#anyway. one of my favorite characters of all time

[mossworth]

My favorite example of this is in Vampyr, my Favorite Messiest Game Of All Game. It's Gothic. It's queerbaity. It's campy but just barely. It's got a white man with a fade. It's so Game.

Anyway the big Moral Conflict of Vampyr is that you're a vampire and must feed off of human beings to survive--or no, okay like you'll survive in a technical sense without feeding, but to gain any power at all (aiding in your survival), you've got to feed off folks. There's limited ability to gain this power because there are a limited number of characters to substantially feed off of. And, secondarily, their value in actual XP (how much power you can pull from them) changes depending on how much you *know them*. As in, you have to develop a relationship with them and get to know them better to make their blood more valuable. As they are humanized to you, you have to quarrel with that against your decision to sacrifice them for your own game.

It's definitely one of my favorite applications of "Vampire Moral Dilemma" in gaming. My first playthrough got capped off with the "Not Even Once" achievement because I couldn't bring myself to make that sacrifice, which led to me being wildly underpowered, but surrounded by people who cared about the protagonists...like, kind of.

Yeah except also you literally cannot beat the game without murdering STREETS of people. Not spawn, not zombies, like regular ass people who are trying to fight the same vampire virus YOU'RE fighting. One of the named characters you can drain for XP has an arc involving her disillusionment with her position, feeling she's not doing anything substantial to help, pushing her to join the vampire hunting gang YOU'RE fighting in droves. And... yeah, there's a self-defense justification. They certainly do attack you first. But do you know how many people I cracked open like a sweet, succulent can of ginger ale? How much goop I slurped? And I still got the Not Even Once achievement? This was AFTER trying to pacifist run the game.

One of my favorite games of all time asked me to consider the humanity of the people I hurt and forgot to consider the humanity of the people I hurt

We often talk about "ludonarrative dissonance" in terms of morality and situations like "the story says violence is bad, but the gameplay enables and encourages you to kill things" but my actual fave version of it is "the story says you have a very serious plot-relevant time-sensitive thing to do, but the gameplay enables and encourages you to buzz off into the world and search for collectibles for five weeks"

[autumnmobile12]

Fuyumi: Do it.

Touya: No.

Fuyumi: Do it. Do it, do it!

...

It’s almost ridiculous how deeply entwined Soul Eater has gotten in the Ambush Sim AU.  I mean, it started off as inspiration from two episodes, but then I remembered Soul played the piano, which I had genuinely forgotten about. (Not sure how, that's kind of a core part of his character.) Anyway, I mentioned to my sister how funny it was that I inadvertently recreated 'white-haired guy with a creepy smile plays piano' in Ambush Sim. Soul Eater is her favorite anime of all time, and so she laughed and this happened:

My Sister:  Can you draw Dabi wearing Soul’s suit?

Me:  The pinstripe one?

My Sister:  Yeah.

[scimagic]

☆ DRESSING UP AS JACK AND SALLY FOR HALLOWEEN IS BORING AND UNORIGINAL!!! ☆

That's why Puzzles and I went as Jack and Oogie Boogie! <33

Based on that one idea I had way back when about a Halloween Puzzlevision episode! I call it The Meme Before Christmas!

I have a vague idea around the cast and the story but it's not all fully developed yet, I just really like imagining the characters singing along the songs hehe!

Puzzles as Jack, Meggy as Sally (NOT SHIP), SMG4 as Santa Claus, Mario as Zero probably. Oh!! And my favorite cast choice is putting SMG3, Saiko and Bob as Oogie's henchmen <3 I wanna see them cause chaos for the sake of chaos! And of course, moi as Oogie Boogie.

You'd THINK I'd put myself as Sally but nah :] that role doesn't really call to me. SO I'M PUTTING MYSELF AS THE VILLAIN!! HAEHEH!!

AND YES!! Yes I know there is someone out there that beat me to the idea of a Nightmare Before Christmas episode BUT HUSH!! LET ME HAVE THIS DAMN IT HFDKJSA (I do genuinely adore their art though and their ideas too!! I got excited when someone else had the same thought! Won't bother them with a tag but here they are!)

Anyway I'll probably do more doodles for this silly thing some other time!

[moonstars-tro]

definitely agree, this is absolutely something that needs to be brought to light.

i personally favor leo and donnie because their blue and purple, i always have 😭 (like honestly in every iteration it’s leo and donnie for me just because they’re blue and purple, i start from color and then love the character next. u can look at my favorite characters list and you’ll just see different shades of blue)

HOWEVER, i love raph and mikey so much and i don’t think they deserve to be dismissed or mischaracterized or ignored at all. they’re incredible characters and even moreso, incredibly well written. i do think a large factor that contributes to their lack of popularity is the lack of focus on them in the show, due to the many cut episodes (so many, poor guys… i would’ve loved more sunset duo and brains and brawn) and the lack of a full season 2 in general, it’s the cause of many issues i fear.

little rant abt my love for raph and mikey

mikey is so creative and i love how they made that a bigger part of him in rise, and he’s not ‘just a baby’ he can be childish and immature but he’s also angry sometimes, he isn’t just a manipulative crybaby like some of this fandom makes him out to be…. but he’s funny, he’s got a short temper, he loves so hard, he wants the best for everyone. he’s the baby brother but he’s also the heart and the glue and he deserves the world my baby UAGAHJ i want more attention on him i read two mikeycentric fics lately and they changed my life and one of them wasn’t finished. bc i never checked if it was my heart broke guys.

rise raph is so WELL WRITTEN that it is INSANE. like holy omigosh. he just wants the best for his little brothers but there are so many little moments in episodes that remind you that he is just a child who was forced to grow up too early. he’s so sweet and silly and he’d give the world to protect his brothers. AND HE LITERALLY DID. HE SACRIFICED HIMSEKF FOR LEO IN THE MOVIE that moment still makes me so ill sorry because he cracked his shell that HURTS. omigosh anyways i love how rise kept some small things that make him RAPH, like how he’s impulsive and likes to smash things LOL ❤️ when i first started watching i couldn’t really see how he as raph aside from being physically intimidating and then it hit me as time went on.

