circles against his back and takes deep breaths. “Of course dear,” He sips from his drink and turns to her. “I just worry about her. All the work you’ve put into her debut and planning the ball.” Christopher places a kiss on the back of her hand, causing her to blush. “I don’t want it to be all for naught.”

She sighs prettily.

“It won’t be,” Marian advises, “You’ll write to the Harringtons tomorrow and we’ll get this matter settled. And there won’t be a speck on your dear sister’s reputation, I’ll see to that.”

But, oh dear reader, where would be the fun in that?

As we all know, the New York winter season is winding down rapidly, and do we not deserve something to keep us warm over the holiday? I would say so!

So, in honor of her long-awaited arrival, let us give a hearty New York welcome to Miss Eleanor Fairchild! Fresh from the society of Paris and a graduate of Vassar along with Miss Nancy Wheeler, her debut this week is the talk of the town.

Despite her indecorous brush with Mr. Steven Harrington, I am sure she will not have a shortage of suitors after the ball this weekend.

But the question remains, my loyal readers, of who will take a shine to Miss Fairchild and step out from the long shadow cast by the Harrington name?

Only time, and this weekly missive, will tell.

Morning in New York was startling and nothing like waking in Paris.

House maids, lady’s maids, and valets moving up and down the stairs, knocking on doors to air out the linens and draw the curtains aside to let the murky winter sun stream through. There was, of course, the soft babbling from the nursery as Gus woke from his repose, the nursemaid and his mother close at hand.

A sharp knock sounded from the door just as you drew the bedclothes closer to you, content to roll over and sleep through the gray morning.

“Bonjour mademoiselle, vous permettez?”

“Oui!” You say, curious at the chipper voice now opening the door, “Sorry, yes, you may enter.”

“Merci, mademoiselle.”

The girl, your new lady’s maid, softly shuts the door and turns to regard the room.

It’s certainly larger than what you’d grown accustomed to in France. But then again, most everything was in New York, especially so since you hadn’t returned to the city in well nigh on a year or more.

The room itself is well-appointed and elegant, Marian saw to that; soft colors and fabrics, diaphanous and frothy, a subtle nod to Versailles no doubt. You hadn’t had much time or energy to give it a glance last night, more inclined to have a late dinner, divest yourself of traveling clothes, and pass out as soon as possible.

The lady’s maid continues her silent assessment as another knock sounds from the door. She steps to open it and let in the housemaid.

“Good morning Miss,” She greets with a smile, her voice rounded with a warm Irish lilt. “I ‘spect you’ll be needin’ a fire this morning.”

You nod just now noticing the chill in the air. She busies herself with the kindling and sweeping ashes from the fireplace. The maids exchange a few soft words before she steps out to get the firewood from the Useful Man down the hall.

“Apologies,” You say by way of greeting, “But I don’t believe I got your name?”

“Oh, pardonne-moi,” the lady’s maid curtsies briefly, “Je m’appelle Marie.”

“Marie,” You repeat, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Moi aussi, mademoiselle.”

And from there, the ritual of dressing began. The house maid, Louisa, lit the fire and spirited you out of bed to air out the linens. At Marie’s suggestion, she also tackled unpacking the various trunks placed near the dresser and closet.

“These are fine frills Miss,” She smiled, her fingers delicately folding chemises and hanging skirts or dresses. “The Missus said your debut gown came all the way from Mr. Worth’s shop in Paris, is that true?”

A soft sigh escaped you at the memory, ivory chiffon and silk revealing the décolleté and arms, gauze and tulle providing a tempting illusion of bared skin. A full skirt with bustle that would skim the floor accompanied by a small train. With gloves and a fan to match, of course.

“Indeed, it is,” You allowed with a cheeky wink, “But I think Marie would have my head if I touched it before Friday.”

Marie, for her part, merely smirked and continued her preparations for your bath.

Across a few city blocks, a footman knocks on the imposing doors of the Harrington manse. The family butler, Campbell, just happens to be descending the stairs and takes it upon himself to open the door.

