#ancient x beast dni please

[vampbloodlover]

VAMPIRE COOKIE DRESSING UP AS TWO DIVAS FROM THE HIT GAME COOKIE RUN KINGDOM?? (not clickbait everyone)…also the Pure Vanilla Vamps was made a few months ago, I think?🦇🍷

[lani-sun]

☆ ritualistic ☆

synopsis: jake reminds himself it’s just biology. just the instincts of his newly-acquired form urging him to take, to claim, to keep. and maybe, just maybe, he could’ve controlled it. (had you not made everything so damn difficult, of course.) avatar!jake sully x fem!scientist!reader

warnings: there's no plot here friends i am SORRY, kind of dark!jealous!jake if you squint, slight enemies to lovers, graphic, descriptions of lust bc imagery goes wild here, explicit sexual content [18+ MINORS DNI], dom/sub dynamics, dubcon, dirty talk, slightly sacrilegious?, dacryphilia, major major size kink, biting/marking, jake sully being himself should be an inbuilt warning, let's pretend (for the bio minor stem girly in me) that the lab is somehow perfectly clean and non-contaminated after this pls

☆

jake finds you in the lab, your eyes scrunched into crescent moons underneath scuffed safety glasses hooked loosely behind your ears. his own pin back against the underside of his head instinctively, attuned to the rhythmic, near-silent reverberation of your breath. in. out. in. out. your gloved hands (ancient latex, he notes with a disgruntled twitch of his nose) shake incrementally as you peer into the microscope you're hunched over, adjusting the brilliance of the light painting your petri-dished specimen in a silvery glow. the sound you release when you get it just right—faint, pleased, unfairly absentminded—is enough to send a spark of something foreign down his spine. something delirious, fervent in nature. something that grits his teeth on instinct, clamps down on his jaw like barbed wire, like an insatiable beast clawing at the bars of its enclosure, crying out for the feeling of your flesh (futilely human, extremely off-limits) in its hands. and god, he's not supposed to think about you like that. not supposed to want you the way he did. not when his body isn't meant for you, not when he feels the chains of his forced entrapment in a life confined to a wheelchair coming undone at the sight of freedom. at the sight of you. in this form, he could take you. hell, he could have you. bite into you. he swipes his tongue across his top row of teeth, feeling for the elongated hooks of his canines. yeah, he'd like that.

he settles on making himself known. as his low hum of greeting fractures your reverie, your gaze snaps harshly to his, ricocheting of the surface of his skin. (and he likes it, the aggravation simmering under the surface of your composure. he's always had a soft spot for brats. for an animal to tame.) he swears he can hear the startled hitch in your breath, can sense the shaky, half-jump in your heart rate. "mornin' doc," he chirps, lips quirking up at the sight of the exasperation already etching itself into your features. you rip your safety glasses off, shoving them into a pocket of your lab coat before yanking your mask down with an irritated huff.

"i cannot with you today, sully." a muscle in the delicate column of your neck bounces under his unyielding stare as you reach underneath the metal tabletop to grapple for a pipette, balancing it in the junction between your thumb and index finger. sticky, cloying heat gathers in his veins, a tangible ache hunting for purchase in between his temples. take, it begs. take her.

you continue, oblivious. "and i told grace to change the code on the damn door—"

he clears his throat. reminds himself that fantasizing about you while you're within arm's reach of him is a decision better left unmade. "aw, c'mon, don't be like that. 'm not gonna stay long. not smart enough t'be a scientist like you, pretty."

you huff. "that's an understatement. go out and do—other things, then. stop bothering me." you yelp when his hands (heavyset, gorgeously sea-blue) meet the slim neck of your microscope, slapping them away with a flick of your wrist. "jake!"

a chuckle rumbles in the back of his throat as he backs away, arms raised mockingly in surrender. "show me what you're workin' on." his tail flicks across the backs of your thighs as he stalks around the table, diminishing the space between you. inch by inch. breath by breath. prowling. you track him warily, but a sharp gasp—low, so low he swears he's imagining it—slips through your gritted teeth when his palms flatten against the counter on either side of your waist, your shoulder blades nearly pressed to the junction of his navel and thigh. you jolt when his tail curves downward to wrap around your ankle (fragile, he thinks, so breakable) and squeeze.

"hey—" you warn, the force with which you grip the lab bench beneath you burning half-circle indentations of your fingernails into your palms. "what are you—"

"show me," he coaxes, voice like honey down the curve of your spine. "teach me, if you wanna. 'm not complainin'." his face goes slightly slack when you shift your weight, the cotton of your coat brushing against his tensed lateral muscle. your proximity is stifling. suffocating. he nearly tackles you to the floor when your hand tentatively encases his wrist, the illusion of distance accompanied by an empty threat of resistance. (he just can't help himself, you see. hunting prey is in his biology; he has to do it to survive. and you understand that, don’t you, sweet girl?)

"teach you?" your voice is erogenously breathless, spine fleetingly rigid. ramrod-straight, enraptured in the suggestive slide of his skin against yours. he resists the urge to outline the arc of your back with his knuckles. with his tongue. "not a service i offer, sully. not for you."

"who's it for, then?"

you shoot him a dark look over the incline of your shoulder, a brooding lilt scripted in the slant of your brow. an unavailing warning to his wandering hands. "why does it matter?"

the scent of you floods his senses as you shift, and his focus momentarily gives way to antiseptic and dampened soil, lemon and fresh chamomile, pine and vanilla-tinged sweat. a lingering body lotion, perhaps, or a coveted perfume. (and oh, are you trouble. trouble in the form of gentle hands, soft eyes, fragile bones. trouble in the way your defiance bleeds like a salted wound, roving gaze shirking under the weight of his shadow. it is raw, the way he longs to sink his teeth right into your godforsaken throat, apologies already teasing the tip of his tongue, just waiting for him to extinguish the fire he started—).

"just wanna know who's been spendin' time w' my girl." jake's chest vibrates with amusement against the dip of your nape, but the salacious slip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth betrays him. the heat of you burns through his layers (well, layer) of clothing, akin to an open flame. taunting him. tempting him. his gaze drops to the flex of your neck, the hypnotic flutter of your pulse thrumming dangerously close to the surface; the involuntary twitch of his fingers is only customary. only natural. "you're in 'ere too much, baby. gotta get you out."

"here's where the money is, jake," you counter, and his stomach seizes when your elbow brushes the braided cords of his tewng [loincloth]. "all the samples from the valley still need to be cataloged, and norm brought me a—"

jake's voice slices through the air, crackling roughly with unbidden contempt, an edge of resentment he can't quite bring himself to swallow. "you're gettin' samples from that asshat now?"

you crook a brow. "well. he offered." (he battles the depraved urge to clasp his hand around the dainty column of your throat, to press his chest flush against the arch of your spine. to school you in the art of possession, of ownership, of instincts that slither through bone marrow, of urges that writhe beneath his skin like a sickness, ravenous and unrepentant.)

his jaw flexes lazily, tongue pressing heavy against the inside of his cheek. his restraint is a brittle thing, straining beneath the weight of something starved. something venomous. "'s that right?" his teeth flash pearly-white. "doin' a lot for you, isn't he?"

you whirl on your heels to face him, snaring his gaze in yours. your vexation rises, fiery and unmistakably overeager, but a viscous want accompanies it, swirling in the whites of your eyes. it grows bolder under his earthy stare, a mere captive to the deepening hunger stretching wordlessly between you. it lingers, needlessly persistent in its provocation—the constant standoff of shallow breaths and locked jaws, of tongues bitten raw and fists clenched around unfulfilled promises of restraint. his stare tumbles downward to the wicked curve of your mouth, and he swears he can taste the startled exhale of breath that leaves you. gotcha.

"ever heard of overstaying a welcome, sully?" your expression dissolves into schooled imperturbability.

his braids follow the movement of his head as it tilts, azure skin glimmering aquamarine in the lab's sterile lamplight. your eyes track the slow sway of each woven strand, the way the beads threaded into each end collide sharply in sync—hypnotic, deliberate. erotic, almost. "careful, doc. keep talkin' like that and i might just start thinkin' you don't like me very much."

"i don't," you respond swiftly, but a flicker of suspicion contracts his pupils. he doesn't believe you for a single damn second. (and you're so pretty when you lie, aren't you? pretty girl, so resistant to an orbit your body is meant to sustain. saliva coats his mouth. the things he thinks of doing to you are despicable. downright lewd, even. he thinks of folding you in half. he thinks of molding you to his pleasure until you can't tell his name from your own. he thinks of making you cry. and he should feel guilty. he should chain himself to contrition. but he doesn't. he never has. he never will.)

he leans in. grins in wolfish pride when your pulse skips one, two, four beats. "you're a good liar, pretty. gotta give you that."

you jerk forward instinctively when one of his hands slides to your stomach, forcing the arch of your spine to coalesce with the unforgiving edge of the table. the other dips under your coat, captivation evident in the way his palm stretches effortlessly around the fullness of your waist. it is nearly consumption, an unfurling desire hell-bent on catharsis. on bitter-blooded ecstasy. (it is only nature, he reminds himself. it is only his new body, adjusting to the unfamiliarity of want for an object he cannot have. cannot attain. he's not himself. he's not thinking straight.)

"jake." a tinge of nervousness colors the syllables of his name as your mouth parts around them. he drops onto his haunches just as you reach for him, eluding the desparity of your touch. your hand flexes in midair, barren. "what are you—"

"bet norm's thought about this." his voice is a rasp against your skin, curling warm in the crook of your neck. his nose brushes the tender slope of your pulse point as his words wash over it, savoring the frantic thrum of your heartbeat against his lips. "bet he's wonderin' what you feel like under all these—" a pause. intentional, drawn-out. with an arbitrary flick of his wrist, he slides your lab coat off your shoulders, his fingers ghosting across the expanse of bare skin he can see. "clothes."

"what the fuck are you talking about?" there is no bite to your bark, a weak imitation of pious resolve hovering in the air between you.

"y'don't think so?"

"jake, stop."

he heeds the urgency in your tone, leaning back on his heels. (he knows you're fighting it. fighting him. stubborn, sweet girl, ankles deep in quicksand. so damn eager to play the ethical upper hand. so devoutly attached to your cool-blooded composure. so resolute in slipping from his grasp. flighty. he grits his teeth. then again, he's always liked butterflies. they look so pretty on their backs.)

your shudder of breath betrays you. "this isn't—we can't."

his eyes narrow—watching, knowing. he can smell it on you, the quiet betrayal of your body, the want fused to the rhythm of your pulse. it pools in your gaze, a laceration bound by silence. his fingers trace idle patterns along your thigh, evocative of ink kissed into parchment. a silent mantra hums beneath his touch—mine, mine, mine. "don't you want it?"

"jake."

"it's a yes or no question, pretty."

"that's not fair." your lower lip juts outward, crowned by the swell of your trembling inhale. "you've don't even like me. and you're a pain in the ass. i'm not letting you take my clothes off just 'cause—"

"who says i don't like you, huh?" he presses his nose to your sternum, grinning viciously when you choke. "i like you tons, baby."

"you didn't let me finish. i'm not letting you take my clothes off just 'cause—"

"who says i was gonna take your clothes off?"

your fingers sink into his hair, curling along the sharp cut of his jaw, thumbs hooked around the curves of his ears. controlling, captivating. taking what is already yours. he is gold wrapped in skin, inescapably sweltering beneath your touch. liquid longing fills the void of cloying stillness, his gaze dragging lazily over your lips, your throat, the shell of your ear. your echoed stare is a live wire, leaping frantically from feature to feature. "you talk too much." the words ghost from your lips like silk. like a promise of calamity, of disaster.

his ears twitch, tracking the staggered cadence of your breath. "you keep lookin’ at me like that,” he drawls, smirk broadening, "and i’m gonna start thinkin’ you wanna do somethin’ about it."

and for once, you do.

you yank him forward, crushing your mouth to his with enough force to bruise. his answering groan reverberates down the channel of your throat as his teeth catch your lower lip, eyes eclipsed by the storm-black of his pupils. he does not hesitate to lay claim. does not hesitate to anchor your body against his, swallowing your startled yelp. it is animal, the festering in his chest. lust. it makes devils of good men. makes massacres of soldiers.

"'s this what you wanted? huh?" his hands palm the outline of your chest, marveling at the artificial ribcage his fingers provide. (he resists the urge to nip at the indentation of your collarbones, at the dainty bone lining the column of your throat). your hands scramble for his biceps when he slots an arm underneath your thighs and single-handedly places you on the counter. "yeah, y'did."

"shut up," you whimper, and oh, fuck, his teeth ache. there is no bite to your bark, a weak imitation of resolve hovering in the air between you. "j-just shut up."

"nah." jake stands as he slots a thigh between your legs, parting them around the intrusion. his mouth moves south to taste the damp skin of your pulse point, salty musk exploding on the base of his tongue as he sinks to his knees. (and he'd pray to you, if he could. would bring you trinkets at an altar made of gold. would stroke his cock right there, at the edge of your world and his, begging for you to touch him.) "i think y'like it when i talk." his nostrils flare. "can smell it on you."

the cotton of your shirt doesn't stand a chance; it tears like aged paper beneath his hands, splitting stitches merely rendered a casualty of his need. your entire body jolts, mouth poised in a soundless gasp as his name tumbles out of your mouth, caught in a dangerous balance of shock and rapture. his grin widens. "could fit all of you in 'ere," jake breathes in wonder, fingers unfurling against the expanse of your ribcage, cyan thumbs hooking under the padded fabric of your bra. "in my hands."

"god." the word rips from your throat, breathless, a prayer to something holy. something sacred. your head drops forward in surrender, forehead pressed against the sharp curve of his collarbone. his hands are everywhere—everywhere, everything, all at once—as the clasp of your bra gives way and his tongue draws forward to trace agonizingly slow circles against the side of your breast, just an inch from the growing tightness throbbing beneath your skin. "someone—someone could see us—"

"let 'em." it is sacrilegious, your little whimper, the way it escapes from the corner of your mouth. it instigates sin. calls upon forces beyond his better judgement, beyond plain, good common sense. beyond right and wrong. his fangs graze your nipple, and a harsh breath catches halfway up your throat, the hand in his hair tightening around his kuru {braid} instinctively. he chokes roughly, slicing through the silence with a drawling inhale. (careful, pretty.) a shameful blush paints your cheeks in mahogany as your hands trail downward, tracing the corner of his mouth with the pad of your thumb. (there is but a single strand of mangled control holding him together, and the second he snaps—).

all it takes is one, broad palm flat against your sternum for your shoulder blades to kiss the cold metal of the table underneath you. pinned. (trapped). he tears into you like scripture. devouring not with mercy, not with patience—but with reverence. with ecstasy. it is simply a testament to the ruinous want stitched into the carbon-fiber of his bones, a hunger that has kept him starving, aching, waiting. your breath stutters, wrecked and disparately shallow, slipping from your lips in uneven waves. (he has never wanted anything the way he wants you. has never even known he could want something this damn much. and yet here you are, in front of him, his pretty little girl—). you lift your hips obediently when his hands slip under your leggings, earning a low hum of approval as he tugs at the panties clinging wetly to your cunt, leaving both in a haphazard tangle around your ankles. his thumb presses into your pulse, feeling for frantic jump in your heartbeat.