point is they are very loveable i feel they deserve the world and so much more attention than they get these poor guys. although sometimes people do this wrong, i don’t think we should start hating on or disssing the twins (i mean u do u i guess 😭) i just think we should start loving sunset more. because they deserve so much love and appreciation and more popularity than they get, i love mikey/raph fans so much because. they always get them so well i don’t know how to put that better, like it’s easy to understand ur favorite character so it helps me a lot with understanding them as well. (mwahaha im actually in the midst of making a mikeycentric fic wish me luuck)

AAALSO i love drawing them i used to hate it because raph’s spikes were hard (i kept making them go the wrong direction sigh) and mikey had a round face when i was used to the twins being like a square and a triangle 😭 but i got practice and they’re super fun !!!!!

leo is my favorite for blue, illusion of ego, flamboyant, funny, and he is my reference for living. i do feel genuinely attached to him but ill never let that be a reason for me to dismiss raph or mikey, they deserve love and respect and SO MYCH MORE POPULARITY. there’s so much depth to them despite the missing episodes and the fact that racism and sizeism is a reason for their lack of love is.. like, genuinely sickening.

sorry about this reblog probably being a whole lot of nothing i yap a lot

Why Rise Raph and Mikey are Unappreciated and Underrepresented in the Fandom: Leo/Donnie Favoritism, Anti-Black Racism, and Sizeism

It's refreshing to see that more Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles fans nowadays seem to be waking up to the fact that Leo and Donnie get way more attention from the fandom than Raph and Mikey do. However, what's still missing from most of these discussions is exactly why that's the case.

With Raph and Mikey being voiced by Black actors (Omar Benson Miller and Brandon Mychal Smith, respectively) and Raph being a character with a big, burly physique, anti-Black racism and sizeism (in the case of Raph) are definitely factors in all of this. In contrast, Leo and Donnie are voiced by white actors, and both characters have a much smaller build than Raph does. And in the world that we live in with both anti-Blackness and sizeism, sadly and upsettingly, being the norm, it's easy to see why Leo and Donnie receive the favoritism that they do compared to Raph and Mikey.

But this favoritism doesn't just begin and end with the RotTMNT fandom because the series itself shows a preference for Leo and Donnie as well. Arguably, it's those two who receive most of the focus in the show, with many episodes revolving around them or being from their point of view.

The way both the series and the fandom downplay Raph’s parentification due to Splinter’s neglect also is a notable example of how a Black-coded and big teenage character like Raph is treated so dismissively by the creators, writers, and fans. After having raised his three younger brothers for years, Raph has his role as team leader stripped from him by his neglectful father with that role given to his much thinner, white actor-voiced brother, Leo. And, that's not even going into the proverbial mess that is the season two episode "Raph’s Ride Along," which makes light of police brutality and profiling against a Black(-coded) child. The adultification of Black children, and in this instance, specifically large Black boys, is likewise tied into the implications of "Raph’s Ride Along" as well as Raph’s treatment within the series overall. Honestly, all of that deserves its own write-up, but that'll have to be for another time.

Anyway, my point is that Raph and Mikey, especially Raph, haven't been given as much appreciation or grace by pretty much anyone, including the folks who made the series. All this also serves as a reminder for why it's important to have Black talent on all levels of production, not just as performers but as creators and producers. Or if not that, at the very least, projects should have non-Black creators who have enough know-how to portray Black/Black-coded characters adequately, treating them with as much care, attention, and respect as they would their white/white-coded counterparts. RotTMNT fans could also stand to do more questioning as to why they don't feel as drawn to represent Raph and Mikey as much as they do Leo and Donnie.

[solanasreality]

who is your liege?

❀ hellooo. i go by solana or tabby. i’m african american & asian. chronically ill buuut.. we don’t have to talk about that. i’m a libra sun. pisces moon. capricorn rising. sixteen, if you can believe it anyway. and that light splash of color on your tumblr feed.

⁝

➵ 𝐦ore about me ᶻz

the universe in a physical form. the universe in a ton of physical forms. somedays, i take the shape of a warrior, other times? the princess of a warrior. the universe has given me too much power, mostly, the power of unpredictably. the only thing that will predictable about me is the way i answer to THOSE kinds of asks, you know the ones. "can i shift???" "is shifting real??" "how do you use the loa????" (like at this point, NO. you cannot. good day.)

there’s too many disorders in this little brain to count, but i make it work. clearly neurodivergent. a real life frank ocean album with a sprinkle of an ancient roman tragedy (thanks julius caesar) or so my drs typically come across. a ball of intellect and an spiritual experience. i try to infuse my own work in the same breath i make everything effortless.

➵ things i enjoy, things i embark myself in ᶻz

my book. my main source of comfort and everything in between. i love being daring, writing what i’d love to read. my favorite songs may change, my artists don’t. kehlani . . frank ocean . . tyler . . the sundays. ethel cain. i love myself a good bridge, an instrumental i might hum in my wake, hidden vocals, the whooole shabang.

➵ characters i fit the most ᶻz

jinx (arcane), maren (bones and all), elphaba (wicked), rue (euphoria), blue diamond (steven universe), cassie ainsworth (skins), janis ian (mean girls), claudia (iwtv)

[group-dynamic]

Episode 13 Spoilers: My favorite thing about The Pitt is how subtly literary it is.

Some shows are overtly symbolic (like The Bear), and you are given time by the filming and the editing to pause at times and see the cleverness and the grand design.