“Good morning sir,” The footman says with a bow, “Mr. Fairchild bid me to deliver this.” He hands over an envelope addressed to Mr. Samuel Harrington.

“Yes, well,” Campbell sighs, opening the door to let the footman in. “I’ll get this to him. If you hurry, Cook can scrounge up some coffee and a pastry for you. Just take the servant’s hall to the right.”

“Much obliged,” The footman says with a bow as Campbell starts up the stairs.

The handwriting on the envelope is neat, if a bit cramped. Must be the young Mr. Fairchild then, rather than his wife sending the correspondence.

Mr. Harrington’s study door is cracked open, the sound of papers shuffling to and fro on his desk as the butler enters. He briefly glances up to find Campbell, “Happen to know where I put those contracts, Campbell?”

“Perhaps the drawer on the left, sir.”

Mr. Harrington pulls the drawer open, “Right you are, good man.” And thereby loses himself to perusing the documents and thus ignoring Campbell.

“A letter has arrived for you sir,” He says stepping closer to the desk, “From Mr. Fairchild, it seems rather urgent. I have his footman waiting for your reply.”

“Hmm, well let’s have it then.”

He takes the letter from the butler’s hand and slips the blade of the letter opener under the paper. Retrieving the missive, he scans through it quickly, lips pulling down in distaste.

“See to it that Mrs. Harrington gets this,” He instructs, pulling out a new sheaf of paper and beginning his correspondence. “If she wishes to see my reply, she best be quick about it.”

The letter itself detailed the unfortunate meeting between Mr. Fairchild’s sister and Mr. Harrington’s only son. The man was understandably concerned about how it would seem should someone have happened upon them sans chaperone, as the young lady had yet to make her debut into society.

Mr. Harrington’s reply was cordial in an attempt to smooth things over— the Fairchilds, like the Harrington’s were of good stock, two families of the New York Four Hundred deemed to be unblemished and acceptable company by none other than the Grande Dame herself, Mrs. Astor. It wouldn’t be fitting for reputations to be sullied as the result of a simple misunderstanding.

As expected, Samuel’s wife, Amelia, swanned into the study seemingly in the midst of her morning toilette. Her hair was up, but she still wore her housecoat as her day dress had yet to be put on by her lady’s maid. Mr. Fairchild’s letter waved about in one hand, while the other pressed upon her chest as if to stop her racing heart.

“That boy of yours is going to give me heart failure.”

Samuel signs the letter with a flourish and lays his pen to the side.

“Oh, so he’s only my boy when he acts indiscreetly with the fairer sex, but he’s your son when he’s winning accolades at Harvard and breaking hearts abroad, is that it?”

She tuts and sits demurely on the divan, “Well, yes. Precisely that Sam.” She fans herself with the letter as her husband leans against his desk. “The social set have already written him off as a lost cause and we can ill afford a whisper of a scandal, especially now.”

Sam passes the reply to his wife and pauses, as if to choose his words carefully.

“Still moving forward with your plans to find Steven a wife then?”

“Of course, dear,” She answers brusquely, “There are many suitable ladies this season of decent breeding and passable looks.” She glances up and passes the letter back to him. “Your response is sufficient, send it off with the footman.”

Amelia rises from the divan and turns to leave. “Wake Steven and have a talk with him will you? I’ll send Maude out to the florist, he should write a note of apology for her to send along.”

“As you wish, dear.”

Amelia leaves just as abruptly as she appeared. Samuel sighs and furrows his brow, the inklings of a headache coming on. He taps his fingers against the desk and checks the time.

“Campbell,” He calls into the hall, “Have Calvin wake Steven and tell him to see my in the study.”

“Of course, sir.”

He takes a seat and settles himself behind the desk once more.

“And have Cook send something up? Coffee and breakfast for two.”

Awaiting the arrival of his son, Samuel Harrington turns and faces the bay of windows that look out onto the street below. He watches as Fairchild’s footman hops on the back of the coach and slides from his view. He contemplates his son’s options, admittedly there are few.

Such are the advantages and disadvantages in marrying a woman who’s as sly as a fox. It’s just a matter of out-maneuvering her; an entertaining and seemingly endless chess match that’s lasted even longer than their marriage.