"look at you," he drawls, tone akin to that of a drawn-out prayer. his entire frame shakes, an embodiment of fraying restraint. "so pretty f'r me. fuckin' wet, too."

you only realize he's dipped inside you when the tip of his middle finger brushes the silken, pulsating center of your core, a stretch so deep it borders on cruel. your entire body jolts as your mouth falls open in in a soundless cry, fingernails clawing uselessly at the table’s edge. his groan bleeds through your ribs, settling into the hollows like a symphony only your bones remember. en echo of something long buried. "jake. jake, oh, fuck—"

"that's my name, baby," he mutters, thumb smearing through your slick, cautious circles gathered methodically around the tingling bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. (your arousal smells like rain, like velvet rose, like a hazy memory of a garden at dawn gnawing at his fraying conscious.) "jesus fuck, can't even get two fingers in 'ere, pretty. how're you gonna take my cock like this, huh?" the sound that rips from your throat in response is nothing human. his fangs flash crystal, scissoring hand devastatingly carving out space to fit himself in between the thighs of a body not meant to hold him. a body not meant for his hands to touch. (but it would take divine intervention to stop him now. he is a hound, an animal spoiled rotten by the scent of flesh. your flesh.)

your hips jerk at the unexpected sight of his middle and ring finger sinking into his mouth, leaving your empty cunt clenching around nothing. your pupils blow wide as he hums against the sweetness of you on his tongue, swiping the muscle downward to catch the droplets of milky white lingering across his knuckles. (he finds himself wondering if your tears will taste as good as your cunt does). his name escapes your lips in a whisper, trailing gently over the softness of your skin. your pulse is a wreckage beneath his palm as his mouth crashes over yours once more, the prickling rhythm erratic against the rounded edge of your ribs.

then—he moves. presses his weight over you, drags his mouth down the line of your jaw, your throat, the shallow depression of your clavicle. "been thinkin' about this," he rasps as your hands flutter uselessly at your sides, scrambling for purchase against the line of his torso. he ruts his hips ever-so slightly forward, harshly reminded of the painful hardness throbbing under his tewng {loincloth}. "for so long. fuckin'—jerked off t'you. had a real nice dream, once."

your voice is unbearably soft, enslaved to single-minded pleasure. "you d-dream about me?"

jake's breath hitches, heat grazing the sweat-slick line of your throat. "yeah, baby. tons." his steady stare brushes yours, sapphire flush painting his freckles in a shade of liquid ivory. "gets worse after seein' you. can't sleep for days w' you patterin' around in 'ere." he raises a hand in a slow arc, fingers wandering along the tender line of his temple as the other works the strings of his tewng {loincloth} loose. it falls, forgotten, and—oh. oh. your lips part around a soundless gasp, any sense of decorum failing you. the sight of him eclipses language itself, glowing pre-cum slathering his length in a starry sheen, flushed tip carved from material far more primal than skin. than muscle, than bone. you swallow, pulse skipping, and his cocky-eyed grin only grows.

shameless, he nocks the dripping slit against the tender mess of your folds, coating himself in your slick with an unbidden groan. "wanna take samples? 's better than norm's, i promise."

"jake—oh my god." he swallows your exclamation as his mouth claims the expanse of yours, hands branding heat along your ribs, your waist, the soft, trembling flesh of his thighs. his fingers wrap around your hips and pull, the blunt, aching weight of him nudging at your entrance. you whimper, dizzy with desire. "g-go slow," you slur, clambering for his shoulders, arching your back in an effort to appease the burn pulsating under your skin. light explodes behind your closed eyelids as he slowly—slowly—sinks the first inch inside; you seize, lower stomach contracting around the foreign intrusion. the stretch sings through you, the thick head of his cock cradled between your legs, and yet jake forces himself still, a vein pulsing in his forehead.

"lemme in, c'mon, pretty," jake pants, exhaling roughly through his nose. his cock throbs restlessly inside you as instinct claws at his spine, shaking with the urge to chase the relief of being fully sheathed, of simply forcing you down the rest of the way. he grits his teeth when you mewl, glimmering tears clinging to your waterline.

"'s not gonna fit," you howl, and guilt lances through him. (that's what he does with pretty things, isn't it? he breaks them. it's in his nature, written in the code of his biological being. he can't help himself, he's so sorry, pretty girl—)

"fuck," he chokes, languish enshrining the syllables in agony. his tail wraps around your calf, soothing. easing. "fucking shit, i'm so sorry, pretty—"

"hurts more when you stay still," you whisper, eyelashes damp where they flutter against the heat of your cheeks, and jake's breath pans over your throat in a sinking shudder. your vision spotlights as his fingers pull upward, reaching between your parted lips to gather the saliva pooling at the corner of your mouth. he kisses the shell of your ear as he strokes your spit lazily over his length, whining lowly at the lewdly-wet squelch. "d'you hear that?" his voice is enthralled. "that's you and me, baby."

your gaze flickers skyward, unfocused and glassy. mindless. (always thinking, aren't you, baby? he's happy to help you turn it off, if you'd let him. happy to strip you down to something soft, something malleable in his grasp—something that belongs only to him. it’s only fair. it’s what you deserve). a dark chuckle rumbles from his chest, sharp with satisfaction. (yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?).

he gives you no warning before taking hold of your hips, molding your lower body in a high arch, and sinking the rest of the way in.

"jake—!" his name leaves you in a breathless sob, a prayer, a curse, a requiem. you're nearly catatonic, twitching like you’ve been electrocuted as you spasm beneath his hands, the girth of him infiltrating the marrow of your bones, the lining of your ribs, the edges of your lungs. the dull ache in your stomach intensifies as his hips rut up, your head smacking against the ground as his ridged cock rams lecherously into the spongy entrance of your cervix. jake punches out a strangled laugh as your stomach mounds obscenely (frighteningly, if he were being honest with himself) to accommodate the sheer size of his length, a shaky hand reaching forward to feel for himself underneath your layers of quivering muscle. you jolt with a sharp cry, feet kicking helplessly in midair as tears spill in shimmering rivulets down your flushed cheeks. “so-“ he cuts himself off when your cunt, unable to squeeze around the girth of him, flutters achingly. begging for release. "tight. knew you'd be so fuckin' tight—"

he doesn't wait. can't. his hips roll forward, dragging another devastatingly thick thrust through the vice-like grip of your cunt, the sensation of him rearranging you from the inside out. his hand slips between your thighs (greedy, insistent), feeling for the slick heat pooling there, brushing over the tender, swollen knot of your clit. he drinks your shaky squeal, chest rising and falling in rapid succession as he folds forward, tongue swiping across your upper row of teeth. "jake,” you sob, a wrecked little thing, hands fisting in his braids, grasping for something, anything. "'m gonna cum—oh god, i wanna c—please, can i, jake, please—"

"w'me," jake manages to hiss, tongue swirling patterns into the wounded skin of your clavicle. the blunt tip of his cock twitches as his thrusts shallow, a moan purred into the junction between your neck and shoulder. the tightness in his stomach ebbs as the wet slap of your pelvis against his reverberates in the air, a symphony of noise escaping your throat as he fills your womb in thick, unrelenting waves of searing warmth. you sob raggedly in relief, convulsing under the weight of his palms, cleaving lines of deepening crimson in his back. (pretty little thing. so good for him. you'd let him do this every night, wouldn't you? would let him bury himself to the hilt until he flooded your cunt with his seed, would let him turn your pristine skin a splotchy, bruised shade of fuchsia.)

he thinks with his teeth, lovely girl, and you've got such a pretty neck.

note: WOW WHY DID THIS TAKE ME FOREVER?! i was so smut-stumped for whatever reason, so i apologize for the rushed ending and for the fact that i forgot to include jake taking sips of CO2 while he was in an oxygenated lab LOL (the stem girl in me is screaming at them having sex IN THE LAB). this one's for @pandoraslxna!! love always from lani!!

[cryptictongues]

The Sun Lives in His Eyes

pairing: Vincent Valentine x Fem!Reader rating: Explicit (MINORS DNI; 18+) word count: 6.9k summary: You try on swimsuits for Vincent, and he doesn't know how to handle it.

warnings: porn with feelings, angst, teasing, lots of dry humping and making out, come tasting, sexual tension

Spoilerwise, I made it so the emotions after the second visit to the Golden Saucer were present but didn't get very specific as to why aside from the keystone and what the stone is needed for (which is in the OG game too). Other than that, this is pretty spoiler free!

Also, just to add, when trying on bathing suits, please for the love of GOD keep your underwear on. Don't let your bare cooch touch it.

Please read my pinned post before following me! Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked as this blog’s content is NSFW.

[AO3 link]

It was midday in Costa Del Sol and it was alive as usual. The beach goers were all in their swimsuits, with their beautiful lays and their skin that had been kissed by the sun. The sky was as blue as can be with a slight overcast of clouds. Booths of a multitude of items for sale and fun games that make the atmosphere of the area feel like one big fair. It was a refreshing change of scenery, especially after the last 24 hours.

Traveling back to Costa Del Sol was no easy task, especially when exhaustion, anger, and disappointment have infiltrated the air. With the failure to retrieve the keystone, the direction of the group had faltered. No one had a clue where the Temple of the Ancients was located, and the future seemed bleak. That was until the mysterious man, the one you have grown very attached to, had suggested using the Tiny Bronco’s radio to try and intercept the signal from the Turks to retrieve the coordinates.

Vincent Valentine: the epitome of peculiar. A man, a beast, a creature of mystery. You and everyone else’s first interaction with him being an almost fatal one, for the bestial side of him was quite destructive. He was fairly fast for a creature of his size, strong reflexes, and phenomenal perception. He wasn’t a normal beast, but of course he wasn’t: he was still a human underneath it all. Which is why once he had transformed back into his original form, the brokenness and anguish that appeared on his face was apparent. You remember vividly how he had looked directly at you, stunning you in your place as you wondered what you had done to receive such a stare. 

You never thought you’d make contact with those eyes again with his lack of interest in coming along. So, it was a surprise to see him hop on the Tiny Bronco, explaining the sins he must atone for. It made sense, but a weird part of you sensed that it wasn’t the full truth, especially when he kept looking your way during his tiny monologue. It stirred something within you, having never felt an intensity such as his before. All in all, however, he was a quiet one, kept to himself, and very much an observer. 

A very, very good observer. 

Something that drew you to each other was neither of you were talkers. You’ve always been the reserved one of the group, not minding wandering around on your own while the others stayed together. The introvert in you enjoys the peace and quiet when able to have it, even though you love your found family. You assumed Vincent relates in some way because after the arrival to Costa Del Sol the first time, he has lingered by your side ever since. You didn’t mind the company, especially when there was a silent mutual understanding between you two.

What you did mind, however, was how utterly insane he’d make you feel. You don’t know if it’s all in your head, but day by day you swear he is advancing his way into your heart and loins. It started with simple glances that led to subtle grazes of his covered fingers on your exposed ones. The intimate moments have gradually increased, which have haunted your dreams in the most intimate of ways.

Back at the Golden Saucer, you and Vincent had been off on your own together. You both had stayed in the Queen’s Blood gaming area for a while, playing stacked games since you both were considered pros amongst most people. It was the last round, and you had a slight lead. You were waiting for him to take his turn, watching him contemplate his hand. You were hoping, praying even, that he didn’t see how you had set yourself up to win. 

But of course, he had seen right through it. Once he plucked the card he wanted to use from his deck, you already knew it’s game over. You had let out a groan before he could put it down and the look in his eyes shifted as quickly as they had shifted back in amusement.

“You don’t even know what I am playing.”

“I can take a wild guess.”

“Hmm, is that so?” He had hummed, leaning in as close as he could without his body messing up the board. He had held his card between two of his left fingers, dangling the damn thing in front of you. “If you guess the specific card I’m about to play correctly, you win.”

You were in shock as he was one to never willingly gamble his wins. In your dysfunctional brain, you had thought about all of the cards he had in his possession. Vincent’s biggest asset as a player was knowing how to use his cards, often using ones that didn’t seem to do much on the surface. You had thought long and hard, debating between which cards he could have considered, before deciding there was only one that made the most sense.

“Grandhorn.”

Vincent chuckled, putting his card down, and low and behold the Grandhorn appeared. It boosted his score a point above yours, but it hadn’t mattered. You had won.

“So, I guess I won since I guessed correctly?”

“I suppose so, but I expected nothing less.” He had leaned in once more, a glimmer in his eyes as he looked you dead on. “Smart girl.”

The way he had said it had made your insides curl with delight. Having someone like him be so teasing and flirty in his own way with you had you flushed, and you knew he noticed. Before he had said anything to send you into another flushing fit, you had quickly gotten up and told him exactly what you wanted to do next.

You had dragged him over to the G-Bike game, insisting to play as you’ve always wanted to ride a motorcycle, even if it’s just in simulation form. However, within 30 minutes, you were flinging yourself left to right with frustration with the lack of ability to get at least a one-star rating. It wasn’t until you had felt a weight behind you, recognizable leather clad arms wrapping over yours, did you realize how fucked you really were. His body was pressed right against you with every limb touching your own. His fingers had curled over yours and his breath was brushing against the sensitive skin of your ear. 

“ Give me the glasses ,” he murmured.

“Let me take you for a ride.”

Needless to say, you had to excuse yourself. You had felt a tinge of embarrassment at how you reacted, but it was quickly stomped out by how much you needed to relieve yourself. You had felt bad leaving Vincent alone to wander a place that was outside of what he was acclimated to, but the hormonal teen in your brain was screaming at you to do something. 

You had been thankful that everyone was out doing their thing because the minute the hotel door was shut, you were on your bed with your hand down your pants. All you could think about was how good he felt against you. He was warm and you could feel everything; from the buckles, to the leather creases, to the outline of his long cock you felt pressed against your backside. With every twist and turn, your bodies would shift, and it created a friction so teasing that you couldn’t have helped but whimpered.

You had thought about his groans when you would accidentally push back on him. The sound had vibrated on your skin, proving how close his mouth was to your neck. You remembered how his cock twitched against you. Those thoughts had only made you rub your weeping cunt more, leading to more devious ones. You wondered what would’ve happened if you had just kept grinding on him. Would he have lost control? Would he have been as flushed as you had been 30 minutes prior? Picturing images of him flushed below you as you worked each other up had sent you spiraling into release, biting your arm so as to not cause any alarm. 

You had a hard time looking at him the next day without your mind wandering to something sinful. Things have toned down since due to the interruption of plans, but his gazes have stayed firm. You could always feel the stare of his eyes burning into you, and it never failed to make you squirm and plunder. 

Presently, all of you were on the dock, discussing the coordinates Vincent had found over the radio. A game plan was being formed, an agreement that the rest of the day should be one of rest and preparation before the journey tomorrow. The party started to disperse, some with tasks like gathering supplies and booking rooms for the night. You were left to your own devices, debating on what you wanted to do to pass the time. You look out onto the water, and you don’t know if it is the heat or the exhaustion in your muscles, but going for a swim sounded absolutely divine. 

You heard the metal clanking of Vincent’s shoes behind you, making you turn around to greet him. The thoughts back at the saucer were begging to be reminded but you pushed them back, not sure if you would survive those them with him in front of you. He greets you with a hum, hovering very close to you to the point you have to look up at him. Damn, he is so tall!

Clearing your throat, you greet him back with your thumbs twiddling with each other nervously. “So, is there anything you want to do today?”

“That is entirely up to you. Wherever you’d like to go, I’ll follow.” 

Your breath starts to shutter, but you cough to cover it up. You didn’t want to make it obvious how much he is affecting you right now, even though you are sure it didn’t matter what you did. He always knew. 

“Well, this may sound crazy, but I kind of want to go swimming.”

“Oh?” His head tilts, eyes amused.

“Y-yeah, but I know you cannot be comfortable in this heat. I wouldn’t want to keep you in it.” 

“I can manage.”

You laugh because of course he can. “If you say so, but I will need to get a swimsuit. You don’t mind coming with me to buy one, do you?”

He shakes his head, moving to your side to allow you to lead the way. You both start walking towards the bathing suit booth up ahead and as usual Vincent’s fingers linger by yours. There is no touching, but you can feel them right by you, causing your fingers to twitch. It’s driving you mad, and you are tired of him teasing you to the point of insanity. So out on a whim, confidence boosting, you let your hand grab his metal one. You feel his walk stutter, but he quickly recovers to let the gold claws wrap around your own. 

You lead him to the booth right past the dock and start to look around. There are so many options, and you can feel yourself become a little overwhelmed at your choices. 

“Is everything okay?” Vincent was behind you. You guess he can see the tension in your shoulders as you peruse the different styles.

“I guess I just don’t know what would be best to wear.” You admit. 

The young woman running the booth must have been waiting for an opportunity to sell because the next thing you know she is right in front of you. “Good evening! Would you like some help?”

“Oh, uh…” Before you can utter anymore words, she continues her pitch.

“It is no trouble! I can curate some of our different pieces so you can decide which ones you like best!”

Before you can decline again, she is already ushering you to the changing booth, basically shoving you in. “I’ll be right back with some swimwear!”

You peek out and you can see Vincent about to walk over to the seller, irritation clear on his face. Shit.

“Vincent, come here!”

He turns to you before walking up. As he stops in front of you, you see how much his eyes are flared, burning more red than usual. You aren’t sure how to calm him down, not seeing him like this since the incident at Shinra Manor. You reach out, letting your palm rest against his cheek, hoping that will somehow ease his mind. 

“She shouldn’t have put her hands on you. She is lucky to still be standing on her two feet.”

The protective nature he was exuding was endearing, but also very sexy. You put those thoughts on the backburner, bringing your hand to his neck to stroke the irritation there. 

“I appreciate you looking out for me, but I promise it’s okay. I’m okay.” You reassure, squeezing his skin right above his collarbone. “Let me try on what she offers and then we can get out of here.”