The Pitt's realism and pacing does not allow you to linger, though, just as the characters don't have time to linger. Which means--as in real life--we don't get to see the hand of God designing the story to deliver meaning. We have to sense and make patterns of meaning ourselves. (That's actually one of the biggest issues these characters are all facing mentally. Despite their best effort there's literally been no time to pause and make meaning.) That being said, just because it's hard to see doesn't mean there aren't very deliberate choices made every moment of this show.

So, anyway, on today's rewatch, I caught:

The patient that Langdon and Mohan revived with Narcan answered Langdon's question "What did you take?" with "I took one Percocet so I could dance. I have a bad knee." in a direct mirror of Langdon's earlier excuse for his own addiction: "I have a bad back."

McKay hears that the shooter might be heading their way and says, "What?! My kid's in the break room!" This is immediately followed by Javadi’s mother asking "The shooter is heading this way?" Because her daughter is also in the hospital.

Jack Abbott, former combat medic, hops in to save the uniformed officer, and we get an actual, genuine smile of relief because he ended his last shift losing a vet, a loss he took so hard he ended up on the roof. Framed behind him in this moment (significantly) are SWAT in militarized camo and heavy combat gear.

Langdon being unable to "hear himself think" when McKay's ankle monitor goes off is probably a reminder of his drug usage, but also perhaps a reference to his earlier comment that "all of us have ADHD."

Also, I noticed this while watching the first time, but loved the "the mentor does, mentee imitates" line of succession from Robby to Langdon to Mohan to Santos.

A small one, but Santos says "stay strong, Crash" to Javadi as she leaves from the team effort on the older hippie, and this time it sounds like genuine camaraderie. They're transforming our interpretation of her without losing her characterization.

Finally, everyone's pointed out already that Robby's mentor died in Peds? Pedes? and how significant it is that this same room is where he's having his breakdown. But I have big thoughts about the motif of fathers & sons in this season, and the even bigger thread of parents / kids. At minimum, I'm talking: David's father died and he spiraled, Robby's mentor died and he spiraled, but this also includes Robby learning that Collins had an abortion when they were together, something Robby clearly had an emotional response to as he now has to imagine a reality in which he might have had a child with Collins, and he handles it very maturely and centers her, as he should, but he didn't get to process that or make meaning.

So it feels very deliberate that the show chose to put the morgue in the part of the ED normally used for children. And now he's in that same children's department his mentor died in after losing three (four?) kids that day. A morgue where he's standing behind the closest thing he has to a son who he feels he failed and wow are they just making that room a powder keg of trauma representation.

And to top things off, they literally gave us a clown this episode (or as Whitaker points out "a children's entertainer") who is worried about whether he'll be able to make balloon animals ever again. And that's silly and it's also human but--thematically, and more importantly--it's a man wondering if the pain inflicted on him will prevent him from doing his job in the future. I don't know. Something about Robby being everyone's dad and being the head clown at the circus that is the Pitt and trying to keep all these kids afloat. Like--I'm sorry--the music festival had a clown? Nah, this is symbolism now (because I say so, haha).

Finally, these didn't fit into the meaning category, but I really appreciated that Whitaker had that very human moment reassuring Carmen after she wakes up after the REBOA (you know, the balloon thing).

Also, so many people were irate about Jake's comments to Robby, but if you listen closely, the captions miss that he says, "Are--are you okay?" when Robby starts to drag him out of the room. Robby has just said an accidentally cruel thing to him and Jake is genuinely, honestly concerned. They're both grieving but that is a good kid.

[withsubsplease]

Everyone who’s seen The Ones Who Live knows episode 4 is excellent, start to finish but geez if this isn’t one of the best non-verbal moments. You can see his entire brain collapse on him. He’s so confused and lost.

Rick’s been misdirecting Michonne; pushing her away, “lashing out” and even demanding for her to leave (which even I, someone who hadn’t seen TWD yet, knew was out of character and total crap) but when Michonne says, “Bet. I’m over this. Need to get back home anyway.” It’s beautifully heart-aching to see this response.

What I appreciated so much about most of Rick’s reactions (because he is reacting, not acting) after Michonne’s return, is him not knowing what to do. He’s so off-kilter, scrambling and unhinged (in the best and worst ways when he’s not in soldier mode) and it’s all because he’s madly in love with her. He thinks he’s convinced himself of a way of living, of being but he can’t reconcile that with her in his space, breathing his air. Because she’s apart of his DNA; they are interconnected. He’s used to their world together.

[Also there’s something to be said that he doesn’t try to persuade or convince her to actually change her mind or her way of thinking. Only to see his point and leave. He knows he hasn’t told her everything. He never intended to from the start. He doesn’t want her to stop fighting for them in her own way, because he is too. That’s why he can say believably later, that he never let go. But he is reacting in terms of her way and his way, instead of their way. Harkening back to Michonne’s monologue in S7— which she clearly still believes and he’s too afraid to trust.]

It furthers the truth of how much he needs her. Not just physically but he needs her counsel, her words, her mind on the matter.

One of my favorite lines of his in this episode is—I want you to live.

Throughout the previous episodes he’s constantly confronted with Michonne’s life; Okafor insinuates she’s gone, then she’s walking around in front of him like a dream and both Jadis and Thorne verbally and physically threaten her.

We already know one of his main motivations is protecting her, but this line is so raw and sincere and it’s one of the only times he mentions what he wants.

One of the main reasons he runs after her. They’re tethered together so of course he can’t let her walk away, be without her again, all that BUT he also can’t have her out there alone. He knows she needs him. He needs to be by her side. (Michonne later confirms the same feeling.)