But the silver lining in all this, he supposes, is that Steven Harrington, their sole child and heir, just so happens to take after his father in this respect, in that he’s crazy like a fox.

Funny how things work out, isn’t it?

As for the young Mr. Harrington, well, suffice it to say he had quite the morning. The newly arrived Miss Fairchild, however, had a luxurious start to her day (that is, if one discounts the pulling and pinning of hair, the tugging on of stockings and tightening of corset laces).

You joined your brother and sister-in-law in the dining room while another maid fixed a plate of breakfast for you; Pierce, the butler, stepped in to pour the coffee. You thanked them both and broke your fast, listening as Christopher and Marian discussed the events of the day.

“I’ll need to see to the accounts today,” Your brother said, turning his newspaper with a shake. “Everything should be in order before the ball this weekend.”

Marian nodded and sipped from her coffee cup. “I have some calls to make today, and thought Nell could accompany me.”

Christopher slowly lowers his newspaper and glances your way— don't feel obligated to do this, you haven’t been properly introduced into society yet.

Buying time, you take a bite from the flaky croissant on your plate and ruminate. In a way, both Chris and Marian are correct; you aren’t obligated to escort Mrs. Fairchild, nor would it be wise to turn down an informal introduction to those in Marian’s circle. She would, after all, be serving as your chaperone, and, along with your brother, introducing you to Manhattan high society on Friday at the ball.

Your debutante ball, to be precise.

At the time, Vassar was a welcome distraction and reprieve for being paraded around like a prize calf at auction. But then came the unfortunate illness and demise of your parents, followed by a year of mourning.

It would seem that your time of delay had finally come to its end.

After all, no one wanted a spinster for a bride.

Dabbing at the corners of your mouth with a napkin, you clear your throat and brace yourself.

“That sounds lovely, Marian. I’d be happy to escort you today.”

She smiles and makes to reply, but before she can open her mouth to do so, a knock sounds from the front door. Puzzled, the three of you glance at one another, clearly not expecting a caller at such an early hour.

Pierce nods to someone by the door, bidding him to open it. He quickly returns with a beautiful arrangement of flowers, only to set them to your right and hand you a card. Baffled, you take in the spray of purple orchids, white tulips, lemon geraniums, the sprigs of rosemary, and tucked away behind the hearty green stalks, the shy blooms of forget-me-nots.

Respect, sincerity, an unexpected meeting, remembrance, and affection.

“Well,” Marian prompts from across the table, “Who are they from?”

It’s only then that you recall the card in your outstretched hand. Slipping from your reverie, you thumb open the small envelope.

Miss Fairchild—

Please accept my sincere apologies for our run-in yesterday evening. I hope it did not startle you. I’ve liaised with your brother about the repairs, and in the meantime will give you use of my equipage and pray it will suffice. I also hope that you’ll enjoy the flowers and please know that they relay my deepest and most sincere sentiments.

Cordially yours,

Steven Harrington

P.S. Je vous prie d’accepter mes sincères regrets et ma sympathie à l’occasion du décès de votre proches.

For the remainder of the week, Steve was a bundle of nerves. He’d written the note as his mother asked and even went so far as to accompany her to the florist, managing to slip in a few blooms that complemented the arrangement nicely. And if his mother didn’t happen to notice the errant sprigs of blue or the lingering scent of rosemary, then so much the better.

What he didn’t anticipate was the lack of a response.

“It isn’t done,” Miss Robin Buckley reminded him on their promenade in Central Park. “Until she is out to society, her brother is no doubt keeping her under lock and key.”

“You could provide the introduction,” He points out petulantly. “You’re choosing not to in order to entertain yourself with my suffering.”

“You cad,” She swats at him with her fan. “And no, I cannot. There’s a reason I fled to France after my disastrous debut, as you well know.”

And thus, Steve resigned himself to pining for a woman who barely knew of his existence, while the eligible bachelors of New York bided their time until her debut at the ball.

“For what it’s worth,” Robin says carefully as they round a bend, “There have been many deliveries to the Fairchild House, but yours was the first.”