“Alright, here are a few pieces I think would go perfectly with your style!” She hands you the pieces, and turns to Vincent, clueless to the absolute annoyance he wanted to convey in that moment. “I apologize, sir, but let’s give your lady friend some privacy.”

You see his eyes flare again, and you quickly shoot your other hand out from behind the curtain to keep him facing you. “It’s okay! He can stay!”

“Well, if you insist! Just no funny business you two!” She winks at you both and walks back to her station. You gulp out of a nervous habit, even though there is no spit to swallow. Is it that obvious that you two have some unspoken thing for one another?

“Okay, um, let me try these on.” You squeeze his arm in reassurance before going back into the changing booth. You close the curtain and lay out the pieces you were working with. You inspected each one, and you came to a horrifying conclusion: these were very revealing swimsuits.

There was nothing wrong with revealing swimwear, in fact you actually quite liked the ones the lady picked for you. However, Vincent was right outside and would see you in one of these. Would it be too much for him to see you so bare? You are very covered up in your usual attire, so this is a complete 180 and leaves little for the imagination.

You decide to try one on anyway, picking the one-piece swimsuit that is all black and has a long v-line cut. You strip away your clothes, and slip the suit on, adjusting it so everything is even. You go to tie the string in the back, but you can already tell it will be a challenge. You try to tie the knot, but you could feel yourself getting frustrated, grunting in aggravation as the tie keeps going undone. 

“Are you okay?” Vincent called from outside, obviously hearing you struggle.

You sigh in defeat, ready for some assistance. “Um, I think I need help tying the string in the back. Can you give me a hand if I come out?” 

You hear him hum in agreement, and you open the curtain and quickly turn your back. “Just the one string please.”

He hums again and gets to work, grabbing the two ends and crisscrossing them before pulling tightly. You hear him shuffle closer to you, and once again his breath is on your ear. “Is that tight enough for you?”

You freeze. He said it so quietly that you wonder if you are hallucinating but you know what you heard. He is teasing you again. He is trying to rile you up like he did at the Golden Saucer. Well, two can play at that game.

“Yes, that is good. Please tie it.” You feel him take a step back, and he ties the strings to ensure they stay together. 

Once you feel his hands pull away, you turn to him to show off your swimsuit. It hugs you in all the right places, quite comfortably, and it covers you aside from the middle of your body. The v-line shows off your chest, covering your breasts and getting narrower until the point stops down at your belly button. You feel sexy and seeing Vincent’s reaction was the cherry on top.

You watch as his eyes take in your form. You see them wander from your chest to your sternum and it is crazy how much the red of his eyes get smaller as his pupils blow wide. His fingers tremble against his side with slight movement in his arms like he wants to reach out for you, but they stay in place. His control is absolutely astonishing. 

“Vincent? Do I look okay?” 

His eyes snap away, coughing in the process like he didn’t just eye fuck you. He rubbed his neck, forcing himself to look anywhere but towards you. “Yes, it looks fine.” 

You release a smirk, feeling almost powerful seeing this man react the way he had. “Okay, well I am going to try the other ones on.”

You go back inside, and giggle quietly to yourself. It felt good to tease him. With how much he teases you, with how much he riles you up, it is his turn to be on the receiving end of torment. You rip off the one piece, and decide to put on one of the two pieces you were given to try. 

The one you decide to put on is a dark red bikini. The top clips on, so you didn’t need assistance this time. You look in the mirror and you notice how much the top pushes out your breasts. The flesh sticks out, making them look so much bigger than they were. You don’t know if Vincent was a boob man or not, but all you can think is you can’t wait to find out.

“Hey Vincent, can you tell me if this looks okay? I’m not sure how I feel about this one.”

You push the curtain open just as he turns to look in your direction, and his look is priceless. You see him take a heeded breath, one hand turning into a fist and the other gripping his side in what appears to be a hard grip. You hold back a smile, not wanting to give hints to your actions, and walk towards him. You are now standing toe to toe with him, looking up at a man who clearly was losing his cool. 

“Vincent, are you okay? You don’t look so good.” You coo, placing two fingers against his pulse point under his chin. He lets out a grunt at the contact, and your mind is reeling at how fast his pulse is going. 

“Vincent, what are yo-”

“I’m fine.” He grunts, taking your hand away from his neck.

You let it drop, and turn around to the booth. “Just one more and we can go, okay? I’ll be quick.”

You don’t give him another glance as you go back in. You fist pump the air in success as giving him a taste of his own medicine was truly a sight to behold. You are ready to go in for the kill with the last one, which is another bikini. However, this one was black with stretchy black laces that wrap around your stomach. This one felt like a good in between from the other two, but you feel this one will affect him the most. You don’t know why, but something about the intricacies of how it covers your body is simply seducing. 

You finish putting it on and you can’t help the excitement you feel. Out of the three, you like the way this one fits you the most. Not only is it comfortable, but it is an absolute confidence booster. It fits your body well and the laces across your waist accentuates it beautifully. Not only was this the swimsuit you would be purchasing, but you are excited to show it off to Vincent for another reaction. 

You rip open the curtain, cutting right to the chase, only to see he is no longer where he once stood. You hop out of the booth, looking around for the spiky black hair and red cloak, only to see him nowhere in sight. 

“You looking for your boyfriend, babes?” 

You turn to see the seller approaching you, the word boyfriend not even registering. You just want to find him.

“Yeah, did you see where he went?”

She nods over to the dock, back where the Tiny Bronco was located. “He went onto the dock. He seemed to be in quite a rush.”

You quickly thank her. You grab your things from the changing booth, and quickly round up the gil for the swimsuit you were wearing. “Thank you, keep the change.”

You run back to the dock and see the Bronco’s door slightly ajar. You push the door open, not wanting to alarm him as you climb on. You see him sitting on the bench in the very back, hands clutching his head and breathing heavy. Alarmed by how he is reacting, you make yourself known and slowly approach where he is sitting.

“Vincent, are you okay?” 

He grunts roughly, fingers visibly clutching his head harder. “You need to get off.”

You contemplated your next move. You could listen and get off, let him calm himself down. But then you think what if he can’t calm down? What if his mind spirals from his thoughts? Would you leaving really make things better or worse?

You think back to the time when you first met him, how defeated he looked after he had transformed back. How he had stared you down, taking your breath away at how utterly disheveled and beautiful he looked. He had been alone for so long, and that thought turned your rational mind off. You weren’t going to run. He needed you. 

“Vincent, I am not going anywhere.”

His head shoots up, his eyes crimson and face scrunched up like he was holding himself back. He notices your final change of the evening and the growl he lets out is feral. “You,” he snarls, “better not take a single step more.”

You stop again, realization hitting you like a freight train. Did I do this? Did I go too far? 

“Did I do something to upset you?” You ask quietly, afraid of what his response was going to be. “If I did, I am so sorry.”

He doesn’t respond, still looking to the ground although his breathing has subsided slightly. You approach him again, this time making it so you were only a foot away. 

“You don’t want this.” He mutters. 

“What do you mean?”

“I am a monster. The baggage I bring with me, the absolute madness that stirs from within. I don’t know if I can control myself, and that scares me, which means it will scare you.”

You can’t understand what he is saying. “You don’t scare me, Vincent. You could never scare me.”

He grunts out a laugh, like he doesn’t believe a word out of your mouth. “You don’t understand what primal thoughts are going through my mind right now.”

“Well, try me.” You reach out for his face, wanting to touch him, but his right hand grabs your wrist. 

“You don’t know what you want, so stop this.”

You feel like you could cry. The whiplash you are receiving after he has gotten under your skin only to rip himself away is too much. How dare he make your blood run hot and then make it go cold in an instant? You rip your arm away, taking a step back. Your gaze falls to the Bronco’s floor, feeling stupid at your attempt to draw him in. Your arms wrap around your body, sequestering it away from his gaze. 

“You don’t know what I want, so stop putting words into my mouth.” You choke out. Your fists are clenching on your tummy, anger starting to bubble to the surface. “I know you know how I feel about you because you wouldn’t continue to rile me up the way you do if you didn’t. I wouldn’t react the way I do if I didn’t. Truthfully, I love it. So don’t you dare tell me that I don’t know what I want.”

Everything goes quiet. The only thing that can be heard is the heavy breathing on both of your ends. Your anger disappears and is replaced with disappointment. You don’t know if there is any way to convince him, and you aren’t going to be made a fool in the process.

“I know what I want.” You say softly. “I have desires too.” 

It all happens so quickly, your body jolting forward until you are straddling his lap. You gasp, immediately feeling his hard on against your own clothed slit. He’s bigger than I thought, you think, for a man so skinny and sculpted . Two golden claws tilt your chin up, forcing you to be face to face with him. He is much taller than you, so he is slightly over you as he closes in. His breath fans over your lips, eyes erratic and glazed.

You let out a shaky sigh, letting your hands travel up to his face, cupping his cheeks gently as if to let him know what he wants to do is okay. “Do it. Show me you want me too.”

Lips press against yours instantly. It’s intense and intimate with the way he still has a hold on your chin and the way his free arm wraps around your waist to keep you grounded against him. You don’t know if it is the way he has you pressed to him or the way he surrounds your senses, but you feel calm. Even with the aggressive nature of his kisses, it is like he has seeped under your skin, a venomous serum to calm his prey down before he devours. You want more. You need more.

Your hands travel up past his temples to the back of his head, curling your fingers around his black locks. You pull delicately, not knowing how keen he was on pain, only to hear the most delicious whine leave his mouth into yours. You take the opportunity to let your tongue touch his, already becoming addicted to the way he tastes. His grip got tighter on you, trying to pull you in closer even if it wasn’t possible. There was an urgency in his actions as if what you two were doing was too much yet not enough. 

His erection was starting to react more and more against you. You could feel yourself growing restless with the need for some sort of contact. You work to shift your knees slightly, spreading them out more across the bench, and start to grind against the shape of his length. 

A growl from the deepest part of his throat rips out into the open. The claws of his gauntlet let go of your chin and latch to your hip. You stop your movements, thinking he was going to stop you, but he does no such thing. He pushes you down further onto his crotch, moving you himself to urge you to keep going. You follow his movements, letting him guide you back and forth on his cock. All you can think about is how large he is, and how good he feels against your pussy. However, it still isn’t enough. 

You move a hand down to your bottoms, sliding the part covering your heat to the side to get more friction. You can’t help the moan that leaves you the second your clit rubs against the leather of his pants, the roughness different from that of the silk. You move your hips faster, not skipping a beat as to chase a release. 

“That’s it,” Vincent growls against your lips. “Just like that.”

His encouragement sends dopamine right to your brain, giving your hips a mind of their own as you continue to rut against him. Your hips start to tire, becoming noticeable as your knees give out slightly before you readjust. Your mind begs you to keep going, begging to keep your pace so you can reach any type of peak. 

Your knees collapse again, and next thing you know your knees are no longer on the bench but spread far apart by Vincent’s thighs. His garbed hands are on your ass to keep you right where he wants you, and with the motion of his own hips he is rocking up into you slowly with firm pressure. You release his lips, your head resting on his shoulder as he grinds up into your cunt.

“Fuck, Vincent,” you drawl out, gripping his hair tighter with the hand still there, your other hand finding purchase on his shoulder. 

Vincent was having none of that, his right hand shoots to your head to pull it back to face him. What you see invigorates you, as Vincent’s eyes no longer had a red presense. They were the color of the light of day before dusk. The whites of his eyes were illuminated, and his canines had elongated drastically. 

“Is this what you wanted?” Vincent hisses. “Do you still want this?”

The self-pity in his eyes was becoming, and you weren’t having any of that. You were not about to have the man, who is making you go crazy by just nuzzling his long cock into your nethers, get distressed by disillusions. Your left hand drops from his head, dipping down where both of your crotches meet. The tips of your fingers dip into your dripping cunt, the evidence clear as day on his leathers. But if you must show extra proof, you will.

You stuff two of your fingers into your hole, still making eye contact with his yellow orbs as you let your face contort. Your fingers come out covered in your sticky fluid, translucent webbing formed in between your fingers. You bring it between your faces, your eyes bold and lips curling devilishly. “Does this answer your question?”

You don’t know what possessed you, but you let those fingers touch his lips. You pull his lower lip down, seeing if he would let his tongue travel out for a taste. You hum approvingly when he lets the tip give a small lick, and moan all together when he starts to lick them clean. Seeing Vincent obey such a small, unspoken command was the sexiest thing you have witnessed to date, and it makes you want to push him even more. 

You pull your fingers away, causing him to follow them to continue getting his fill. “Look at you,” you purr. “Like a kitten begging for milk.”

“You are one to talk.” He grumbles, thrusting his hips up so it rubs right against your clit. “You’re the one rubbing your bare cunt against me.”

A high-pitched moan wrangles from your throat as he bounced you up and down, followed by a sex drunken laugh. “Why don’t we change that?”

You push his chest so he is leaning way back on the bench, allowing you to steady yourself as you unbuckle his belts. As soon as you open his fly, his bulge pushes outward and you can hear the sigh of relief leave his lungs. Your hands dip into his underwear, pulling the elastic down to release his cock fully. His cock springs up, precum drooling from his swollen head. Your hand wraps around the tip, squeezing to see another pearl form. Your thumb sweeps over it, gathering as much as you can, before bringing it up to your mouth with the need to taste him.

If Vincent’s eyes could glow brighter, they would have blinded you with the way he was watching you. You let your thumb pop out of your mouth, letting some spit travel down your hand before rubbing it over his cock. You readjust once more, angling your hips so your clit would connect with his tip with each roll, and sit right back onto his lap. You both cry out in unison, both of you sensitive and in dire need of release. You crash your lips against his as you roll your hips in a slow, yet firm rhythm. Your hands grip at his hair, loving the way he ruts into you when you pull on it. You don’t hold back, too far gone to tease the daylights out of him, moaning into his mouth every time the head of his cock kisses your bud. 

Vincent wasn’t faring any better, his volume only increasing at the friction. He releases your lips, his head falling onto your shoulder with a long groan. You feel tiny prickles against your skin, his fangs grazing it as he kisses and sucks on your flesh. His hands go over the strings of your swimsuit, gripping the skin of your waist to pull you closer.

His mouth proceeds up your shoulder to your jaw, nipping your pulse point before licking it. The difference between the movement of his hips and his lips is drastic. His lips move slowly, caressing the skin after every love bite he gives you like you are delicate, while his hips buck into you with conviction. It is like he doesn’t know whether he wants to cherish you, or prove to you how much of a monster he can be. 

Both of your essences are mixing as you continue, creating easier movement and a more heavenly feeling. You can feel yourself getting close to your release, hips flying back and forth trying to grasp onto it. It isn’t until your hips give out, a frustrated whine leaving you as the peak downtrails.

“Don’t you dare give up on me.” Vincent orders into your ear. 

“Fuck, I can’t,” you sob, the ache in your hips and knees showing as you start to slow down.

You don’t fully comprehend what happens next, not until you feel the cold metal of the Bronco’s floor on your back. Vincent yanks your bottoms down your legs, exposing all you have to offer to him. He is on you, hunched over you as he thrusts against your fully exposed cunt. You can’t help but shove your head into the crevice of his neck, wailing at how fast he is going. You are surprised he hasn’t accidentally slipped in with how wet you are, the sounds coming from your nethers making that more apparent. 

“I am so close, fuck!” You whimper. You are on the cusp. You needed something. Just a little push to put you over.  “Please, please, please, Vincent! I need it so bad! I need you!”

You feel his fangs against your shoulder, nipping and licking the same spot over and over again. A warm sensation fills you, not registering it until the piercing pain of his incisors sink into your skin. It hurts so good, the combination of pain and pleasure shooting through your system. It sets the tone for your release, causing you to scream into his shoulder. It is electrifying, ecstasy filling in the gaps as your orgasm rolls in waves. Vincent wasn’t far behind, and something about your blood must have sent him into a frenzy. His hips are going inhumanly quick, and after a few more thrusts he ejects his fangs from your body as he cums.

His moans echoing into your ear has you gripping onto him harder, comforting him as he rides out his high. Fingers stroke the hairs on the back of his neck, hushing him soothingly as his body shakes. It isn’t long after he starts groaning, his grip tightening on your thighs. 

“Are you okay?” You ask worried, lifting his head so you can get a good look at him. But what you see stirs something from deep within your chest.

You don’t know if it’s because golden hour has reached its peak, but he looks ethereal. His fangs were no more, but there was blood that has stained his mouth. The beams of golden light reflect off of him, his pale skin shining from the light perspiration on his face. He looks so beautiful in the sun’s rays, like an angel wrapped in light. His eyes slowly open, and a soft gasp leaves your lips. His eyes were no longer illuminating yellow. His eyes, the vibrancy of them, have transformed into the sun. Their usual molten color is bright like the sun's surface. His usual orange rings that surround his pupil are golden, and you can see your reflection in the deep black.