When Rick thought he could play with Michonne about her leaving. What did you expect when you keep telling her to go….and when she finally starts to walk out the door…out of his life…PANIC ensuses

[sometimesthingsneverchange]

i find it hard to articulate my thoughts at the moment, but i just finished reading Sunrise on the Reaping by Suzanne Collins.

i’ve read 37 books during 2025 so far and this book was the most profound, intense, emotional, and beautiful thing i’ve read in a long time. i find myself at a loss for words. this story has imprinted itself on my heart and i’m ready to read it again.

at one point during my reading, i got up from my bed and walked into the kitchen with tears streaming down my face and i just said “they’re just kids. they’re all babies” and i just sobbed there with the book in my hand. i cried through the whole second half of the book.

oh sweet children. wellie, wyatt, ampert, louella. i think about how children should be protected. children are the future and they’re so young and precious. these books really do invoke horror in me. it’s surreal to look around and see the reality in the words.

america

panem

bread and circuses.

the hunger games will forever be the most intricate and beautiful book series i’ve ever read. it was never about the romance. it was always political.

anyways. 10/10 book. haymitch was always my favorite character.

[azriona]

Friday Five Rec List: Stucky Edition #1

Okay, fine, it's Saturday, be quiet. Rec lists are awesome and I used to do these all the time. I'm organizing these by pairing since that makes the most sense, but as I create more of them, I'll try to keep them linked together. Anyway, Stucky was requested first, so here's five of my favorites. All links lead to AO3.

Ain’t No Grave (Can Keep My Body Down) by spitandvinegar

(E, Canon Divergence, Stucky, warnings for drug use, past non-con, and mental illness, aka “The One with the Goddamn Kids”)

Post CAWS, Steve is in New York, trying to find Bucky. Bucky, however, has given up on trying to find himself, and instead has taken on the mantle of “Revelations John,” a religious-inspired vigilante systematically taking down Hydra with extreme prejudice. Oh, and he’s also adopted a couple of Goddamn Kids, as well as a serious heroin addiction. This is about how he found himself again. All of the characters are wonderful in this, and I love how they are so very different from each other but also very recognizable. Steve’s religiousness (he goes to church twice a week), Sam’s practicality, even the Goddamn kids’ brightness and determination. Bucky’s personality shifts are delicately handled, as are his addiction and mental illnesses. Sam’s theory on Steve as a War Refugee is my favorite thing.

❤️

Operation Gros Michel by SquadofCats

(Explicit, Stucky, Canon Divergence after CA:TWS, Steve & Bucky take on Florida, definitely not about bananas)

Steve and Bucky move to Florida, learn to garden, learn to surf, learn how to be again. And then they become renegade activists and only sometimes Avengers. It’s a lengthy exasperated love letter to Florida with some of my favorite original characters, and Steve and Bucky in Speedos live in my head rent-free entirely because of this fic.

❤️

Hot Neighbor and the Sunshine Baby by ZenaidaMacroura

(Mature, Stucky, Trans!Steve, parenting, slow burn, no powers AU)

Steve and Bucky are both single parents to two little girls who are best of friends. Which is why Steve’s simultaneous crush and inability to say two words to Bucky without putting his foot in his ass is a huge problem. Don’t worry, it works out. Eventually. Bucky saying all breathily “Yeah, I can do that” lives in my head rent-free, btw; this fic’s fault.

❤️

The Steve Rogers Problem by relenafanel

(Mature, No Powers AU, Actor!Steve and Fanboy!Bucky, a love letter to fandom and fanfic honestly)

Bucky Barnes writes smutty fanfic about the characters in actor Steve Rogers’ TV show—and then he realizes he and Steve were childhood friends and Steve’s back in town and wants to renew their friendship. Basically, it is every fanfic author’s worst nightmare. (Mine, anyway.) Hijinks ensue. There’s an AU within the series where Bucky isn’t a fanfic author, and it’s equally delightful.

❤️

Strays by snarklyboojum

(Teen, Bucky on the run, not-Alpine, post CA:TWS)

Bucky saves Steve from drowning, follows him to New York, adopts a kitten, breaks into Steve’s apartment multiple times, and somewhere along the line learns to be a human again.

[kxsagi]

Hello! I love your work first of all, keep it up! I rarely ever requested anything on this app and I've had it for many years, but I'd like to do it now if it's not a problem🫶🏻💞

Rin, Sae, Michael, Shidou and any other characters you want with a reader who has more of a inverted triangle body shape and she's insecure about it, thinking she looks too manly. I unfortunately struggle with it, having no ass or boobies (pick a struggle💀) so I'd like to find a bit of comfort I guess. Thank you!✨️

“𝐡𝐲𝐩𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐧”

a/n: hi, thank you so much!! i can assure you pretty girl that you are still BEAUTIFUL just the way you are and i KNOW you’re fine AS HELL bc the inverted triangle body shape is so HOT??? like you look strong! (pls step on me)

ft. rin itoshi, sae itoshi, michael kaiser, ryusei shidou

🖤 rin itoshi → "my favorite shape"

rin’s not the most verbally reassuring guy, but when he notices you acting self-conscious, like tugging your shirt down or crossing your arms over your chest, he instantly picks up on it. he won’t say anything right away, but you will catch him side-eyeing you with a raised brow like, "what the hell are you doing? stop that."

he doesn’t get why you’re insecure. in his eyes, you’re perfect. he’s in awe of how strong your arms look whenever you reach for something or how your toned shoulders peek through your tank tops. you look powerful, and it’s hot as hell. 

one day, you mumble something about how you feel like you have no curves, and rin just scoffs. deadpan as hell, he says, "okay? and?" "and i look manly –" "no, you look like mine."

if you’re still self-conscious, he’ll prove you wrong by running his hands over every inch of you with deliberate slowness. 

"too manly?" his voice is low against your skin. "say that again."

it’s not teasing – it’s a dare. and judging by the way he’s practically worshipping your body, he’s got no problem with your shape. 