He warms at the thought.

“That has to count for something, I suppose.”

She grins, “It will.”

They continue to walk, grateful for the brief break in the weather and discuss the evening’s festivities: who will wear what, how many dances until Robin steps on someone’s toes, how ostentatious the new money Vanderbilts will be.

They exit the park, parting ways as their carriages await. Robin catches a curious expression on her friend’s face, both dreamy and apprehensive. She lays a gloved hand on his arm.

“À cœur vaillant rien d'impossible.”

Steve glances down and says with a playful smirk, “Qui vivra verra.”

On Friday afternoon, Marian and Marie carefully assess your gown while Louisa dashes to and fro with the pearls, no the diamonds.

“Sapphires? No, that would ruin the effect.” Marian muses and Marie agrees.

You, by the by, are seated on the bed in a chemise and loosened corset, bored stiff, as the two hem and haw over how to best display you for the ball.

Because that’s all this is really, an overblown dog and pony show in which you’ll be paraded around and shown off to great effect all to attract suitors. It was enough to make one queasy. God forbid a woman do anything on her own or without the approval of a man.

As if men ever did anything worth doing that a woman didn’t have to make right.

Having quite enough of their chatter, you shrug into a robe and pull its sash tight, toe on some slippers and make your way down the hall. At the end of the corridor, you spy the cracked door to Christopher’s study. He’s shuffling papers and muttering to himself as you slip inside.

“I think the accounts can handle themselves for the evening,” you say with a smirk, settling yourself on a chair by the window.

He chuckles, “I suppose you’re right, clever girl.” Sorting the papers into a single file, he looks up at you with a quirked brow. “Had enough of Marian’s prodding, I take it?”

You sigh and dramatically cast your head back, “That’s the worst of it— they haven’t even begun!” Warming at his familiar laughter, you continue: “If I’d known that this is what I’d be subjected to, I would’ve stayed in France.”

Chris studies you at that; your weary sigh, crossed arms, and face a mask. Can’t make heads or tails of if you’re serious or not. Is it too soon? Did you still need time to mourn Maman and Papa? But then your debut had been delayed so much already…

“Is that what you want?”

It’s a question you hadn’t expected from him. But suddenly you’re reminded that he’s your brother, the only family you have left in the world. The man who dropped everything and took the first ship bound for France to be with you at your parents’ deathbed. He had insisted you stay at the house in Paris until you’d recovered your own strength and sent Marian and Gus to keep you company while he saw to business at home.

And knowing him as well as you do, Chris wouldn’t ask something idly.

So you choose your next words carefully.

“I no longer trouble myself with wants.”

The lightest dusting of snow begins to gather on the windowpane. Soon enough, all of the city would look like a snow globe. A perfect winter wonderland for the evening’s festivities, and your favorite kind of weather— snow makes everything look softer somehow, muffles the sound, and blankets the world in swaths of pure white. Your mother adored snow, had somehow convinced you and Chris that she could smell when it was about to begin. And maybe that’s why you’ve taken a shine to it now.

Turning from the window with a small smile, you rise to exit the study and get ready for the night. Leaving your elder brother puzzling over your parting phrase.

Steve could hardly forget your first meeting, but seeing you that evening nearly eclipsed the recollection. Without a cape and no longer in the purples and grays of half-mourning, you were quite a sight to behold.

And he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Several men from the club, Hargrove, Hagan, and Byers, were scattered around the room sizing up the competition just as he was. Somehow, Edward Munson had been granted an invitation— with his railroad money and lack of pedigree. Regardless of social standing, each eligible bachelor in the room was jockeying for position; who would be the first introduction, the first dance, did her eyes fall on him or the man to his left?

Steve was well-versed in this routine, he’d been to enough debutante balls to last a veritable lifetime. Usually, he’d enter and make the necessary greetings before grabbing a refreshment and picking a wall to lean on because god help him if he was going to actually dance more than the bare minimum required.

But in this instance, things were different.

Namely, that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you since that fateful night. Despite the lack of interest from you (which was to be expected, really), he couldn’t help but think of you fondly. Descending from your coach to check on your driver and the horses, shivering in the evening chill, voice soft and sleep-worn.