He takes a minute to gather himself before nodding, a sigh passing through his lips before sitting up on his knees. You peer down to your lower half, which is now covered in his seed and your own mess. Vincent’s eyes are glued to your mound, his cum having pooled there from his heavy release. After a moment, he takes his leather glove off his right hand, skin pale and blue from the veins protruding. His fingers dip into his cooled cum, letting it collect on his fingers before pulling his hand away. 

“Vincent, what are yo-” you start before you watch him bring his fingers towards your lips. He lets them hover, waiting to see if you would be as keen to sampling him again like he did with you. 

A light chuckle leaves your lips. He is just full of surprises.

You sit up on your elbows, your mouth pressing light kisses to his fingers before indulging. Your eyes flutter close, a quiet moan rumbling from your chest as take in his taste for a second time. He tastes neutral, nothing too bitter or too musky. It tastes exactly as you expected. Because it was him, he tasted absolutely delectable. And you can’t get enough.

“Look at you,” Vincent mimics your tone from earlier, smirking in the process. “Like a kitten begging for milk.”

His fingers leave your mouth, making you chase after them until he kisses you suddenly. The iron attacks your senses pleasantly, and his humming tells you that his seed is having the same effect on him. You both stay there for a while, just kissing in each other’s mess, and before you know it the sky has turned into its orange hue before the nightfall. 

You decide to pull away first, bringing your hands to his face to soothe the sweat dried skin. “I don’t want this to end, but we should get going. The others may be wondering where we wandered off to.”

He hums slowly, like he was debating whether he cared or not, but ultimately decided to sit fully up. He puts his cock back into his leathers, getting himself situated before he helps you stand up properly. Your body doesn’t feel real from how drained your muscles are, and you think he can tell by the way he guides your hands to his shoulders. He brings your bottoms over to your legs, and urges you to put your feet through the openings. Using his shoulders as leverage, you do as he silently instructs and he pulls them up until you are covered. You look down and see the cum has dried on your skin, and the thought of anyone possibly seeing it makes your cheeks burn, knowing you’d never live it down. 

“Do you think anyone will notice?”

Instantly, like he was already planning to do this, he undid the buckles of his cape and wrapped it around your shoulders. With him being such a broad and tall man, his cape covered you very well and hid the evidence of your coupling.

“It gets cool during nightfall. It won’t be suspicious.”

“But what about your pants? There is cum on them too.”

“Truthfully, I don’t care.”

You pull the cape closer to you, inhaling and exhaling his scent, filling your brain with a sense of safety. Vincent believed he wasn’t deserving of you, that he was a danger to you and others. But when you feel such a sense of security with him, how can he not see that you need him?

He finishes putting his glove back on, flexing his fingers before he goes to open the door of the Bronco. Your brain reacts first, hand grabbing his arm before he could expose you both to the outside world. You needed to know something. You needed to know if he still feels how he felt earlier.

“Vincent, can I ask you something?”

He turns to you, curiosity peaking. He places his golden fingers over the hand gripping his arm, signaling for you to ask your question.

“You don’t regret what just happened, do you? I’m not going to wake up like it was yesterday, am I?” 

There is silence, and you mentally hit yourself for the lack of confidence, your voice having dropped to a whisper. Your head drops again, worried about what was about to not be said, before you feel a gentle kiss on the top of your head.

“There is nothing to regret,” he murmurs. “Especially when it comes to you.”

You lift your head up, eyes meeting his, before letting a smile form on your face. His facial features match your own, and he brings you in for a sweet kiss before you two return to the others. You don’t think about them though, because all you can think is that he let you in.

He willingly let you in.

[theetherealbloom]

IF THERE'S NOTHING LEFT - CH.5

Chapter Five: When They Erase Our Names, God Knows That One Thing Remains

Summary: You, a skilled healer, are brought to Rome by Senator Gracchus under the pretense of treating gladiators and Roman elites. You work with General Marcus Acacius to fight against the cruel reign of the twin emperors. Through danger and shared hope, your connection becomes a source of strength as you both dream of freeing Rome.

Paring: General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, ANGST, Fluff, SMUT, Age-Gap(ish), Ancient Rome, Canon-Typical Violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Romance, Politics, Alternate Universe, Eventual SMUT, Slavery, Sexism, Misogyny, Guilt, PTSD, Rebellion, Empires, (Very Light) Strangers-to-Enemies-to-Friends-to-Lovers, Crowds, Shouting, Animals, Duels, Loose Historical Fiction, Kissing, Torture, Threats, Fighting, 

Word Count: 6.6k

A/N: I dreaded this chapter for various reasons lol T^T I hope you enjoy!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: The Rider by Paris Paloma

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IMPERIAL VILLA — NIGHT  

The grand hall of the Imperial Villa was dimly lit, the flicker of torches casting long shadows across the marble walls. The air reeked of incense and the sharp tang of blood, a bitter reminder of the night's brutal events. You stood off to the side, your wrists bound, a bruise blooming across your cheek and a shallow cut stinging on your temple. Beside you, Marcus Acacius knelt, beaten and bloodied but unbroken, his defiant gaze fixed ahead.  

Lucilla, regal even in captivity, was forced to her knees on his other side. Her disheveled hair did nothing to diminish her dignity. 

The Emperors swept into the room, their appearances as disheveled as their tempers. Geta, draped in an elaborate robe hastily thrown over his sleepwear, strode in with practiced authority. Behind him, Caracalla, his tunic barely covering his fury, paced like a caged beast. Macrinus and Thraex lingered in the shadows, smug satisfaction written across their faces.

Geta’s eyes locked onto Marcus with contempt, his voice ringing through the hall like a gavel. “The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you—all this you have forfeited by your treachery. Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Macrinus and Thraex, your insurrection has been revealed.”

Marcus lifted his chin, the blood on his face gleaming in the torchlight. Despite his injuries, his voice carried with unwavering strength. “Please, Emperor Geta, torture me if you want. But do not lecture me.”  

Geta’s lips curled in a sneer. “Your name and deeds will be forgotten, lost to history. You are damned to oblivion.”  

Marcus let out a low, defiant laugh, the sound echoing ominously through the chamber. Geta bristled. “You laugh?!”  

“You damn me?” Marcus growled. “I don’t care. Everything is forgotten in time. Empires fall. So do Emperors.”  

Caracalla, already simmering with rage, exploded. Grabbing a sword from a nearby Praetorian, he stormed forward, his voice a snarl of fury. “Why wait? I’ll gut him right now!”  

Geta rushed to restrain his brother, grabbing his arm as the blade swung wildly, narrowly missing Marcus’s head. “No! No! Calm! Calm! His death must be public.”  

“Public, yes,” Caracalla hissed, his eyes wild. “Hang his entrails from the city gates!” He spun toward you and Lucilla, his gaze venomous. “And them! Crucify them both. Crucify her!” His finger jabbed toward you, his voice breaking into a shriek. “Let them all suffer!”  

For the first time, Marcus’s composure cracked. “Leave her out of this!” he roared, his voice reverberating through the hall.  

Lucilla, too, stepped forward as far as her restraints allowed, her voice cold and commanding. “She is no threat to you. Punish me if you must, but she is innocent.”  

Caracalla’s lip curled. “Innocent? No one in your circle is innocent.”  

Geta held up a hand, signaling for silence. His gaze swept over you, considering, calculating. “No,” he finally said, his voice low but resolute. “Her skills as a healer are of use. She will not die.”  

Caracalla rounded on his brother, his outrage spilling over. “You would show her mercy?”  

Geta sneered, his tone dismissive. “Not mercy. A healer stripped of her riches and status is no better than a servant. She will remain—serving the Empire, tending to our men. Let her be a reminder of what happens to those who think they can defy us.”  

The decision was made. The Praetorians moved to haul you away, their grip bruising. Marcus struggled against them, his voice a thunderous plea. “No! Let her go!”  

You glanced back at him, your heart aching at the anguish in his eyes. “Marcus,” you whispered, your voice soft but steady. “Live. For Rome. For us.”  

His struggles stilled, though the fury in his gaze remained unquenched. “I will come for you,” he vowed, the weight of his words promising blood and fire.  

Lucilla caught your gaze as you were pulled away, her expression unyielding. “Stay alive,” she commanded in a soft whisper. “That is how you win.”  

You didn’t speak again as the guards dragged you out, but the quiet determination burning in your chest was louder than any words you could muster. The fight wasn’t over—not yet.  

UNDERCROFT, COLOSSEUM — MORNING  

The undercroft was cloaked in a heavy stillness, the faint roar of the distant crowd above serving as the only reminder of the chaos awaiting outside. The dim torchlight flickered against the cold stone walls, casting wavering shadows that seemed alive. You worked with quiet determination, dabbing ointment on Lucius’s wounds, though your hands trembled slightly from exhaustion. Sleep had eluded you since the altercation. If Ravi or Lucius noticed the change in your demeanor, they chose to remain silent.  

Ravi was seated nearby, carefully wrapping Lucius’s wrists with the precision of someone accustomed to mending what others sought to break. Lucius, his youthful face etched with weariness, broke the silence first.  

“Today, I woke up dreaming of a dark river,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. “A river I have dreamt of before, but this time, for the first time... I was crossing it.”  

Ravi paused, his hands stilling briefly as he considered Lucius’s words. “Where I come from, crossing a river represents forgiveness and salvation,” he replied softly.  

Lucius let out a faint, humorless chuckle. “Where I come from, it means you’re dead.” His gaze shifted to the middle distance, as if seeing something far beyond the confines of the undercroft. “I believe it means I will die today in the Arena. But—as I saw it, I was not afraid. For there were people on the other side. I was not alone. And my heart felt... open.”  

The weight of his words lingered in the air, but you said nothing, focusing instead on your work. You felt the knot tighten in your chest, the reality of his belief pressing down like a physical force.  

Lucius turned away, his eyes catching on the shrine of gladiators carved into the wall. He moved closer, stopping before a blank spot where a name had been crudely chiseled away. “Who was this man?”  

“Maximus,” Ravi answered, rising to stand beside him. You hesitated before stepping forward, your curiosity drawn toward the name as well.  

“I saw him fight once,” Lucius said, his voice carrying a rare sense of reverence. “It was magnificent.”  

Ravi nodded in agreement. “My time in the Arena was after his, but in whispers, many still spoke of him and what he did.”  

Lucius tilted his head slightly, as if piecing together a memory. “I met him once. He was kind,” he added, his voice softening. “Bowed to no one.”  

Your eyes met Ravi’s, a silent understanding passing between you. You swallowed hard before speaking. “Come with us,” you urged, your voice low but insistent.  

---

UNDERCROFT, CATACOMBS — DAY 

The air grew colder as you descended the narrow staircase, the light of your torch flickering against the damp stone walls. The tunnel was lined with catacombs, their alcoves filled with the remains of fallen gladiators. Most were marked with nothing more than a name etched into the stone—Iduma of Mykonos, Cimon.  

“When a rebel gladiator dies, we are supposed to cremate him and scatter the ashes,” you explained, your voice barely above a whisper. “But we bury them here instead.”  

The crypt opened into a small chamber, dominated by a single phrase chiseled roughly into the stone: What we do in life echoes in eternity.  

Lucius approached the words, his fingers brushing lightly over the inscription as he read aloud, “What we do in life... echoes in eternity.” Beneath the phrase, the name Maximus was etched into the stone.  

Above the crypt, Maximus’s breastplate and sword hung from the wall, the metal dulled by time but no less imposing. Lucius reached up and took the breastplate down, his expression thoughtful. “Scatto,” he whispered. “Argento.”  

You watched him for a moment, your heart heavy with the weight of what lay ahead. Finally, you turned to Ravi, passing him the torch. “I must go before the games begin,” you said, your voice faltering slightly. “I...”  

Ravi gave a solemn nod, his expression steady. “The people will be ready when you call upon them,” he assured you.  

Lucius’s brows knit in confusion, but before he could ask for clarification, you turned and fled, your footsteps echoing in the narrow corridor.  

THE COLOSSEUM — DAY  

You sprinted through the labyrinthine corridors of the Colosseum, your breath ragged, the cold stone walls blurring past you. The distant roar of the crowd reverberated through the halls, each cheer a hammer against your chest.  

At last, your eyes found him—Marcus, striding toward the Arena gates. His armor gleamed faintly under the dim torchlight, but it did little to hide the stiffness in his movements, the weight of his untreated wounds dragging against his formidable will. His commanding presence, though battered, remained intact, his head held high as if he bore the weight of Rome itself.  

“Marcus!” you cried out, your voice slicing through the din, raw with desperation.  

A Praetorian stepped forward, intercepting you with a vice-like grip on your arm. “Stand back!” he barked, his tone as sharp as the gladius at his side.  

“Let me go!” you screamed, thrashing against him. Your gaze locked on Marcus, pleading. “His wounds—they haven’t been treated! You’re sending him to die!”  

Marcus turned sharply at the sound of your voice, his piercing gaze cutting through the distance. The hardness in his expression wavered for a fleeting moment, giving way to something tender. “Release her,” he growled, his tone low but unyielding.  

The Praetorian hesitated, glancing between you and Marcus as if weighing the consequences. When he didn’t relent, you tore your arm free, ignoring the sting of his grip. “If you send him into that Arena like this,” you said, your voice rising with fury, “it will not be a fight—it will be an execution!”  

Marcus took a step closer, his battered frame radiating defiance. His eyes, however, softened as they met yours, and for a moment, the clamor of the world seemed to fade. “You shouldn’t have come,” he murmured, his voice rough, but threaded with something intimate.  

“I couldn’t stay away,” you replied, your voice trembling. “Not when I know what they’re doing to you. Not when I—” You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat.  

The Arena gates groaned open, and the roar of the crowd surged, deafening. Time seemed to slow as Marcus reached for your hand, his touch brief but searing, grounding you in the moment. “No matter what happens, know this,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos around you. “You are the light I carry into the darkness. My carissima—my heart has been yours long before this day.”  

Your breath hitched, your vision blurring with unshed tears. “Then fight for me,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Fight for us.”  

A faint, bittersweet smile ghosted his lips as he released your hand and turned toward the gates. “For you, I will endure anything,” he said, his voice resolute.  

As he stepped forward, the sunlight streaming into the Arena catching on his armor, you stood rooted to the spot, your heart splintering with every step he took. “Marcus!” you called out one last time, the weight of unspoken words heavy on your tongue.  

He paused, glancing back with a look that spoke of endless promises. “Whatever happens, my love will echo into eternity.”  

You watched him disappear into the blinding light of the Arena, the roar of the crowd swallowing him whole. The Master of Ceremonies reads off the official denunciation of the man you love, “For his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the Roman state... an Enemy of the People.”

And in that moment, all you could do was hope—that the fire in his spirit would be enough to carry him back to you.

The clash of swords echoed in your ears, but your focus was entirely on him—on Marcus. The sight of him in the Arena, a whirlwind of strength and precision, sent your heart into a spiral of anguish and awe. He dispatched the four soldiers with ruthless efficiency, sustaining only a superficial scratch. His breath came heavy as he stood amidst the carnage, blood staining the sand beneath his feet.  

You tore your gaze away to look above, where Lucilla sat in the royal box, her wrists bound in chains. Her face, streaked with tears, mirrored the grief clawing at your own chest.  

When Marcus’ eyes found yours, the rest of the Colosseum seemed to vanish. Though his body bore the scars of countless battles, it was his gaze that struck you deepest. His eyes burned with a fire that had kept him alive through horrors unimaginable, yet they softened when they landed on you.  

Your heart twisted painfully. Yes, he wore the scent of blood and death like a warrior’s perfume, his every move a testament to his survival. But you loved him regardless, perhaps even because of it. He was a star burning with the light of a thousand suns, and your world was an endless abyss without him.  

The Master of Ceremonies stepped forward, his voice booming over the crowd. “From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of two contests in the Colosseum—the barbarian Hanno!”  

The south gate creaked open, and from the shadows stepped Lucius. Your breath caught in your throat. Fear consumed you, gnawing at your resolve. This was no ordinary opponent; this was Lucilla’s son. Lucius, whom you had come to know, to care for as a friend. And now, fate had pitted him against the man you loved.  

Marcus straightened, his sword glinting in the harsh sunlight. Lucius raised his weapon, his youthful face a mask of determination, and charged.  