❤️ sae itoshi → "i’m not dating you for your ass, idiot"

sae is blunt and borderline cruel with his words, but in this case, it works in your favor. when you offhandedly make a self-deprecating comment about your body, he stares at you like you just said the dumbest shit imaginable. "what?" "i just feel like i’m kinda built like a dude, y’know –" "don’t say stupid shit."

straight-up. doesn’t even let you finish. he hates the idea of you comparing yourself to some beauty standard. 

"if you looked like anyone else, i wouldn’t want you," he states matter-of-factly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

he makes a point to randomly place his hand on your lower back when walking past you or slipping his arm around your shoulders, guiding you through crowds. he wants you to feel secure in your own skin. 

one time, you joke about how you have no ass, and sae deadpans, "what the hell do i need an ass for? i’m actually a thigh guy anyway." and proceeds to grab your thigh possessively with a casual squeeze. 

💙 michael kaiser → "dangerously divine"

kaiser immediately shuts down any insecure comment you make by being outrageously flirty and smug. like, you could be frowning in the mirror, poking at your chest, and he’ll waltz up behind you and go, "huh. funny, ‘cause i see something i’d very much like to bite." 

he loves that you look different. in his eyes, it makes you ten times sexier. if you’re insecure about looking “too masculine,” he just smirks and says, "perfect. now no one will dare mess with you, and if they do? even better, ’cause i’ll wreck them for you."

honestly, kaiser brags about how hot you are. he has no shame. if you’re in public and you make a self-conscious remark, he’ll deadass loop an arm around your waist and say loud enough for everyone to hear, "i hope you all know she could kick your ass. and i’d pay good money to watch it."

his fixation on your body borders on obsessive. you’re self-conscious about your broad shoulders? well, kaiser loves running his hands over them, holding you in place when he’s kissing you. your toned arms? he’s pressing his lips against them like they’re works of art. 

"manly? please." he smirks against your skin. "if you’re manly, then i must be a real princess, huh?"

🩷 ryusei shidou → "ruin me, pretty girl"

shidou thinks you’re absolutely insane for thinking you look “too manly.” the first time you bring it up, he blinks at you like you just insulted his entire bloodline. "what the hell did you just say?"

you make some offhanded joke about having no ass or boobs, and he immediately grabs your face and pulls you into a messy kiss. like, full-on devours you. when he pulls back, he’s grinning wickedly, lips swollen and pink. "hm? what was that about being ‘manly?’"

shidou’s genuinely obsessed with your body. he doesn’t care if you don’t have traditional curves. in fact, he loves how athletic you look. 

if you’re self-conscious, he makes it his mission to hype you up, excessively. "fuckin’ hell, babe. look at you. bet you could knock me flat on my ass if you wanted.""the definition of a femme fatale, huh? shit, i might just let you ruin me."

when you feel insecure, he gets handsy. whether it’s grabbing your hips, manhandling you into his lap, or straight-up lifting you just because he can. 

shidou isn’t subtle. he’ll deliberately grope you in front of mirrors and say things like, "don’t see any ‘manly’ parts, babe. just a whole lotta ‘fuckin’ perfect.’" 

and god forbid you ever say you’re not sexy, because shidou will prove you wrong. over and over again. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[sparrow-in-the-field]

Alright, I waited to share my thoughts/criticisms on severance s2 because tbh for a bit I thought I just wouldn't, but I keep thinking about the show, so I might as well!

Typical disclaimer that this is all just my opinion. I know some people loved this season, and I know others are more like me and preferred s1. And both of those takes are okay! Either way, it's just a fun show to talk about!

Alright a couple links and then I'll jump in:

Here were my thoughts on s1. It's one of my favorite seasons of any show ever. I wrote that post right before s2 aired, when I was still young and naive and hopeful about the next season lol.

This post by failchild is a far better written and organized post that sums up my main criticisms as well. I reference it a few times in my thoughts and highly recommend reading it.

Discussion under the cut because it's gonna be a long one!

I managed to bucket my criticisms into four categories, with examples in each. Let's just jump in!

Too many new characters, too few consequences

I'm not sure it was even a show that needed new characters, yet we got so many this season! Imo, the heart of the show was always the four in MDR (see my s1 post). In addition to them as the main group, you had Cobel, Milchick. Devon and Ricken. Gemma/Ms. Casey, of course. Burt and Felicia. A substantial and valuable cast! Adding one or two new characters, sure, it's bound to happen, but with only 1-2 new ones, they could be fleshed out and worked in to the main story in a way that felt organic and like they were complex characters. Not a single character that was added this season felt that way to me. They fell flat, and ultimately barely made a mark in the story. For instance:

Drummond. Who is this man??? I'm sorry who is he?? Why did he start showing up with virtually no introduction? I think he and Helena might be siblings because he called Jame father but tbh with the weird cult stuff that could just be what they call their leader so idk for sure?? Why couldn't they have given him a proper introduction. One line. "Hey Helena your [half, full, who cares] brother is back from [literally any other implied Lumon site]." Or "Alright MDR, this is Drummond, Grainer's replacement for security." Like!! I know feeding exposition through dialogue is boring sometimes, but I sure can still benefit from it when it's a brand spanking new character! And then beyond that, what was his personality? Brooding, I guess. What was his job? To be antagonistic, I guess. The creator of the show has said that Drummond cares about Helena above everyone else, but I sure as hell didn't know that! They made eye contact sometimes, as people do. They said words to each other in a meeting, like twice. And I'm supposed to understand they care about each other on a deeper level, from that?? If you want to make claims about your characters, then you have to show me in the actual show instead of mentioning it retroactively. And then Drummond died. So none of it matters anyway. He was written in to be a brooding henchman and he died and that was it. No understanding of his motivations, his background, even really his role in the company or the family. And now he's dead so it doesn't even matter. Not to mention that Mark S. literally had no idea who he was when they fought. They'd never met before. To me, it made the fight feel less significant, and more violence for the sake of violence.