There was also the fact that his mother was hovering somewhere behind him. She’d oh so fortunately seen Mrs. Fairchild as she was making her social calls earlier in the week and had received an informal introduction to you. She’d said as much at dinner that day and ever since then, she’d been subtly laying the groundwork for a possible courtship.

And as much as Steve did not want to bow to his mother’s machinations, he also desperately wanted an introduction with you. So he sips his drink and observes the goings on around him his attention turning to the grand staircase as someone announces:

“Presenting Miss Eleanor Joséphine Fairchild, escorted by her brother Mr. Christopher Fairchild.”

The symphony starts up as you descend the stairs to polite applause on the arm of your brother, eyes demure and downcast, your subtly rouged lips pulling into a soft smile. And Steve can hardly breathe— it’s as if the world slowed and went fuzzy at the edges, everything and everyone falling by the wayside save for you.

Because you are positively incandescent; beautifully angelic in your finery and reminiscent of Venus emerging from her shell. He feels as if he’s been struck, a warmth radiating in his chest, and wouldn’t be surprised to find one of Cupid’s golden arrows lodged there. And Steve knows a little of desire, of wanton lust; he is, after all, a man of privilege in a world that caters to his whims. But while this feels reminiscent of that— the heat, the wanting— there is also, oddly, restraint.

All eyes are on you as your brother leads you across the floor, smiling politely at those assembled, eyes never staying on one person for too long. You’re playing nice, presenting an unimpeachable image of the demure lady, it wouldn’t be done to favor one gentleman this evening. In fact, it would send the wrong message entirely.

Everyone present knows this; it is a game often played in polite society, even if its ramifications are— how shall we say it?— best left behind closed doors.

“A lamb and her shepherd,” His mother says, voice pitched low for only him to hear. “Bo-Peep will soon abandon his charge, and that, Steven, is when you will make your introduction.”

It’s all he can do to school his features and recede into himself; eyes glassy and blank, face a mask. Polite and charming, affable even. And while his mother thinks she is being helpful, it’s hard not to believe she isn’t pouring poison in his ear. Half expects her to say something akin to, “Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't.”

She doesn’t, and for that he is grateful. Instead, she melts away into the background and loops her arm through his father’s. And, sure enough, your brother does eventually leave your side only to be replaced by Mrs. Fairchild, who slips your wrist through a dainty loop of cream ribbon with a dance card and a small pencil attached.

The room stills, a pack of wolves lying in wait. Drinks are set aside, conversations cease; Amelia gives her son an unceremonious push forward, her gloved hand on his shoulder tipping him toward the inevitable. Steve nearly stumbles from the shock of it all.

Because in one moment he’s just another man in the crowd, an eligible bachelor at yet another ball prepared to drink the night away. And in the next, his eyes lock with yours, and he feels himself falling. It’s hopeless to fight it, this gravitational pull you seem to have over him; haven’t exchanged even two words, and he’s already in your thrall.

He can see your chest rise with your sharp intake of breath, eyes widening at his approach. Steve’s trying not to spook you, really he is. He thinks back to his favored horse, Balius, the clomping hooves and fierce breaths, tries to calm you in the same manner— a slow approach, a small smile, and soft words.

And while he would never bow to the stubborn dappled stallion, Steve does bow to you and says, “Steven Harrington, a pleasure to meet you officially Miss Fairchild.”

Your eyes light in recognition, of his name or him he cannot tell. But you curtsy all the same and offer him your hand, as etiquette dictates. He takes it gladly, marvelling at the fine fabric of gloves adorning it. His finger finds the racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, running along it slowly.

Another sharp intake of breath at the sensation, a heat skittering underneath your skin as his fingers loop around your wrist, your pulse thudding in their wake.

He opens the booklet and takes his time writing his name, well aware at the gathering of eligible suitors at his back. He’s loathe to release your hand and leave you to all of this, the wolves at the gate, but as much as he wants to whisk you away from what is sure to be an uncomfortable and tiring evening, Steve is required, as is everyone else, to play the game.