The clash of their swords reverberated through the Arena, each strike heavier than the last. Marcus splintered Lucius’ wooden shield with a single swing, sending fragments scattering. Without hesitation, Lucius threw himself back into the fray, weapon raised high. The flat of his blade caught Marcus broadside, forcing him to stagger.  

Your nails dug into your palms as you watched the brutal dance unfold. Marcus managed to disarm Lucius, knocking him to the ground. But when the final blow could have come, Marcus hesitated. He stepped back, raising his hand to the crowd, then dropped to his knees in the sand.  

“Acacius has raised his hand!” the Master of Ceremonies declared. “He has surrendered!”  

A stunned silence fell over the crowd. Tears streamed down your face, unchecked, as you whispered, “No…”  

The silence broke with a roar. “Let the gods decide!” the Master of Ceremonies proclaimed.  

Your stomach churned as Geta stood in the royal box, his hand lifted to the sky. Time slowed as he brought it down—thumb turned irrevocably down.  

“No!” you screamed, though your voice was drowned by the crowd’s cheers.  

Lucius rose, sword in hand, and approached Marcus. The words exchanged between them were faint, but you strained to hear. Marcus spoke with quiet conviction, his voice steady even in the face of death. “Do what you must. On my death, you must know… I love her—the healer, my carissima. Your mother was my friend. Your father, my brother in arms. I would have died for him.”  

Something shifted in Lucius’ stance. He faltered, his sword lowering. And then, to the shock of all, he dropped it to the sand. Slowly, he knelt beside Marcus, defying the will of the Emperor.  

Rage flared in your chest, consuming the fear that had gripped you. It was raw and primal, burning away hesitation. You darted toward a weapons rack near the Arena’s edge, your fingers trembling as you grabbed an arrow. Wrapping its head in cloth soaked with pitch, you moved swiftly to the north gate.  

The guards were too distracted by the unfolding scene to stop you. Lighting the arrow on a nearby torch, you notched it and drew the bowstring back, your muscles taut with purpose. The flames licked at the arrow as you aimed high and let it fly.  

It struck true, igniting a banner in the royal box. Flames spread rapidly, drawing screams from the crowd. You let out a sharp whistle, piercing through the chaos—the signal.  

In an instant, chaos erupted. Some of the Praetorian archers turned on their comrades, loosing arrows in calculated rebellion. Screams and confusion engulfed the Colosseum as you sprinted toward the center of the Arena.  

“Marcus!” you shouted, dodging arrows as you reached him and Lucius.  

His head snapped toward you, his expression a mix of fury and desperation. “What are you doing? You’ll get yourself killed!”  

“I’m not leaving you!” you shouted back, grabbing his arm.  

The three of you ran for the undercroft, but not before an arrow struck Marcus in the arm. His cry of pain sent a fresh wave of terror through you, but you didn’t stop.  

Ravi appeared at the entrance to the undercroft, his face streaked with soot and pale with fear, but his resolve unwavering. “This way!” he called, rushing forward to take Marcus’ other arm and hoist it over his shoulder. Marcus groaned, his weight pressing heavily against both of you, though his eyes still burned with determination despite the pain.

“Keep moving,” Ravi urged, his voice tight with urgency.  

Lucius, breathing hard but steady, halted suddenly. “I will stay,” he said, his voice firm, though his expression betrayed the conflict within.  

“Lucius, no,” you protested, your voice catching as you turned to him.  

“I must,” he said, shaking his head. His eyes were filled with a mix of fear and fierce loyalty. “For my mother. For Lucilla. I can’t abandon her to them.”  

You hesitated, your chest tightening. “Lucius…”  

He stepped forward, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “You have a chance to make this right,” he said, his voice softer now, almost imploring. “Go. Protect him. Do what I cannot.”  

Marcus stirred at Lucius’ words, his head lifting weakly. “Lucius,” he rasped, his voice laden with respect and sorrow. “You’re braver than I could ever hope to be.”  

Lucius gave a small, sad smile. “No, General. I’ve only learned from the best.”  

Your throat tightened as you searched for words, but none came. Instead, you nodded, a silent promise passing between you.  

“Go,” Lucius said, his voice more urgent now as the distant sound of Praetorian guards grew closer. “I will buy us the time we need.”  

Your heart clenched as you watched him turn back toward the chaos above, his sword in hand, shoulders squared against the impossible odds.  

“I’ll see you again,” you called after him, your voice trembling.  

He didn’t look back, but his voice carried through the shadows. “I’ll hold you to that.”  

Ravi tugged on Marcus, breaking you from your frozen stance. “We have to move!”  

You spared one last glance at the chaos above—the flames licking at the banners, the rebellion erupting like a storm, the empire trembling on the brink of collapse. Lucius stood at the edge of it all, a lone figure against the inferno.  

Then you turned and disappeared into the shadows, Marcus’ weight heavy against your side but his presence anchoring you. Each step was a vow—to see this through, for Marcus, for Lucius, for Lucilla, and for the fragile hope of a future you still dared to dream of.  

HIDDEN COTTAGE, OUTSKIRTS OF ROME — EVENING

The hidden cottage was small, nestled among the thick trees on the outskirts of Rome. Its weathered walls, cloaked in ivy, offered a fleeting sense of safety as you dismounted your horse, your legs trembling beneath you. Marcus slumped in the saddle, pale and shivering, his strength all but drained. Ravi rushed to help, catching him before he toppled to the ground.  

“Inside, quickly,” you urged, your voice shaking as you flung open the door. The cottage was sparsely furnished—a rough-hewn table, a single cot, and a fireplace where embers still smoldered from whoever had left it behind.  

Ravi and you eased Marcus onto the cot, his armor clinking as it hit the wood. He let out a low groan, his hand gripping yours tightly as his head lolled back.  

“Marcus,” you whispered, brushing sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.  

“I’m fine,” he rasped, though the deep crimson staining his tunic said otherwise.  

“No, you’re not,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the storm raging in your chest. “Ravi, get the water boiling. We need to clean these wounds.”  

Ravi nodded, already moving to the fireplace. You quickly removed his armor and tore at Marcus’s tunic, exposing the angry gash on his shoulder where the arrow had struck. Blood seeped sluggishly from the wound, a stark reminder of how close you’d come to losing him.  

“This will hurt,” you murmured, your fingers trembling as you pressed a cloth to the wound.  

“Hurts less,” Marcus said, his lips twitching in a faint smile, “when you’re the one tending to it.”  

“Save your charm for when you’re not bleeding to death,” you replied, though your voice softened, betraying your worry.  

As you worked, Marcus’s breathing grew shallower. His hand found yours again, squeezing weakly. “You’re trembling,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.  

“So are you,” you shot back, though your resolve wavered as his thumb brushed over your knuckles.  

“Carissima,” he murmured, the term of endearment slipping from his lips like a prayer. “I need you to listen.”  

“Marcus, stop,” you said, blinking back tears. “Save your strength.”  

He shook his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours with startling clarity despite the fever setting in. “Listen to me. There’s something I need you to do.”  

Ravi returned with a steaming basin of water, and you began cleaning the wound with swift, efficient movements. Marcus flinched but didn’t pull away.  

“You’re going to ride to Ostia,” he said, his voice hoarse but resolute. “You will find General Darius Sextus. Tell him to bring the army. It’s the only way we overthrow those bastards on the throne.”  

“I’m not leaving you,” you said, your tone sharp as you dabbed at the wound. “You’ll bleed out if I’m not here.”  

“You’ll come back,” he said, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “I know you will.”  

“Marcus, stop talking like this,” you snapped, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. “You’re not going to die.”  

He reached into the pouch at his belt, fumbling until his fingers closed around something. When he pulled it free, your breath caught. It was his simple signet ring, battered with age but unmistakably precious.  

He pressed it into your hand, his fingers curling over yours. “Take this,” he said, his voice trembling now. “When you return, I want to see it on your finger.”  

“Marcus…” Your voice broke, tears spilling down your cheeks despite your best efforts to hold them back.  

“You’ll be my wife,” he continued, his delirium softening his usual commanding tone. “You already are in my heart. Always have been.”  

Your hands shook as you clutched the ring, the weight of his words pressing into your chest. “You’re feverish,” you said, trying to deflect the overwhelming wave of emotion. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”  

“I’ve never been more certain,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours. “You’re the reason I fight. The reason I live.”  

Ravi placed a steadying hand on your shoulder, his voice quiet. “We need to cauterize the wound, or we’ll lose him.”  

You nodded, swallowing your tears as you set the ring aside, your fingers brushing Marcus’s cheek one last time. “Stay with me,” you whispered, your voice fierce despite the crack threatening to break it. “Stay, Marcus.”  

He gave a weak nod, his hand tightening briefly around yours. “For you, carissima, always.”  

The fire roared as Ravi prepared the blade. You took Marcus’s hand again, anchoring him as he drifted between consciousness and oblivion. The pain would be unbearable, but so was the thought of a world without him.  

As you pressed the heated metal to his wound, his scream tore through the room, and your heart shattered. But you didn’t let go. You never would.  

HIDDEN COTTAGE, OUTSKIRTS OF ROME — MIDNIGHT

The crackling of the fire filled the silence of the room as shadows danced across the walls. You sat on a worn wooden stool, staring into the flames while absentmindedly twirling Marcus’ signet ring on your finger. The weight of it felt both grounding and unbearable—a constant reminder of him, of the fragile hope that lingered between life and death.

The sound of the door creaking open startled you, and you rose quickly, your heart in your throat. Ravi stepped inside, his arms laden with bundles of potions, food, and water. His face was streaked with dirt and exhaustion, but his resolve remained unbroken.  

“I carried what I could,” he said, his voice quiet but steady.  

You gave him a small, grateful nod. “Thank you, Ravi.”  

Together, you began unpacking the supplies, arranging them on the shelves in hurried efficiency. The weight of the night pressed down on both of you, heavy and suffocating.  

As he placed a jar of salve on the counter, Ravi broke the silence. “The streets are in chaos. Masses of people rioting, chanting for the emperors’ heads. It’s madness out there.”  

You paused, the weight of his words sinking into your chest. “And Lucius? Lucilla?” you asked, though you feared the answer.  

Ravi hesitated, his face grim. “I’ve heard talk… They plan to execute her tomorrow, along with several senators, including Gracchus.”  

Your heart clenched, and tears slipped down your face before you could stop them. The thought of Lucilla—brave, steadfast Lucilla—facing such a fate made your chest ache with helplessness.  

Ravi turned to you, his voice gentler now. “I know the fear inside you,” he said, his eyes steady on yours. “But let hope live beneath the doubt. You must ride to Ostia. Gather the army. I’ll stay here and watch over Acacius.”  

Your hands trembled as you gripped the edge of the table. The coolness of the ring on your finger seemed to burn against your skin, its presence a bittersweet comfort. “You have to keep him alive,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I beg you, Ravi. Keep him alive.”  

Ravi placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his gaze resolute. “I will. I swear it.”  

You moved quietly into the small room where Marcus lay, his large frame stretched across the narrow cot. His brow was furrowed even in sleep, and the faintest groan escaped his lips as he shifted. You knelt beside him, your heart tightening at the sight of him so vulnerable, so worn.  

Carefully, you brushed a stray lock of his salt-and-pepper curls from his forehead, your fingers lingering against his warm skin. He leaned into your touch unconsciously, his expression softening, and the faintest flicker of peace graced his face.  

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. The words felt like a prayer, a promise, and a plea all at once.  

Tearing yourself away from him felt like ripping your heart from your chest. Your knees threatened to give out, but you steadied yourself, reminding yourself of the task ahead. For Marcus, for Lucius, for Lucilla, for Rome—you had to be strong.  

You stepped outside, the crisp night air biting against your skin. Pulling your hood over your head, you turned to Ravi, who stood waiting with your horse. He handed you the reins with a solemn nod.  

“Heo is se wind. You’re the wind,” Ravi said softly, almost as if speaking to himself. “The wind that will carry them home.”  

You met his gaze, your throat tight with unspoken gratitude, and mounted your horse. With a final nod to Ravi, you dug your heels into the stirrups and rode into the darkness.  

The cold air whipped against your face as the cottage disappeared behind you, the quiet night broken only by the sound of your horse’s hooves pounding against the earth. The road ahead was long and uncertain, but your heart burned with a single, unrelenting purpose: to save Marcus, to save Rome, and to see the light of hope once more.  

—--------------

OSTIA — DAWN  

The first light of dawn kissed the horizon, streaking the sky in hues of gold and crimson. The Roman camp at Ostia stirred with life as soldiers prepared for the day, their voices carrying through the crisp morning air. You rode into the camp at a gallop, your horse’s hooves pounding against the earth, kicking up dust in your wake.  

“Stop!” a centurion bellowed as you neared the heart of the camp. Others joined in, shouting commands to halt, but you paid them no mind. Your determination was unshakable.  

You dismounted swiftly, your legs unsteady after the relentless ride. The horse whinnied, tethered hastily to a nearby post. Two centurions moved to intercept you, their hands outstretched to block your path.  

“Out of the way!” you snapped, your voice sharp with urgency. When one of them grabbed your arm, you shoved him aside, yanking your hood back to reveal your face. They froze, their expressions flickering between surprise and confusion. A woman, unarmored, and yet, you carried yourself with a ferocity that made them hesitate.  

You stormed through the rows of tents, your breath coming in shallow gasps, until you reached the largest one—adorned with the banners of Darius Sextus, the legate commanding the army at Ostia. Two guards stationed outside moved to block your way.  

“Identify yourself!” one barked, his hand on the hilt of his gladius.  

Your eyes burned with the fire of purpose as you held up your hand, revealing the signet ring gleaming in the early light. “This is my identification,” you said fiercely, brushing past them before they could respond.  

Inside the tent, Darius Sextus sat at a makeshift table, a half-eaten loaf of bread in one hand and a goblet of wine in the other. He looked up at you with mild irritation, his brow furrowing at the sight of an unannounced visitor.  

Before he could demand an explanation, you strode forward, your breath still labored, and thrust the ring onto the table. The sound of metal striking wood reverberated through the space.  

His gaze dropped to the ring, and the moment recognition dawned in his eyes, he stiffened. “Who gave you this?” he demanded, rising to his feet.  

You straightened, despite the ache in your legs and the sweat dripping down your temples. “Marcus Justus Acacius,” you replied, your voice steady despite your exhaustion. “My husband.”  

Darius blinked, his surprise evident, but you pressed on before he could question further. “My friend Lucius Verus Aurelius Maximus, the prince of Rome, and his mother, Lucilla, are in grave danger. They need your help.”  

Darius stared at you, his expression unreadable. Finally, he gestured to the ring. “This is proof of Acacius’ command. And yet, you claim he sent you as his... wife?”  

Your jaw tightened, your hands balling into fists at your sides. “He entrusted this to me because he knows the danger we face. Rome is falling, and you, Legate, have the power to stop it. Marcus fights for a better Rome, not for glory or power, but for the people. If you care for your city, for your honor, you’ll listen.”  

For a moment, silence stretched between you. Then, Darius stepped closer, his voice quieter but no less firm. “If Acacius sent you, where is he now?”  

Your heart clenched at the memory of Marcus lying pale and wounded in the hidden cottage. “He is injured,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly. “But alive. And he fights still, in spirit, even as his body recovers. He would be here himself if he could.”  

Darius studied you for a long moment, his sharp eyes assessing. Finally, he nodded. “You have his courage,” he said, a flicker of respect softening his tone. “I will call the banners and ride for Rome. But understand this, woman—if you are lying, it will cost you your life.”  

You lifted your chin, defiance burning in your gaze. “I do not fear death. But you should fear the wrath of a man who loves Rome enough to sacrifice everything for her. Marcus Acacius does not choose his allies lightly.”  

Darius gave a curt nod, already turning to issue orders to his men. The tent erupted into activity as soldiers prepared to march. You stepped back into the dawn, your heart heavy with the weight of what lay ahead but emboldened by the hope flickering in the distance.  

You clutched the ring on your finger, its presence grounding you. "Wait for me, Marcus," you whispered under your breath as the camp burst into motion. "I will see this through."  

VIA SACRA, RIVERBANK — DAY  

The air was thick with tension, the distant outline of Rome rising like a specter against the horizon. The sound of hooves pounding the ground was relentless, a rhythm of war and desperation. You rode at the front of Acacius’s army, the wind whipping your cloak as your horse surged forward. Around you, the soldiers moved as one, their determination palpable.  

Beside you, General Darius Sextus rode with a stoic expression, his gaze fixed on the gates of Rome. Your own heart thundered in your chest, not from the exertion, but from the knowledge of what lay ahead. Somewhere beyond those gates was Marcus, his life tied to the fate of this city, and you would see it through—if only for him.  