Ms Huang. I want to love Ms Huang, and I suppose in a way I do!! But I wanted to understand her, I wanted to know her. All I know is she is a child doing the same internship that Cobel did. Her presence I appreciated and could pick up on its significance without the show blatantly telling me (having a child manager is a shield for violence, Lumon has always and continues to use child labor, etc.). But what about Ms Huang herself?? What are her motivations, what is her background? Any question she was asked, she dismissed. And where is she now? Oh that's right. Sent away. I genuinely believe we'll never see her again, because her story was a dead end. She was a kid in an internship and it ended. What more would there be for her next season? So yes, the child worker was a "whoa" moment and it tells us something new about the company, but she's another new character who comes and goes with no actual consequence to the plot or main characters.

Dr. Maur. I hate this man. Who the fuck is this man. I get that someone had to be down there working on Gemma (I would have appreciated a nod to Cobel though, like she at least had some involvement since she sent Ms. Casey to the testing floor in s1) but this character felt less like a person and more like a nearly cartoonish villain. Just the creepy man doing creepy experiments. And then in the end? Mark and Gemma escape, get in the elevator before he can catch them. No real confrontation; he's not even in the room when Mark finds Gemma. idk if we'll see him again next season, but frankly if we don't, it won't make a difference.

Fields. I also hate this man. This was one of the new characters I was actually anticipating! I expected him to potentially be a very interesting and involved character! But nope. He's in one episode, is a real fucking freak, and then is gone. Doesn't matter. His character had zero consequences on the Burt/Irving plot, and I seriously doubt we'll ever see him again (good).

Lorne. Okay I do have a soft spot for Lorne, she is precious and good! But she only showed up when convenient. She talked to Mark and Helly/na when they showed up, and she saved Mark from Drummond. Last season there was a huge running theme about the departments coming together; Burt/Irving was about more than their romance, it was this idea of workers joining together. But Lorne only saved Mark because she just so happened to be there when he was in trouble (their departments never sought each other out again after their encounter). And then Mark leaves. And she...takes Emeile back to the other goats? I guess? Maybe we'll see her again, especially if the innies really are going to rise up in a more significant way. But who knows for sure.

A lack of consequences for everyone, actually

It's staggering, how little had actual consequences in this season. So much that happened either in s1 or started to happen in s2 just... didn't matter. For instance:

Reintegration. Everyone's talked about this already so I'll keep it short. But it felt so exciting that Mark was reintegrating so early, and that first shot on him on the table at the end of ep3 got me so hyped!! Only for nothing to happen. By the finale, even the way Mark is talking about it sounds like he's not actually done it (wild that after "flooding the chip" he's still acting right as rein [able to get into physical fights in fact] and having no issues, meanwhile Petey was out here fighting for his life just to take a damn shower). It felt like Mark could have just been considering reintegration and nothing would have been different in the plot. "But we needed it for Gemma's episode!" Except we didn't? Nothing about that ep felt like reintegration as we've seen it. He honest to god could have just stared wistfully at a photo of his wife and they could have jumped into flashbacks that way.

Helena's YouTuber ass apology video and general lack of outside world response. This ties into the whole world feeling a lot smaller this season that failchild talked about, but it's really frustrating that the s1 finale essentially ended up having zero consequences. I feel like with as many people as were shown in s1 to protest severance or hate Lumon, at least some people in the outside world would be calling bullshit on Helena's excuse for what Helly said at the party. But what? She made the video and everyone was like "oh okay" and dropped it? I'm not saying this had to be a huge plot point, but like, idk. At least show me some protestors outside the property! Have the news on in the background, have Helena mention being annoyed at journalists asking her more questions! Just any acknowledgement that what Helly did at least made ripples, because that finale felt so huge when it came out. And the way the s2 treated it, essentially nothing was accomplished from an honestly incredible thing that Helly managed to pull off.

Milchick. Again, I think people have already talked about this a lot, so I'll keep it short, but. I so greatly wanted to learn more about Milchick this season. I wanted to know his backstory, his motivations, his dreams, anything. He had a bigger part this season, so I was hoping to see some form of character development, whether for the good or bad, I didn't care! Just something changing within him. But despite everything he faced, nothing changed? I guess he told Drummond to eat shit (which again, a weird lack of consequences he faced for that), but then was like "whelp, back to doing what I always do!" I guess I just went into this season wanting to understand Milchick more, and I still don't. He had the same outcome as s1, still essentially a henchmen trying to control innies. Except this time we got to see people be racist towards him. ...cool.

Ricken's storyline. Not much to say here other than Ricken played such an interesting role in s1, with his book inspiring the innies. They started to go somewhere with that but got bored I guess?? Anyway, hope him and Eleanor are doing okay lol.

The board???? So. What happened to the board. Remember when everyone reported to the board? When every vital decision seemed up to the board? When Cobel used to speak to them through Natalie. When, hell, in this very season, Mark plugged in that speaker and that's how he got his friends back!! Why did the board just like, completely disappear by the end of the show? The board wasn't in the back half of the season at all, let alone in the finale!! Supposedly the most important day in Lumon's history, and the board just?? isn't there?? Isn't even mentioned. I have no idea why they dropped this concept. There for awhile it was one of the more fun mysteries of the show, and now it's like it hardly even existed.

The core group is gone: Irv, my beloved, I'm so sorry

Again, this has been talked about a lot already, but just. Man I'm ngl sometimes I now get emotional over s1 clips because look how much those four used to mean to each other!! They were a family!! And now that's all gone and it's like the characters don't even care?

Irv. By far the biggest disappointment in this season for me personally was Irv's story. It's almost hard for me to talk about because it bothered me so much. You had an incredible character, with an amazing actor, and you said "eh. Send him away." And then everyone just went with it?? I thought for sure they were going to raise hell to bring him back; they'd do the work as four or they wouldn't do it at all!! But no, they just...had a weird funeral. And moved on. I really thought what Irv did for Helly was the set up, the first half, of a full circle moment for the two of them. Imagine how emotionally fulfilling their reunion would be?? Imagine how much it would have developed their relationship! It would have been so cool. But no, Irv is just gone, and honestly nearly forgotten in a way that feels almost like an insult to s1 imo.