And Steven Harrington is playing to win.

Mr. Harrington—

It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance this past Friday, and thank you for your presence. I do hope the evening passed pleasantly for you and my apologies for not seeing to you more frequently, but other obligations, as you well know, prohibited me from seeking your company. Furthermore, I must apologize for being remiss in not offering my sincerest gratitude for the lovely flowers and the gracious use of your equipage. You are truly a generous man, and I am grateful for your friendship.

Cordially yours,

Miss Fairchild

P.S. Merci pour le sauvetage de Monsieur C—. Je n'avais aucune idée sur sa relation avec Mademoiselle C—. J’espère que vote intercession ne reflétera pas mal sur vous. Je vous suis redevable.

Steve’s postscript: Please accept my sincerest and deepest condolences on the passing of your parents.

Nell’s postscript: Thank you for the rescue from Mr. C—. I had no idea about his relationship with Miss C—. I hope your intercession will not reflect poorly on you. I am in your debt.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #fic: cf & dd

83 notes · View notes

mika-no-sekai-blog · 13 days ago

Text

Song carried on breeze

(Part 1)

Azriel x OC

Word count: +2300

Summary: It's spring and Azriel is enjoying his day off when he finds out that the famous pianist is coming to his city and of course, he can't miss the opportunity to hear her

Warnings: none

@azrielappreciationweek Day 4: Paid time off Dividers by @tsunami-of-tears

Part 2

Azriel was on a walk, seemingly aimlessly strolling the streets of Velaris. It was rare for him to have a day off, so naturally he wanted to get the best out of it. And he wasn't the only one. There were dozens of people passing the streets, enjoying the day and temptations that different shops offered to attract potential customers. All windows of the stores were beautifully decorated, smell of delicious meals, coffee and different teas was mixing with the expensive perfumes.

The weather was beautiful and warm, the air was filled with the sweet scent of spring flowers. From above, the city looked like floating on fluffy clouds of whites and pinks, all trees were in full bloom. That was one of his most favourite views, but there was something Azriel liked even more - a walk under those trees. He liked to touch those delicate flowers, their texture so different from the rough, scarred skin of his hands.

Azriel already visited three different parks and currently he was on his way to another one that he glimpsed down the street. This avenue wasn't so overcrowded and he could stretch his wings out little bit, sunbathing the sensitive membranes in warm rays. As he walked at slow pace towards his goal, a group of faeries gathered around the information board caught his attention. He wasn't in hurry, so he calmly waited for them to leave and only then he stepped closer. His gaze fell to the biggest poster, freshly hung out.

Allison, The Magnificent Pianist

Reading the title his eyes widened. It wasn't the first time he heard that name. Allison was famous at all Courts, her talent being legendary. Everyone who witnessed her play, claimed it to be the best performance they ever heard, the music so beautiful that they cried. Azriel longed to hear her piano, but until now he never got the chance. This was her very first performance at Night Court and he was determined not to miss it out no matter what.

Forgetting all about the flowers momentarily, Azriel dashed to the sky, rushing to buy the ticket for the best seat before it would be sold out. Thanks to his wings he arrived as the first to the theatre, immediately running directly to the ticket office. With his connections and thanks to his regular visits, they let him in before the opening hours, welcoming him kindly. Shadowsinger was their best customer after all. No wonder. Azriel loved music and didn't miss a single performance whether it was just concert, ballet or musical. They even went so far as already reserving him his usual preferred seat. Smiling happily with a ticket in hand he walked out the theatre gates, the row of waiting faeries already creating on the street. Allison was really popular.

Already fully satisfied with the outcome of the day, he headed back to the city, aimlessly wandering the streets and exploring new gardens and parks he found along the road.

"So you want a day off on 21st?" Rhysand asked him this question at least million times in last hour.

Azriel was sitting in High Lord's study with hands crossed on his chest, shadows swirling around his broad shoulders. He came to report results of his latest mission and to get new orders. He decided to take advantage of the situation and asked his brother for the day off. He just rarely did so, mostly he had to be ordered to stay home, so no wonder it picked Rhysand's interest.