As you neared the gates, movement drew your attention. Macrinus, a dark figure astride his horse, galloped toward the advancing army. His presence was a challenge, a taunt, his defiance cutting through the rising tension.  

You reined in your horse, watching as Macrinus paused, his sharp gaze darting between the approaching forces. General Tegula, standing at the head of the praetorian line, gestured for Macrinus to act. But before he could, another rider tore across the field—a blur of motion and purpose.  

Lucius Verus Aurelius.  

You drew in a sharp breath, your hands tightening on the reins as Macrinus's voice rang out.  

“Will nothing kill this barbarian?” he shouted, his tone biting, his words aimed at Lucius.  

The two men faced each other, their animosity tangible even from a distance.  

“My name is Lucius Verus Aurelius,” Lucius declared, his voice steady and commanding. His words carried to the men at the front of the praetorian army, the hint of intrigue flickering in General Tegula’s expression. The soldiers began to falter, their loyalty visibly wavering.  

Macrinus sneered, his voice laced with contempt. “A man does not become Emperor by bloodline alone. It must be taken by force and kept by force. Are you such a man as this?”  

Lucius sat tall on his horse, the morning sun catching the golden trim of his armor. “I don’t fight for power,” he said, his voice resolute. “I fight to free Rome from men like you and return it to them.” He gestured to the soldiers and people around him, his meaning clear.  

Your chest swelled with a mix of hope and trepidation as you glanced at Darius, whose expression remained unreadable.  

For the first time, doubt flickered in Macrinus’s eyes, his bravado cracking. “The gods themselves want Rome reborn. They sent me to fulfill that task,” he declared, though his voice lacked its earlier conviction.  

“And what if your gods sent me here to kill you?” Lucius countered, his voice deep and unyielding. “It’s time to end this, Macrinus.”  

Without another word, Lucius drew his sword, spurring his horse into a charge. You barely had time to catch your breath as the two men clashed, the force of their collision sending Macrinus and his horse tumbling.  

Your gaze followed the battle, each strike and parry a brutal testament to their will. The armies on either side stood silent, watching as Lucius and Macrinus fought beneath the Arch. Darius’s men halted, their discipline holding firm, while the praetorians hesitated, their loyalty unraveling.  

Lucius’s movements were fierce and unrelenting, but Macrinus fought like a cornered beast. The clash carried them off the road and toward the riverbank, the muddy slope making each step precarious.  

You leaned forward in your saddle, your breath caught as Lucius slipped, his body vanishing beneath the filthy water. Macrinus pounced, his blade flashing as he drove it downward, but Lucius erupted from the river with a rock in hand, smashing it against Macrinus’s head.  

The fight turned savage. Each strike from Lucius was fueled by purpose, his blows braining Macrinus until the man reeled, blinded by blood. You winced as Lucius swung his sword with surgical precision, severing Macrinus’s arm and then cutting deep into his abdomen.  

Macrinus crumpled, his remaining strength spent as he slumped into the river, his body drifting away in the current. Lucius stood motionless for a moment, his chest heaving as he stared after his fallen enemy.  

When he turned back, his bloodied form ascended the muddy slope, stepping into the silence that had overtaken the battlefield. Under the Arch, between two armies, Lucius paused, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the men and women who watched him.  

He threw down his sword, the sound of it hitting the ground a final punctuation to the violence. His voice, ragged but clear, carried across the field.  

“You look to me to speak,” he began, his tone solemn. “I know not what to say other than we have all known too much death. Let no more blood be spilt in the name of tyranny.”  

You swallowed hard, your chest tight as his words struck a chord.  

“My grandfather, Marcus Aurelius, dreamed of a Rome that would be a city for the many, a home for those in need—a republic. That dream has been lost.” He looked at the soldiers on either side of him, his expression weary yet determined. “But dare we rebuild that dream together. What say you?”  

For a long moment, the battlefield held its breath, a fragile stillness settling over the chaos. Lucius stood at its heart, bloodied yet unyielding, like a lone pillar in a storm-ravaged temple. His chest rose and fell with the weight of his words, his armor bearing the scars of battle, but his gaze remained steady, unbroken—a light that refused to be extinguished.  

Your eyes met his, just for a fleeting second, and in that shared glance was an unspoken vow, a thread of hope tethered to the impossible. As you turned your gaze back to Lucius, he stood as a reflection of what Rome could become: bruised but not beyond redemption.  

In that moment, a fragile ember of belief sparked within you. Hope, tenuous and flickering, wove itself into your thoughts. You closed your eyes briefly, your heart murmuring a silent prayer—for Marcus, for his dream of a better Rome, and for the chance to stand beside him when it was finally brought to life.

[burning-spice-bookie]

Intro because I forgotited :3

Burning info!!: I’m the REAL Burning Spice, every other Burning is a FAKER. I currently am uh… 5798? Years old!! Me and Shadow are NOT married, but I do love his kids like my own 😤 I’m the strongest ever and even top surgery could not touch my beautiful man boobs 😋 (trans burning cannon)

Burning DNI (joking): Golden Cheese DNI 🙄🙄🙄, Elder Faerie DNI, Trees DNI, Fat shadow milk do interact ✅.

Mod info: I go by Alex or Chalk normally, I am technically a minor but as I’m a year away from being an adult (17) I do post NSFW stuff sometimes so be aware some of my posts will NOT be pg, I will hide it as suggestive if there is NSFW images or if it’s detailed, also if you interact with my blog just know I will make suggestive jokes, if you are uncomfortable with that please inform me so I can correct it, I will not make em if I am reblogging smth on your blog or interacting with yours. I have trouble knowing when to stop a joke so DM or comment for me to stop if something is making you uncomfortable (I try to be a very reasonable person) :3

Mod DNI: Homophobic ppl, people who start shipping discourse (all ships are okay on my page except for illegal ones ofc), Ableists, Transphobes, and people who wanna talk politics.

Shipping: Again I’m okay with all ships (as long as they aren’t illegal) but try to steer away from asks or reblogs about Ancient x Beast ones, I don’t mind if you make jokes or do ship em just understand I will not be making any posts with those ships in them (maybe jokes).

[mothhball]

I – BIVIUM

bivium – a meeting-place of two roads

JONATHAN CRANE X FEM!READER

summary You need this internship. You're hungry for a challenge, desperate to prove yourself. Against your mentor's wishes, you applied to Arkham Asylum, aware of the risks and difficulties. But when you meet the enigmatic Dr. Crane for the internship interview, you get the feeling that this could work out nicely, after all.

warnings none aside from brief mentions and descriptions of anxiety and some bad language! enjoy a chill first chapter <3 for more general warnings for the rest of the story, please check out the masterlist

notes first multichapter thing! i'm just as scared as you guys lol this is set in the Nolanverse, but before Batman Begins, and it's gonna be a semi-slowburn (sorry haha)

! MINORS DNI !

story masterlist • main masterlist • taglist • kofi word count: 3.9k

As expected, the rest of your week turns out to be torturous. Whenever a second of calm rears its head, you make sure to squash it immediately by thinking of the worst things that could possibly happen during the interview. Your life, your achievements, your very personality get mercilessly torn apart by your viciously overthinking brain, and you could almost scream with joy by the time Friday comes around. Finally, the wait would be over. But unfortunately, that thought is a double-edged sword. Because yes, you’ll get to prove yourself. But God, you’ll have to prove yourself. Luckily for you, your urge to get somewhere in life prevails against the wish to not be perceived at all.

It's almost comical how horrendous the weather is on your way to Arkham Asylum. It’s like someone ordered the deluxe experience, making sure to include intense rain, thunder and an additional helping of lightning that turns your car into a rolling Faraday cage, which keeps the electricity outside and your anxiety inside.

Navigating the Narrows is a challenge in itself, and a few times you have to curse under your breath and turn down the car radio in an attempt to “see better”. Then finally, the road signs start to pop up, leading you along your way like desperately needed little breadcrumbs. People usually don’t make their way into this part of Gotham without a good reason. Your good reason of the day is to market yourself as a great potential employee.

A sigh of relief escapes your dry throat when you finally turn off your motor in the Arkham parking lot. It’s not that busy, and you’re not surprised. The rumors about the institution's understaffing must’ve been an understatement. Your hand is already shaking as you reach for a water bottle. Christ, your nerves are bad today. The environment doesn’t help either. The few barren trees on the property reach up their blackened limbs like bony fingers trying to rip the clouds from the sky, and even the sparse patches of grass look almost completely desaturated. Above all, Arkham Asylum looms ahead, exuding the same energy as an ancient beast banned into the form of bricks and cement rather than a proper construction.

The building doesn't seem to be in the right place, you think to yourself. As if an architecture student misplaced their model on another's desk. A desk where the model of a haunted house was supposed to be placed instead. But once you swallow the sip of water and check yourself in the car’s rearview mirror, you decide to approach anyway. The only offering you previously sent in advance was your CV. Hopefully, it’s good enough to not let you get eaten alive by this monstrosity of an asylum. Is it just you, or does the sound of your shoes crunching on the gravel sound like chewing already?

Unfortunately, the rain doesn’t give you much of an opportunity to stall the pace of your steps, forcing you to hurry through the main entrance in favor of staying relatively dry.

The large windows of the entry hall of Arkham Asylum were meant for sunlight, you muse silently. Meant for days with better weather than Gotham could ever provide. But the construction is confined to the dirty, foggy streets of the Narrows; doomed to eternal gloom and ominous scenery.

You look and feel a little lost as you look around the room, secretly disappointed that Dr. Crane didn't make the effort to pick you up here. But you're not a victim of learned helplessness, so you decide to walk over to the reception to make yourself known.

"Excuse me?"

The receptionist looks up from the book she's reading, flipping a page as she looks at you from top to bottom and right back up to the top. You can't help but wonder how many people have withered beneath her critical eye before you came along. Maybe she has a pile of skeletons already stashed away in one of her drawers.

"You're here for the interview, right?" She concludes by herself, looking over at a list of names on her desk. The list of your competitors, no doubt. You nod, suddenly very aware of what's at stake here. You have to ace this if you don't want to be confined to a summer of endless boredom and excruciating staff meetings at Potomac.

"You're early. That's great," the receptionist drones on, sounding not too enthusiastic despite what she’s saying. "Head through this door right here. You'll get a visitor's badge after the security check. After that, head up to the third floor. The rest is pretty self-explanatory. Dr. Crane will be waiting in his office."

You manage to mutter a ‘thanks’, but she’s already immersed in her book again, obviously done with the conversation. To avoid lingering for an awkward moment too long, you immediately head through the doors and further into the building to get through the security check.

Unsurprisingly, the security protocol is pretty strict, and while your bag is being searched by one guard, you're waved through a metal detector by another. It's like a miniature TSA, and once you explain the reason for your visit, you're allowed to put your shoes and jacket back on. Getting handed the little visitor’s badge on a lanyard feels like a rite of passage, and once you hang it around your neck, you feel even more weighed down than before.

One hellish elevator ride full of janky movements and devious mechanical noises later, the antique means of transport spits you out on the third floor of Arkham Asylum. It’s eerily quiet. So quiet, in fact, that you can hear every step of your freshly shined shoes on the linoleum floors echoing down the hallway. Up here, the absence of sunlight through the large windows is even more obvious, and the smell of petrichor and a faint hint of disinfectant add to the already dreary atmosphere. Would you really be able to last the summer in a place like this? Maybe you should’ve stuck to Potomac after all. At least that place had a well-kept garden full of rose bushes and swanky outdoor furniture sets.

The moment you regret that thought is also the moment that you realize you’re completely lost.

Every turn, every door and every hallway look the same, and the more you try to make sense of it, the more disoriented you feel. It’s like trying to run in a dream. Everything is complicated; feels slow. Fear creeps into your bones. What time is it? How long have you been wandering around? You’re going to be late for the interview. Fuck. The interview. Your internship. Your future. Dr. Crane will be disappointed. He’ll see right through you. See how scared you are. Of a fucking floor in a fucking building. You’re going to –

“Lost, are we?”

The rapidly spinning carousel of your mind immediately comes to a screeching halt due to a voice behind you, and it’s a miracle that you don’t flinch. You turn stiffly, feeling like a doll whose head has been turned by the hand of a child. Definitely the opposite of the first impression you had planned on making. Your eyes meet his, clashing with blue so icy that your fingers feel cold. The photos you saw in the newspapers failed to convey just how striking the director of Arkham Asylum truly is.

Swallowing your nerves, you force yourself to straighten up and smile, letting go of the strap of your bag that you were clutching onto like a lifeline. Confident posture, confident body language. In the eyes of any other employer, you’d look like a dream. But Dr. Jonathan Crane’s face doesn’t move a single muscle.

“Ah, yes. I suppose I am,” you admit, removing your visitor’s badge from around your neck and holding it out to him. Dr. Crane takes it, pointedly making sure that his fingers don’t touch yours. There’s a glint of recognition in his gaze when he reads your name that a security guard haphazardly wrote onto the back.

“I was on my way to your office for the internship interview, but this place is like a maze... I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“You didn’t,” Crane answers with a tiny, sardonic smile. “I was just on my way as well. And you were already heading in the right direction anyway.”

He hands you back your badge, and you return it to its rightful place around your neck. Crane gestures towards a door with its number next to it on a neat little sign. He taps it, drawing your attention to a little red stripe in the bottom left corner.

“Allow me to let you in on a little trick regarding the navigation at Arkham,” he starts, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, “No matter where you are on this floor, if you follow the red stripes, you’ll end up at my office eventually. The markers alternate in direction, so it’s easy to follow once you get used to it.”

“Like a little red thread,” you muse, looking around. Now that he mentioned it, the red stripes are almost glaringly obvious. You can’t help but feel a little special, because he shared such important information with you. Even though your competitors most likely got the same treatment. “So, everything else looks identical on purpose?”

“Precisely,” Dr. Crane responds with a nod. “Sometimes, we have some… difficult patients. The need to be free is part of the human nature for most. But that doesn’t mean we should make it easy for them to escape.”

“That makes sense,” you nod back at him, resisting the urge to fidget now that his attention is back on you and no longer on the navigational system of this behemoth of a building. But the psychiatrist just motions for you to follow him, not allowing the silence to grow into something palpable that would waste his time.

“Walk with me. You know the way now.”

And so, the two of you are off, walking side by side at the pace that Crane sets for the both of you. You hurry to match his strides, making sure not to seem too eager now that you know how to find his office. To your dismay, the interview starts right this second.

“How much experience do you have?”

“I did 3 months at Potomac – “ you answer, promptly getting cut off when the director scoffs under his breath.

“So, basically none.”

Ouch. But he’s not wrong. You did learn how to navigate the rich and entitled, and you know how to keep a killer file structure now, but that’s almost it. In hindsight, Dr. Rabin underutilized you so much it should’ve been a criminal offense. You swallow your ego and agree with him, figuring it might be what he wants to hear.

“That's... pretty much what I told Professor Campbell as well.”

Dr. Crane’s brows furrow. He makes no effort to conceal his contempt for your mild-mannered mentor, sounding noticeably incredulous as he responds.

“Campbell? She's overseeing your thesis?”

You mirror his expression, but in your case, it’s due to genuine confusion.

“Yeah... I thought I wrote it in the application? Did you read it?”

“Skimmed it. I don't have much time for the menial details. Doesn’t matter. You’ve made it here regardless, haven't you? Maybe it was for the best that I skipped some parts,” he shrugs, not caring for the little frown that threatens to pull at your lips. Luckily, you manage to reign in your expression. Don’t let him get to you. This is just hazing.

“In any case, Dr. Rabin was more than happy with my work,” you counter, keeping your tone pleasant.

“Sure. What a wonderful letter of recommendation it was,” he says, sounding amused in a mocking kind of way. “But come on, we both know what kind of establishment Potomac is. That's why you're here, isn't it? To have a challenge. To actually make an impact.”

This makes you stop in your tracks in the middle of the hallway, forcing Crane to pause along with you. As much as you’re trying to hide that small feeling of triumph, it’s easy to tell from the glint in your eyes that you see this as a little personal victory.

“So, you did read my motivational letter,” you conclude, raising an eyebrow.

You swear the corners of his lips twitch upwards for a split second. Whether that’s in amusement or disgust at your audacity, you’re not quite sure. From what you know about Crane (which is, admittedly, not much), you decide on the latter. But to your surprise, he quips back in that rumbly baritone, making a point to clasp his hands behind his back.