Dylan also was very much in his own world this season and I can't decide if it's in character? Like yeah him getting to see Gretchen was huge and I get that, but just. Idk, he loved his MDR family too, so much so that he stayed behind for them in s1!! He was always involved, he always wanted to be involved!! But then Milchick, who he hated by the end of last season, says "hey buddy maybe stay quiet" and he just does?? Idk man, felt a little convenient.

And then Mark and Helly were just. Idk man I'm not making this about ships. I liked when they kissed in s1; it felt authentic. But then this season they ramped it up to 100 and I just. Sorry. It felt so fast to me. It felt like they disregarded everything around them for the sake of themselves and that doesn't feel reflective of the characters I knew in s1?

The Lumon (and Cold Harbor) of it all

Other people have talked about this too, but there were some questionable choices in my opinion about Mark's sudden over-importance to Lumon, and also Lumon at large felt less coherent to me this season.

Why does everyone have to be in on the conspiracy? I'm mostly talking about Burt here. Why was he was Lumon cronie? I really thought that Outie Burt and Irv's story would have been an interesting character-based story, about this premise of loving someone but them being with someone else. Maybe a tale as old as time for some, but I think through the lens of two older queer men, and with the innie versus outie dynamic, it could have been a really refreshing story? It didn't need to be about Lumon. Not everything in s1 was directly about Lumon (Mark's relationship with Devon and Ricken, Mark dating Alexa, his attempts to talk to Petey's daughter, etc.). The only spy was Cobel and it made sense given her job within Lumon. But Burt?? Mr. Fine Arts degree Burt?? Was also the hit driver during his off hours?? The Burt/Irv storyline could have gone about a thousand different directions, and that was just... not the one I wanted, frankly. And tbh with how little screen time it got and how abruptly it ended, I seriously wonder how dedicated to the storyline the writers were either.

Cold Harbor's sudden urgency. Failchild's post covers the flaws of Mark as suddenly the most important guy really well, so I won't get to into that exactly, but from the very first mention of Cold Harbor, I had my hackles up. Before, a huge theme of the show was MDR just doing the mysterious work. There were quarters to meet, but no ultimate goal or end point. Then in s2, all of the sudden everything is urgent, everything is superlative. This Has to get Done. It is the Most Important Thing Ever. If it happens, Gemma will Die and Mark/all of MDR will be Fired and will therefore also Die (which the internal logic of that from both a science and business perspective... sighs I won't get into it). Maybe this is a weird take, but I didn't need the Ms. Casey/Gemma story to have urgency; I didn't need her life to be on the line for me to want her out of there!! It just felt so jarring to go from s1 of "they're all doing this weird work that has existed for at least a few years with several different people who came and went from the team" to "all of this is for Mark and Gemma and that is all that matters for the entirety of Lumon, and after today it will all be Complete and Done Forever". Like...what?

Additionally, in s1, Petey's map says "people live down here". There's this fear that people, plural, don't get to have outies. Yet when we finally see Gemma in s2, she's alone in this gigantic hallway maze. There are 25 rooms all for her and her alone! Again, suddenly in s2 She is The One. The rest of the MDR files are?? Fake?? There... aren't multiple people trapped down there?? Lumon's whole success rests on her and Mark's shoulders alone?? IF IT ONLY WORKS WITH MARK AND GEMMA HOW ARE YOU GOING TO TURN IT INTO SOMETHING USEABLE FOR LITERALLY ANYONE ELSE??? Sorry, I got carried away...my point is, in s1 it felt like a different story. It felt like MDR would care because Ms. Casey was one of them and she potentially represented a greater, darker world of permanent innies. But that was completely forgotten in s2.

Another contradicting detail was the marching band. Don't get me wrong, it was fun watching Tillman lead a band, but...why is there a severed marching band? It just doesn't align with the original theme of the severed floor, which was about keeping innies separate and departments small, for doing mysterious and important work. What possible other roles could a marching band have fulfilled on the severed floor?

Possibly my favorite point that failchild brought up was the way s2 dropped the corporate satire theme from the show, when that was originally what made it such a refreshing concept. I think my points in this section all nod to that at their core. The cult-y Kier stuff was fun as undertones in s1, but it taking over has made it harder to understand (or take seriously tbh) Lumon's actual power and goals as a corporation at large.

In conclusion

Okay that was a lot of criticisms! lol whoops. Tbh I think the writers had a huge challenge to accomplish after s1; it's a tough premise that had set at a ridiculously high standard in s1. And I think them getting to do this season at all, after 3 years, was so exciting and fun to watch! I wish things had gone differently, but hey, that's just how watching TV goes sometimes. I'll still stick around for s3--who knows how that'll go! (Please bring Irv back, please make Gemma a main character, please do something new with Milchick).

If there's something I didn't touch on in this that you'd like my opinion on, or want me to elaborate on something I did say, feel free to send me an ask! I genuinely like talking about this show even if it accidentally came off as haterism lol.

[bonne-chanson]

a/n: first part of the stormbringer collection! <3 i’ve never published anything for verlaine despite him being my favorite (also because i just started this blog a few months ago lmao) but here he is! i hope i did him justice :> on another note, please assume that everything i write for will be gender neutral unless specified through request! this is also my first time writing a fic this long (and a first attempt at slow burn and drama…) anyway, happy birthday, paul! 🥳 here’s over thirty pages of a fanfic. oh, and another thing, this is canon-divergent! the flags are alive because of you ;>

i. mars, bringer of war

the first movement of the planets suite (masterlist).