Azriel rolled his eyes and gave him the same answer as before. "Yes, I do."

"Is there something special about that day?" Rhysand pried curiously, grinning. He was seated behind his desk, elegant as usual in black shirt and pants all tailor made, leaning over it eagerly. The talons of his power brushed over the shields of Azriel's mind, gently asking for access that he wasn't granted this time.

Azriel didn't want company for the event. He just wanted to fully enjoy the experience. If he invited Rhys and Feyre, they for sure wouldn't bother him, at least not aloud. They were capable of being quiet, but only on the outside. Inside they would lead dialogues mind to mind that usually turned into insufferable experience for everyone around them. Azriel even didn't want to think about the topics they could possibly discuss like that. Their scents were enough to assure him that he didn't need to know it.

For a moment he considered inviting Nesta who loved music just as much as he did and he wouldn't mind at slightest if she was there. It could be actually even more enjoyable memory as they were very close friends. But being mated with Cassian meant that the mentioned one would most likely want to go with her and Azriel knew very well how that would end up. Last time Cassian went to the theatre, he snored so loudly that the concert of classic music was interrupted because players couldn't concentrate and he was kicked out.

"No, there's nothing special about the day. I just have something," he calmly answered to Rhysand.

"Something," Rhys hummed. "And what that something is? Do you have a date?"

Azriel knew that if he didn't give him something, he wouldn't stop, so he said the first thing that came to his mind. "I have a health check."

"Is that so? Then I should ask Madja to be thorough. I want the best for my brother," Rhysand was testing him as if he didn't know that such tricks never worked on Spymaster.

"I have a bit different kind of the health check. Lately I feel tension in the shoulders and it's starting to affect even my work, so I made appointment with physical therapist who has experience with wings. Hopefully, he can fix it." That wasn't lie. He really had an appointment with a physical therapist from the Day Court, just on different day.

Rhysand's brows knitted together with worry. "Oh.. Are you sure you don't want the leave until then? I wouldn't like you to get hurt somewhere in the Autumn Court or on continent."

"I'll be fine. I know my limits and won't risk," Azriel promised just to get over with this topic. Even thought Rhysand was the one with daemati powers, Azriel knew him enough well to know what to say to calm him down.

Rhysand thought it over while eyeing his brother with concern. "Well then, as you wish. So 21st then. One insane risk and I'll put you on ban," he threatened him.

Azriel only raised a brow, nodded and glad that it was finally over, left.

Azriel was so excited that on the day of the concert he woke up long before the sunrise and because he couldn't stay still, he headed to the training ring that no one used at this hour. After few hours of punching and muscle training, he returned to his room to take shower.

The concert was due to start in the afternoon, but because of his small lie, he had to pretend to leave the city and stay away from his family and any of their friends and acquaintances. It was quite easy for him as the spymaster.

In the afternoon, dressed in his best suit, Azriel landed in front of the theatre and quickly headed in, taking seat in his favourite box with the best acoustics from where he had good view of the whole stage. The heavy velvet curtain with gold hem was closed, he was one of the very first in the hall. He retreated into the shadows of box, watching as the auditorium slowly filled up. When everyone was finally seated, the lights turned off, the curtain lifted and revealed a podium with a piano made of crystal in the middle. With bated breath and throbbing heart Azriel leaned forward, waiting.

Several minutes later, a petite figure separated from the shadows behind the scenes. An angel-like female with veil of long light hair and porcelain skin with round, shiny blue eyes and full red lips slowly walked over to the piano, the crystal slippers clicked on wooden floor. She stopped in front of it and bowed, long silver dress pooling around her feet. She didn't have to but she introduced herself, thanking everyone for coming.

Azriel forgot how to breath at sight of someone so beautiful and fragile. If he was the embodiment of darkness, then she was his complete opposite. The unspeakable power and light radiated from her, attracting him. He wanted to bask in her gentle light, let it chase away all the darkness that followed him day and night.

Allison sat down, readying her hands with long but tiny fingers. The first soft tones filled the auditorium and at that moment Azriel got lost. The world around him was erased from its existence and there was only Azriel, Allison, the crystal piano and the beautiful tunes that danced on a breeze around them.