“Might've been one of the sections I skimmed more closely,” he shrugs, briefly looking away from you to notice a stack of files that a passing nurse is carrying. Nosy. Or just used to being involved in everyone’s business. Letting out a sigh, he continues, dragging his eyes back to meet yours.

“Truthfully, I believe those motivational statements are the most important part. Not grades, not recommendations. They look nice on paper, yes. But at the end of the day, I've had interns here with a perfect GPA, glowing reviews from paper-pushing professors like your dear Ms. Campbell, and you know what? Those precious show horses barely lasted a month. Because Arkham chewed them up and spat them out like the gum under those dreadful desks in the Gotham U lecture halls.”

The comparison is fitting, and you cringe a little when you remember the last time you accidentally touched one of those forgotten, dried-up clumps of a stranger’s saliva and polymers.

“Well, I might not be a show horse, but I’m certain that I could jump any hurdle you put in front of me.”

“Delightfully ambitious. But I make sure to stack those hurdles high.” His expression tells you that he’s in no way joking around, and you swallow dryly as the two of you reach his office, and he lets you go in first.

The office is cold and impersonal. No plants, no decorations. No family photos on his desk or frames on the walls aside from his degrees. Rows of filing cabinets are filling out the room, as well as a large bookshelf that’s seemingly overflowing with literature. Some of the books have been handled and read so often that the spines are cracked and withered, almost making you empathize with them.

The faint smell of coffee, cologne and chemicals hangs in the air, and the curtains are drawn, making the office seem even darker and isolated than it already is. Crane seems to exude the spirit of the asylum as well, living and breathing the ominous gloom. The doctor steps past you, pushing several empty cups to the side, but not bothering with the stack of folders that’s also cluttering the space. Busy. Or counting on someone else to sort his mess and his thoughts.

"Sit,” he says, pointing at the empty chair in front of his desk.

You know it’s not an offer. It’s a command. And you immediately comply, eager to please the man who holds the cards regarding your future. Setting your bag down next to your feet, you mentally anticipate his next words.

"Go on, then. Tell me about yourself."

You straighten up in your seat, already prepared for this question, so you rattle off the main facts. Your name, age, and main areas of interest when it comes to psychology. Hell, you even mention the high school you went to, even though it's been ages. As soon as you mention Potomac, Dr. Crane holds up a hand to stop you.

"Thank you. That's enough, I suppose. No need to tell me how you wasted your time there."

He flips through a file, letting you stew in the awkward silence for a solid minute before he sees it fit to show mercy.

"Could I ask you some personal questions? We’re looking for a specific type of person, after all," he says, looking up from the document. "So, I'm afraid that the shallow chit-chat won't suffice."

“Of course,” you nod, making sure your smile stays relaxed and pleasant.

Crane picks a pen out of a pencil holder on his desk, clicking it twice before he puts it to the paper that you now recognize as your CV and application letter. The psychiatrist clears his throat and rattles off some more of the standard questions. How well do you work under pressure? Which meds do you currently take? How frequently do you consume alcohol and other recreational drugs?

You manage to elegantly fight your way through your answers, sprinkling in a few white lies here and there. There’s no way you’d tell a potential employer about your preference for tequila or how many times you’ve cried after a long day of work and uni. Your secrets are yours. So, you tell him that you work excellently under pressure and only drink very occasionally. What the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over. Or whatever. His second to last question, however, makes you pause a little.

“What is your current living situation and relationship status?”

The question hangs in the air for a moment before Dr. Crane feels the need to clarify.

“Our interns usually have a rather tight schedule, and since the work with humans has the tendency to be a little unpredictable, it’s good to know how long the drive here usually is. In case it’s an emergency and we’ll have to wait for you. As for my inquiry about a potential partner, it’s useful to know how much time personal matters would take up in your life.”

You shift in your seat, chewing on the inside of your lip for a second before you mentally reprimand yourself for such a nervous gesture.

“I’m currently living with my boyfriend. We’re renting an apartment in Haysville.”

“Haysville…,” Crane thinks out loud, visualizing a map of Gotham in his head. “That’s quite a drive, though. Isn’t it?”

“The drive won’t be a problem,” you assure him, silently hoping and praying that this tiny detail didn’t just ruin your chances completely. “I have a car. And… if I leave home early enough, I can avoid traffic.”

You’re met with silence as Dr. Crane takes a moment to write something down on your printed-out CV. You absolutely despise that you can’t decipher his handwriting from where you’re sitting. You despise that you don’t know what he’s thinking. And you despise yourself for living in Haysville of all places, instead of in the damn parking lot of the asylum, so you’d always be available. In that world, there’d be no argument against you. In that world, you wouldn’t overthink the barely five seconds of silence that settled between Crane and yourself.

Finally, he lifts his gaze to meet yours once more.

“I must admit, everything so far sounds quite promising. I shouldn’t be saying this, but I’m quite optimistic that you’ll hear back from us.” He doesn’t smile, and there’s no warmth in his voice, but his words are like liquid gold dripping right into your ears. “In the event that you're accepted for one of the three internship spots, you’ll receive an envelope. That’ll be quite thick since it will contain your contract as well as an NDA and some additional paperwork.”

Your face lights up like a Christmas tree, and your mouth opens and closes a few times before you find the words to speak.

“That… would be absolutely incredible.”

“Now, now,” he lifts his hand, already stopping you before you’re too far gone over the moon. “This isn’t a ‘yes’ quite yet. I’ll hand my opinion over to the rest of the staff, and they’ll decide whether to give you a spot. They’re the ones with whom you’ll be primarily working, after all.”

He seems to think about his own words for a beat, considering what your role would be at Arkham Asylum. But you don’t really care. Even just a positive statement from him could be crucial.

“Regardless,” you say, unable to keep your smile from growing. “Thank you for taking the time to see me, Dr. Crane. I can only assume how busy you must be on a daily basis.”

This seems to snap him out of his own thoughts, and he nods stiffly, clearing his throat as he fixes his tie.

“Incredibly busy, yes. So, I won’t keep either of us any longer.”

He gets up from his seat before you do, guiding you to the door but staying behind in his office. Whatever he thought about just a moment ago, it seems to have shifted his mood ever so slightly.

“You’ll find your way back to the elevator by yourself, right?” he asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow, which causes you to nod quickly.

“Yes. Just… the whole thing in reverse.”

He nods in response, not stepping out into the hallway with you.

“Good. Enjoy the rest of your day. And… expect mail from us. Maybe I’ll see you around in the future.”

You barely have time to say goodbye before he closes the door to his office, leaving you standing by yourself. Strange. But it matches his reputation, you suppose.

The way back to the elevator seems much more logical this time, and you can’t help but feel a little proud of yourself for remembering how to navigate the hallways now. Even the diabolical rattling as you descend back to the ground floor can’t wipe the smile off your face.

Dr. Crane’s words gave you hope and a surge of confidence, and as you hand your visitor’s badge back to security and leave the asylum, you feel accomplished. Satisfied with how the interview went. Back in your car, you check your rearview mirror once more, making sure you didn’t have anything on your face the entire time before the motor hums to life, and you back out of your parking spot.

The drive back to your apartment would almost be peaceful if it wasn’t for the last bits of excess adrenaline that are still rushing through your veins. Your hands shake a little every time you turn the steering wheel or reach for the dials of the radio, and once you’re finally safe and sound with in your own home, you sink down to your knees and let out a sigh that comes from the deepest depths of your soul. Relief. But not entirely. The next few days would be a test of patience and endurance. But you’re good at playing the waiting game.

Each day, you throw a longing glance at the mailbox in the shabby lobby of your apartment building, only to get disappointed once more. Days turn into a week, and you’ve almost given up hope when, one day, your boyfriend comes home with a stack of mail under his arm. The Arkham logo is peeking through behind a few bills and ads, and you recognize it instantly. This is it.

Like a vulture, you snatch the letter from your boyfriend’s hands, earning a disgruntled noise in response that you couldn’t care less about if you tried. The envelope rips under your impatient hands, and you immediately skim through the letter, searching for the magical words without realizing how thin it is.

Dear Miss…

                      … we hope this letter finds you well…. 

… thank you for applying…

… unfortunately…

      … large number of applicants…

                                                                        … must hereby reject…

… best wishes…

                                                            … better luck next time…

The silence in your living room is deafening, and you can hear your pulse in your ears. The floor feels like it's going to crumble beneath your feet.

Better luck next time.

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[childrenofthebeasts]

Welcome to the ask blog of the children of the ancient beast cookies!

these cookies are fankids for the beasts and my primordial oc, Benign Butter Cookie! she has her own ask blog, but it need SERIOUS remodeling and designing!!

Characters for this blog:

Sour Butter Cookie (they/them), the child of Silent Salt.

Cayenne Curry Cookie (she/her), the daughter of Burning Spice.

Pure Wheat Cookie (she/her), daughter of Mystic Flour.

Sweetened Cream Cookie (he/him), son of Eternal Sugar.

Buttermilk Pie Cookie (she/her), daughter of Shadow Milk.

Rules: -No NSFW!! -please be kind and respectful (this is my SECOND ask blog, so please be nice :3)

-this blog currently has 1 mod, Xavier (me), so please be patient with asks!!

-be warned for oc x canon occasionally

DNI: Proship, MEP/ProMAP, Racist, homophobic, transmedicalist, Truscum, Neo/Xeno pronoun exclusionists, TERFS, Zoophile, irl yanderes, Zionist, and other gross people

main blog: @xaytheloser

[purrpl-png]

What is your opinion on Beast x Ancient?

sighhh deep down i knew someday ill have to answer this question😞

i dont really like participating in ship discourses and it turned out a little longer than i thought, so im placing it undercut for those who are interested enough to read what i think

the answer is that its not for me. at least not in a romantic way. at least not for now. i was never really a fan of ships with complicated/toxic dynamics or hero x villain or rivals at all. for example, i never liked billford or tomtord or even sonadow and stuff like that. not that theyre entirely bad, its just not for me and gives me discomfort, because i was in toxic relationships myself and i just can't help but associate them with my personal experience. this includes beast x ancient and even some of the beast x beast too with the way i portay beasts characters in my mind, but its not about them

honestly, i am not really into shipping in general as i cant really understand or process the concept of shipping in my mind as a whole, if it makes sense. like i personally never truly understood the exact point of it nor felt the urge to ship. but i do understand that shipping plays a huge role in every fandom and its just how it is, people having fun, even if i am somewhere far away from all this. ofc i drew a couple of 'shipey' things out of pure joke or to play with some dynamics for fun (ex. my shadowbill animation and buttervelvet post), but never went any further than that. doesnt mean that i dont ship anything at all, trust me, i actually love some ships, but its not like HUGE for me and is very rare, it's just very difficult to explain exactly

dont get me wrong, id LIE if i said that i dont like to see beasts and ancients interact with each other. id lie if i said i dont enjoy the possibility of many interesting scenarios between them and an idea of slow redemption arcs either. all these parallels and tragic doomed soulmates stuff is SICK AF, i like their dynamics and contrasts between the characters. their bond is like a foundation of life itself; their virtues cannot exist without each other, no matter how much they like it or not and theyre complete opposites, but at the same time theres NO ONE whos is more similar to them than they are to each other. all of them are the only perfect match to confront each other and its such a peak cinema i wish more people didnt sleep on, because theres SO much you can do with it💔

unfortunately, i saw a lot of people romantize/fetishize very weird things iykwim... ive seen some HORRENDOUS bad terrible uncomfortable stuff i wish i didnt, that i clearly dont support and dont interact with :( it even made me block some of the tags. and while im still here, i want to remind that i have pr0ship in my dni, so if youre a pr0shipper reading this, please, unfollow/block me, because ive seen some interacting with my posts before😞

and just to add, of course i know that most of beast x ancient shippers dont do that, because some of my online AND irl friends i knew for YEARS and i sure know they wouldnt hurt a fly in their life and dont approve of such things at all either, liked beast x ancient, but i still prefer not to engage with it anyway just in case

thank you for listening to my little yap session, i hope any of it made sense, i am not really much of a public talker honestly and interacting with any fandoms and people in it usually gives me some kind of anxiety and mixed feelings, because im struggling with comprehending peoples attention. its been like that for years and ongoing even now, but im really trying to open up a little as a person and not just a rando who usually drops their drawings once in a while and disappears until the next time lol

[k1ttygam3r]

Hiya there, Tumblr users!! My name’s K1tty, but you can just call me Daisy or Travis! And, well, this is my Tumblr blog!

I’m multifandom and I go by they/she/he pronouns! Here I post pretty much whatever comes to my mind—from art to memes to just random ramblings—so expect it to be a bit cluttered. But hey, if that’s your thing, then go on ahead! My Carrd’s in my bio if you want the links to my other socials and some more stuffs about me! Here’s the Carrd if you can’t access it via the bio!

Current fandoms:

Cookie Run

Splatoon

My Little Pony (specifically Generation 5 but I also like Generation 4)

Pizza Tower

Pikmin

JzBoy (Stickmen Vs Terraria Bosses, The Wrath Soul, etc.)

My Singing Monsters

Subnautica

RTVS

Genshin Impact

Undertale/Deltarune

Undertale Yellow

Plants vs Zombies

Omori

Reverse: 1999

BYI:

If you make any sexual or otherwise suggestive comments beneath any of my posts, you will be blocked immediately. While I’m not a minor, others may still be uncomfortable with these topics. Don’t be weird.

I swear. A lot. I also tend to yell in all-caps sometimes.

As I said before, I post whatever comes to mind. If you’re not a fan of disorganized posting, feel free to leave.

I’m autistic, so please be patient with me when interacting.

Empty or new blogs with nothing on them will be blocked, as I will assume you’re a bot.

My art + some of the art I reblog may contain bright colors or eyestrain.

DNI:

Racists, homophobes, transphobes, sexists, ableists, bigots in general

Zionists

Pedos/zoos

Proshippers/comshippers

AI supporters

NSFW blogs

HoYoVerse defenders

Beast x Ancient shippers (Cookie Run: Kingdom)

Hazbin Hotel/Helluva Boss fans

If you whitewash characters in your art

McPig defenders (SPECIFICALLY defenders of his past actions)

OMOCAT defenders (mainly their tweets from a decade ago)

Devsisters defenders

VivziePop defenders

Our Flag Means Death fans

DSMP fans

MLP G4 stans (I’m ok with you liking it but saying it’s perfect is…not true like at all)

You’re on Thin Ice (just don’t be weird):

South Park fans

MCYT fans

Directory:

#my art = self-explanatory

#k1tty thoughts = special tag for my ramblings

#k1tty polls = for any polls I make

#k1tty fics = for fanfiction I’ve written

#k1tty fanart = for any fanart made of me or my other OCs

Askbox is open, just don’t be weird! Have fun on here!

(The lineart pen I use is made by theonlypurp. Dropbox image link here)

🇵🇸 FREE PALESTINE 🇵🇸

Palestine masterlist

How to help

(MLP G5 banner by @chimes-honses, Frye Nation banner by @bunnknightnight)

[j0jorocity]

THE CHRONICALLY ONLINE ROME FAN’S BLOG

HELLO! WELCOME TO MY LITTLE CORNER OF THE INTERNET!

I’m Iosephus! Here’s some stuff you should know about me before deciding to interact (byi list):

I AM UNDER 18! Under 12 and over 30 I would prefer not to interact with (unless I know you otherwise I really don’t care)

I use she/her pronouns and feminine terms but I guess I don’t mind masc and neutral pronouns and terms (link to my pronouns page which has some of my other links)

I’m Hispanic (🇨🇺🇵🇪 RAHHHH) and I can speak English and Spanish just fine, though my Spanish isn’t the best 😞

APH ROME aND THE ANCIENTS HAVE MY HEART!!!!!

Sonic is my main hyperfixation as of now but I also like Hetalia (really just APH Rome) and C*untryhumans (and some others). Please don’t block me I SWEAR IM COOL I LITERALLY DONT INTERACT WITH THE FANDOM AT ALL

IF WE’RE CLOSE I WILL USE MILDLY SEXUAL HUMOUR AND KMS JOKES (never kys). IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH WHAT I SAY PLEASE LET ME KNOW

I tend to be very straightforward with people who suddenly dm me, but I promise I’m not trying to be mean! :(

NOW, FOR SOME OF MY INTERESTS, FAVOURITE CHARACTERS AND ETC!

(In order from most hyperfixed to least, will also include my fave characters from each fandom and other thoughts)

HETALIA

Rome and literally all the ancients. I’m sorry I don’t care for the main cast but I like PruHun too

C*UNTRYHUMANS

IM SORRY OK IVE BEEN IN THIS FANDOM FOR FOUR YEARS I CAN’T

Anyways I like ch America but only in my head. Please don’t block me please please please I want friends

COOKIE RUN KINGDOM

I started playing around Pumpkin Pie’s banner and then quit for like two years. Picked it back up during wind archer’s banner and I’m OBSESSED

I can’t choose my absolute favourite but I show more love towards dark cacao, latte and almond (as a ship mostly), financier (I just think she looks pretty… but I would like to know more abt her), burning spice (MY WIFE MY WIFE IM SO SANE ABOUT HIM), mystic flour and smilk, and the rest of the ancients. Characters I wouldn’t call my favourites but I think are super cool are cream ferret, wind archer, smoked cheese, lilac, dark choco, and peach blossom!! I don’t play Ovenbreak but I’d love to learn more abt fire spirit, millennial tree, and yogurt cream…… user is sanestaphromefan on dark cacao server

SONIC

TBH. I got into sonic bc of the movies. Now I think about it every single day as I write this I’m trying not to have a mental breakdown over gay hedgehogs

METAL SONIC HAS MY HEART AGHHHHHHH I THINK ABOUT HIM A NORMAL AMOUNT I SWEAR. I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM!!!!!! Besides metal, I love team sonic, team chaotix and shadow 🥺 my sonic otps r metamy, metonic (in a toxic one sided yaoi way), sonadow, stobotnik, and Espilver!!!!

CARMEN SANDIEGO (2019)

I love Devineaux HE’S MY HUSBAND. I LOVE THAT PATHETIC FRENCH MAN. I LOVE HIM AGCJWGDJAHCD

Team Carmen and Devineaux+Julia my goats…

Less intense interests (that I might repost but not talk about) include:

Inside Job

Arcane (but not the game)

TMNT (mainly 2012, but I like the franchise as a whole! I’m a casual fan tho)

Wild Kratts

Spy x Family

JJK

JJBA

Epic: The Musical

This list may change

IF YOU CAN’T TELL I LOVE TALKING. BUT THERE’S SOME PEOPLE THAT LIKE CERTAIN THINGS THAT I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO!

My DNI list:

General criteria

BIGOTS. HOMOPHOBES, TRANSPHOBES, RACISTS, MISOGYNISTS, TRUMP SUPPORTERS, ETC, DNI.

PROSHIPPERS AND JUST PPL WHO LIKE PROBLEMATIC SHIT I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH 😭😭😭😭

(This includes, but not limited to: USUK, Itacest, Germancest, SPAMANO, CANAME/FRANADA/CANUK, SovReich, AND BURNINGCHEESE/SHADOWVANILLA/MYSTICCACAO, ANY BEAST X ANCIENT SHIPS. To be completely honest I GUESS I can talk with proshitters BUT DON’T FUCKING BRING THIS SHIT UP AROUND ME I HATE IT SO MUCH I DONT WANT TO HEAR PEOPLE DEFEND THESE SHIPS)

People who use brainrot humour 24/7 and are generally just annoying. Get a life.

PEOPLE WHO DON’T RESPECT OTHERS OPINION, KEYBOARD WARRIORS, ETC.

Artists who twinkify Poland more than he is 😭

If you don’t seem to care abt our conversations and instantly try to move onto a new topic every time we speak. Super annoying in general and it affects me a lot

May add more to this later since I’m forgetting a few things

YAY! You’ve almost made it through my intro post! Here’s just a last few tidbits about myself and then I can shut up 🫶

I HAVE A BAJILLION ANCIENTS HETALIA OCS (like less than 15 💀) AND I LOVE LOVE LOVE TALKING ABOUT THEM PLEASE ASK ME ABT THEM AND I ALSO WOULD LOVE TO HEAR ABT UR ANCIENTLIA OCS IF U HAVE ANY!!!

I have another blog for said ocs, @rometalia ,,, it’s a bit dead rn bc I’ve been busy with school :(

I’m open to all asks!!! But please nothing inappropriate I am a minor AND NO POLITICS 😭😭

I am a BIG shipper. I don’t take them like, super seriously but I will get mad if you bash my ship if it’s not problematic or just to be a hater 😭 I’ll link the rentry to all of my ships and then my ships dni, but yeah I’m just a big fan of fictional yaoi and yuri and everything in between sigh… but I do love my found family tropes

My favourite YouTubers are Uncle Roger, Nick DiGiovanni and Guga. I love food and I kinda wanna become a chef in the future ☺️

Trying to beat the art block allegations day 37273627

MY BESTEST FRIEND IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD IS @fertaine !!!! I LOVE YOU MY POOKIE WOOKIE BEAR!!!!! FERTAINE HATERS DNI DNI DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT APPROACHING ME I AM THEIR NO.1 FAN AND DEFENDER

My gerrome side blog is @j0jorocityisntokay

If you see me reblogging from a proshipper (USUK and Spamano especially in this case), please let me know! I most likely didn’t know they supported these ships.

Almost forgot to mention, but here are my tags!

#jojo reblogs -> self explanatory

#jojo rambles -> me yapping abt general stuff or answering to asks, idk

#jojo’s sonic yap -> can you guess

#aph jojo rambles -> anything related to hetalia, so probably headcanons or whatever lol

#rome posting -> self explanatory

#flippity fart farmland posting tag -> me talking to Fern ☺️

#jojo’s art -> updated once in a blue moon I hate my art

Will add more as I see fit

THAT IS ALL, MY FRIENDS! I HOPE TO HAVE A WONDERFUL TIME ON THIS WEBSITE! 🫶

(The dividers that aren’t red roses belong to @kostevysen )

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

For the Vampire au

Can you do (trick) for vampFinrod x reader

With prompt "Why are you impressed? You should be terrified."

Not dark please and thank you

"Revelation"

Pairing: Vampire! Finrod x Reader (Guest of Finrod / Second person POV)

Location and time: 19th century England

Prompt : 6 - " Why are you impressed? You should be terrified."

Themes: Angst-ish | Happy ending

Warnings: Vampirism

Wordcount: 1000+ words

Summary:

Minors DNI | You are responsible for the media you consume

A/n: this is for the @fellowshipofthefics October challenge. Two more slots are available for requests, but prompts 4 and 6 (for Vampire! Manwë and Vampire! Finrod) are out. The rules and prompts for requests can be read here.

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Finrod's study was a dimly lit sea of wonders, full of ancient treasures. There was an impressive tapestry covering the expanse of one wall. A dark but mighty beast lay on the ground. Above it, a magnificent white horse reared, its rider bringing down their sword to deliver the killing blow. You could not help but walk up to it and admire the scene portrayed in centuries-old wool.

The tapestry was always there whenever you called on your mentor of an evening, but you never thought to observe its beauty so closely till now.

“Ahh! I see you have found the Demon of the Island."

You shivered. “Was that its name?”

“That and worse.” Finrod appeared by your shoulder without even making a sound. It was as if he moved without even stirring the air around him. You startled. “My ancestor slayed it many a century ago and was richly rewarded for it.”

You turned to face him and gave him a measured look. “What happened?”

“A werewolf happened. That was what the beast was. A werewolf.” Finrod walked over to a chest of drawers by the window and picked up a crystal decanter full of clear, amber liquid. He offered you a glass. You refused. “He terrorized the good people of Tol-in-Gaurhoth for months before my ancestor brought it to heel.”

“Your ancestor slayed him?” You looked at the tapestry again. The warrior was exceedingly fair to look upon, and his hair fell free about his shoulders like molten gold. His eyes were a vivid cornflower blue. They also looked familiar. Too familiar. You study it even more, taking in the warrior’s countenance, the shape of his eyes, his lips. Finrod’s own was a replica of them all.

It is as if I am staring at the same person. 

“Indeed.” Finrod moved to sit by a large fireplace, and invited you to join him. “Lord Edennil was the only warrior who challenged the creature and lived to talk of it.”

“Edennil?” Fear slowly bloomed and surged just beneath your skin, prompting you to stop mid-stride. “Is that not one of your names, sir?”

It was Finrod’s turn to startle, but he quickly regained his composure. “I do not know what you mean, y/n.”

“Yes, you do.” You continued with growing alarm after stealing another glance at the tapestry. The hair, the sword, and the demeanor all screamed of him. “Edennil. It was what that stranger called you when they stopped by your door two nights ago. I know of that word. My governess taught me. It means friend of men.”

Finrod took a step toward you, his eyes widening in shock. “That visit was in the dead of night! How did you even know of it?”

“I was in the library searching for a book.” You took a step back and looked for the doors. They were near, but if Finrod was not what he appeared to be, a mild-mannered wealthy nobleman from a foreign land, would you have time to make it to the doors and the outside world? “And that warrior looks like you in every way. Is it you, sir? Are you the warrior in that tapestry?"

Finrod blanched.

“What are you, sir?” You demanded and took a another step toward the doors. “The truth, now. All of it. That is all I ask.”

The nobleman made no move to come near you. He stood where he was, his eyes full of gloom, and said, “Yes. Yes. I am the warrior in the tapestry. Is that what you wanted to hear? I slayed the werewolf. All of that was my doing.”

“And your late-night visitor?”

“A fellow warrior met by chance on the road. He stood beside me, shoulder to shoulder, as we fought the beast and its minions. Beren was badly wounded, and I…I saved his life. He has been a faithful friend since then.”

“That is all well and good, but it still does not answer my question.”

“Which is?”

“What are you?”

Finrod sighed in defeat. “I suppose my secret would come into the light sooner or later. Very well. You desire to know the real me. Well, this is the real me, y/n.”

He hissed like a large, wild cat and bared his teeth. Pearly white fangs glistened in the light of the fire. You took a step toward him, curious despite your fear.

A vampire. My host is a vampire. After so many years of us writing letters and him teaching me music, I remained in the dark until now.

“Most impressive,” you declared after your curiosity had been satisfied.

"Why are you impressed?” Finrod sputtered in disbelief. “You should be terrified."

“Should I be terrified?”

“No. I would never harm you, y/n.” He went back to his place by the fire. “But I cannot let you go, either. Not when you know what I am.”

Can I blame him for wanting to shield himself from the judgment and fear of others? And perhaps living with him may not be so terrible, after all. I could learn so much from him.

“Then... Then perhaps I can make myself useful to you,” you offered. “You rarely go out during the day because—"

"Sunlight weakens my constitution," he supplied.

"I see." It certainly provided more clarity and explained some of his strange behavior, like the thick curtains that were always drawn together during lessons in his music room. "I could run errands for you. See to any visitors that come calling during that time. Mind the house and the servants for you while you rest.”

Finrod regarded you with suspicion. “Is this a trick?”

“No, sir,” you told him. “I give you my word that it is not.”

He turned away and took his time to consider your proposal. Finally, after what seemed like an age, he said, “There will be a ceremony binding you and me as master and familiar. No harm will come to you, but this ritual is necessary. Do you understand?”

You nodded and wondered what this ceremony would entail and what you would have to dress. “I accept.”

“Good. Now come, join me by the fire.” Finrod smiled mildly. “I have much to tell you about me and my strange life."

[stories4eve]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INTROPOST ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

── .✦ HIYA THERE, my names Eve, Welcome to my little ramble account on here lmao! I won't post much of anything, maybe a few short stories n all abt my aus and certain things, but that's it!

── .✦ MAJOR NOTE ABOUT ME: I SHIP BEAST X ANCIENT PAIRINGS, PLEASE DNI IF THAT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE!!

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

── .✦ FANDOMS I POST ABOUT

• ★ THE LIFE SERIES/ TRAFFICSMP

•★ COOKIE RUN KINGDOM

•★ HAMILTON

•★ POSSIBLY INTO THE WOODS STUFF TOO!

•★ DANDYS WORLD

•★ WICKED (IF I GO SEE IT IN THEATRES, I LOVED THE OG BRODWAY MUSICAL SO MUCH !!)

•★ SIX (THE MUSICAL)

•★ POSSIBLY HEATHERS

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

── .✦ TAGS YOU SHOULD LOOK OUT FOR !

•★ #eve rants! (Just me being me)

•★ #theatre talk (logging abt the various drama productions I may be in!)

•★ #book updates (updates abt the various books I write! such as new chapters or a new book entirely!)

•★ #the next generation of heroes (my crk fan kid brainrots of the ancient x beast children)

•★ Other future au tags I'm sure I'm gonna add on here eventually !

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

BASICALLY SUMMARY: I'm a mentally ill theatre child, 🤧

NOTE: I WILL BE USING GACHA DESIGNS INSTEAD OF ART... BECAUSE I CANNOT DRAW THAT WELL!! AND I REFUSE TO USE AI OR OTHER HARMFUL MEANS 😋

[athaza1082]

R-R-REMAKE!!

Hiya, I’m Athaza

18 / she & a writer! I’m in a lot of fandoms but right now I’m all about..

CRK, RDR, MLP, Wolves Among us, TWDG, LIS..

I don’t have any other DNI besides the usual stuff! Please don’t interact w/ me if you promote harmful material such as racism, transphobia, homophobia, pro-shipping, etc.

I do like some ships! I’m a multi-shipper and pretty open to anything as long as it’s not illegal! I like Charthur, Vandermathews, Johnagail, Kieran & Mary Beth, Sean & Karen, etc! From CRK, I like ElderLily, Cacaolily, CocoaMint, HollyCacao, PureCacao, Purelily, SeaMoon, WildChip and HollyTaya

I do dislike certain ships like Beasts x Ancients as I see them as related, but other than that I don’t care as long as it’s legal!

From TWDG, I love Louis x Clem & Violet x Clem simultaneously, though I prefer Louis & Clem as I just love their dynamic together.

& MLP — I HEART RARIJACK & SUNSETPARKLE!!!!!!

But yehah, I mostly reblog stuff I like!

[owls0ma]

intro post woowoowowoowowowowow

basic info: hiii hello hi hey hii!! so i figured i shoudl make one of these posts so u guys know more about me :) my name is riley or charlie, you can call me either but i prefer riley as of writing this i am 17yrs old, turning 18 in december i go by she/her pronouns and i am a certified moose kisser (canadian) :3

interests: so currently, these are the things i am into right now: - cookie run - object shows, specifically II and BFDI - danganronpa, but only really the OC side and i like some animes like demon slayer and uhhh yeah

DNI IF: please dni if any of this applies to you: - basic dni criteria (bigot of any kind) - ancient x beast shippers - specifically people who think they’ll have a healthy relationship

- purelily shippers - pro/com/darkshippers

- dsmp/dream fans

thats really all, please enjoy ur time here :) dividers by cafekitsune

[letsbothbegirls]

INTRO !!

Hi! You can call me Millie/Thalia/Mills (if we're VERY close) and I go by she/her!! I've been on tumblr for nearly a year, in different accounts. You may know me if you were in the Hatchetfield rp space, I had two rp accounts and I owned one or two discord servers! I can answer more questions if you'd like C:

My ask box is always open, js don't send anything weird as I'm a minor.

I have anxiety and get upset kinda easily, so please be patient with me.

INTERESTS !!

my interests change A LOT but these are my current ones

SCOTT PILGRIM (ALL MEDIA)

EVER AFTER HIGH / MONSTER HIGH (MOVIES/SHOW)

HATCHETFIELD + CINDERELLA'S CASTLE (trying to get more into starkid ><)

COOKIE RUN KINGDOM

SPIDER-MAN (MOVIES & GAMES ONLY)

EPIC: THE MUSICAL

DNI !! 1. Proshippers / darkshippers

2. people who ship beast x ancient (crk)

3. The usual weirdos (like homophobes, racists, etc)

4. If you're over the age of 18 (may differ sometimes)

[proflattecookie]

Hullo there!

I'm Professor Latte Cookie, she/they. I'm a fictionkin, so the actual cookie. I'm married to Dark Cacao Cookie, Pure Vanilla Cookie, and White Lily Cookie in a very complicated polycule.

I do have a few boundaries that I keep pretty strict, so please respect them. They will be under the cut!

But, for now, keep on keeping on, and remember to stay confident, okay?

DNI: basic DNI, anti furry/alterhuman/quadrobist, anti endo, kink or NSFW,

Rules:

ABSOLUTELY NO SHADOWVANILLA. I hate this ship vicerally, not only because it's very toxic, but also because it puts someone I love in a dangerous situation. No Beast x Ancient in general, but specifically NO shadowvanilla. (I may make an exception for Hollyberry and Eternal Sugar when she comes we'll see)

In a similar vein, NO ALMONDLATTE. You can find my explaination as to why here.

I am a minor, and I am taken. Please be respectful.

if you have questions about my canon, please just ask!

also pretty please send me asks I like them they make me happy to answer your questions