Allison started with the softest and the lightest compositions, the music graduating with every new one. Azriel wasn't sure how she did it, maybe it was her power that during every composition made him see different scenery. From the deepest depths of ocean she carried him high above the tallest mountains to the sweetest heaven, caressing all his senses and by the time the last tone faded away, Azriel was crying like a baby. That's how amazing experience it was.

He didn't quite believe all the praises he heard about her, but now he understood. Her music exceeded all his expectations, smashed them into pieces. Even if he lived for ten thousands years, there wouldn't be the music better that what he had just heard. His heart sang in his chest like a nightingale, trembling. He decided that he would visit her to personally give her his gratitude for this unearthly experience.

But first of all, he needed to put himself together and learn how to move his limbs. He sat there, baffled, all kinds of emotions swirling in him until all the lights turned off. He didn't even notice that everyone had already left, leaving him alone sitting in the darkness. Scared she left, too, he scrambled to his feet and on silent steps headed to the backstage dressing rooms. He prayed she was still there and fortunately, the Mother was enough merciful to grant him his wish.

Allison was already on her way to the exit when he arrived.

"Please, wait," he called after her before he could think it over.

She turned to him, eyes wide with fear. She looked around and when she found nobody else nearby, she paled, pressing her back against the wall. Azriel stopped several steps from her, keeping an appropriate distance.

"I'm so sorry for scaring you," he raised his hands, smiling nervously like a youngling first time speaking with his love interest. "I mean no harm, I swear. I won't put a single finger on you.. Well, only if you'd want it."

She blinked, confused, but her lips slowly spread into a small smile.

"I'm Azriel and I kind of work for the High Lord of this Court," he put a hand on his chest and slightly bowed. "I heard rumours about your music and when I saw the poster about your performance in my city, I had to hear you. I just wanted to tell you.. Your music is marvellous and astonishing! I've never heard something so beautiful in my entire life. I want to thank you for this unforgettable experience and I really hope that I will have the pleasure of hearing you play again sometime."

Allison chuckled softly, hiding her smile in palm of hand. "Kind of work for the High Lord? What exactly does it mean if I can ask?"

He rubbed the nape of his neck, his cheeks tinted with pink. "He is like my brother, we grew up together. So he isn't my real employer. I'm just helping him out with the protection of this Court."

"So you are the part of the famous Inner Circle, aren't you?"

He nodded and she finally relaxed, sighing with relief. "You should have said so right away. You really scared me. I thought that you are some fanatic fan who broke in. Even though I'm very grateful for all the love and support I'm getting, some fans are really scary."

"Oh, I apologise. I had no idea such things are happening. If you need an escort to get safely to the hotel.. and you don't mind.. I could do that."

She looked him up and down and then hesitantly nodded. "I'd be very grateful, if you could help me out. Of course, only if you have time."

Allison was staying at hotel in the center of the city, so it wasn't so far from the theatre. They spent the short journey talking about different stuff and Azriel learnt a bit more about her. She seemed to be interested in the city and since she was supposed to stay for few more days, Azriel decided he would try to invite her out. It didn't have to be a date necessarily - even a friendly tour of the city was enough for him.

Stopping in front of the hotel entrance she turned to him, craning her neck to look into his eyes. "Thank you so much for coming to my concert, Azriel, and also for walking me back to hotel. I'm really glad that I could get to know you." She was smiling softly, swaying her skirt playfully, but she wasn't in hurry to part the ways with him.

"Allison, if you would like.. I'd like to show you around the city. I don't mean anything perverse by that, just.."

"I'd love it!" she interrupted him with a bright, big smile. "When could we meet again?"

"If you don't have anything important, how about tomorrow after the lunch? There's a lot to see, so I need to think it over a bit and select the best places to visit."

"That's perfect! So tomorrow, Azriel," she waved him as she backed to the hotel, watching him with interest, eyes shining. "I'm looking forward to meeting you." With that she disappeared in the building.

That day nothing could wipe the smile from Azriel's face.

26 notes · View notes