✑ character/s: paul verlaine x reader

✑ short desc: paul verlaine has only ever known a life of violence and bloodshed. the first time he comes to know what tranquility and peace are like is through you.

✑ content includes: romance ; drama ; slight angst ; slow burn ; canon-divergent (the flags live, but for a price) ; paul verlaine needs a hug ; nsfw (MDNI!)

✑ word count: 15.4k words

Inside Paul Verlaine brewed a tumultuous storm of anger, anguish and despair — something once akin to a vicious, feral dog now turned into the likeness of barren weeping willow. In the eye of such a complex storm laid the kind of emptiness understood and able to be empathized with by no one else but himself, only adorned by a deep sense of grief and graced by a hint of envy and longing for something beyond his very existence.

Paul Verlaine was not human, no matter how much he yearned to be one. An innate sense of humanity was something he simply did not have.

At least, that was what he believed his origins dictated him to be.

Much the same way sculptures were crafted and portraits were painted, he was also born by the hand of a human being; carefully shaped with a firm idea in mind, built finely with the kind of details meant to follow a certain image in one’s head, and formed particularly to suit the desires and the planned design of the artist. Yet while the paintings of Monet and the statues of Michelangelo could be looked at by people with the kind of admiration any other human being would be able to coax out of another, however, Paul would be looked at in terror and disgust — the kind of reactions he soon grew to become more familiar with over time.

For what is a man-made being fated to become, when created with the sole purpose of destruction in joy and love’s stead?

Paul Verlaine was made to be a weapon — born through creation, ironically made to obliterate on command. A bringer of war, they said, a being made for the sake of bloodshed and demolition.

Violent. Cataclysmic. Inherently inhuman.

He had long since given up on any attempt to cope and come to terms with his inhumanity, much less make himself feel human, allowing himself to sink deeper into the only lifestyle fit for a being like him: assassination. After all, there was no point in trying to convince himself he was a part of something bigger the same way everyone else was, not when he was so alien. A God above existed, but that same God did not love him enough to give him the same sense of belonging every other human received the moment they were born — he was sure of it.

And soon after, his name would be whispered among even the strongest in his field, uttered with caution by passersby and spat with spite by the most elite of anyone he made an enemy of. Nobody in their right mind ever went up to the soulless King of Assassins to face him head-on, at the very least not willingly, not if they wanted to die with their lives lived in full.

The first time you had ever heard of the name Paul Verlaine was on the day of Chuuya’s one-year anniversary as a mafioso.

“Chuuya,” the European man before you had bent down on one knee, bowing his head towards the russet-haired boy as he would to royalty, “I have come to protect you.”

In the midst of playing a happy game of pool with your friends, the Flags, to celebrate your youngest member’s first year of survival in the mafia, chaos ensued when a brunet man had somehow managed to enter the Old World bar that the seven of you often frequented. Albatross had thrown his kukri at the foreigner first, reacting quickly before being followed by Piano Man’s strangling wires and the thrusts of Iceman’s cue stick — all of which were dodged easily by the man dressed in blue. And even when Lippmann’s gunshots were fired and Doc’s lethal injections were aimed at him, not a single scratch scathed his skin, and he had avoided each attack by a mere whisker.

“I did not come here to fight you,” he clarified, fixing his suit. “My name is Adam Frankenstein. I am a Europole detective.”

The tension in the room changed the moment he spoke.

“...You’re a cop, huh?” Piano Man smirked, fingers flexing to ready the wires twisting between them. “We seem to have come to a misunderstanding, then, Adam. It was a mistake on your part thinking that a cop could waltz in here and make it out alive.”

He then turned to Chuuya.

“Chuuya, consider this another one of your one-year anniversary presents! You’re free to break his arms and legs as you please!” he says with a hearty laugh, about to wrap another wire around his neck until—

“Wait,” you interject, preparing to reason with the rest. Though you had no ability, considered no more powerful than that of Yokohama’s average civilian, you were still their friend, and as their friend, they held a great deal of value for your opinions, too. “Let’s hear him out first.”

With a polite nod of his head, Adam momentarily looks at you. “Thank you.” He dusts away the rest of the debris tainting his well-pressed clothes before facing everyone else. “I was created by the skill user engineer Dr. Wollstonecraft. I am the first autonomous humanoid supercomputer in existence. Again, my name is Adam Frankenstein, and I have come to arrest the assassin who is after your life.”

Albatross raises both brows, picking his kukri back up to sling it over his shoulder. “An assassin?”

“That’s right,” the robot responds. “The assassin’s name is Verlaine — Paul Verlaine.”

Paul Verlaine… You allow the name to linger in your head for a little longer, ingraining itself into your thoughts.

(You have absolutely no idea just how much those thoughts would consume you later on.)

“...Verlaine?” Chuuya muttered before his gaze became fixed on Adam. “How do you know that name?”

“You know this guy, Chuuya?”

Straightening his knee, Adam stands, his posture exuding an aura of pristine perfection. “You cannot defeat Verlaine alone, Chuuya, which is why I was sent here. He is no ordinary assassin, you see,” he warns. “Paul Verlaine is known globally as the King of Assassins—”

There is a short pause, and for a moment, you would have been able to sense the hesitation in his voice (if there was any) had it not been for his mechanical intonation.

“—and your older brother.”

Chuuya can only frown in response. “That can’t be true.”

Paul Verlaine is dead.

At least, that’s what he believed.

It was what Rimbaud had told him the year before — Paul Verlaine, his long-time partner, was dead. Shot and killed after an incident that happened at the research facility located in Suribachi City. The Arahabaki Incident that occurred prior to Chuuya’s recruitment into the Port Mafia involved the betrayal of one of their sub-executives who created a god, and the root of the incident could be traced back to nine years ago at the end of the war.

Two European agents and highly adept skill users Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine both managed to steal Arahabaki from the former national defense force, whose primary focus was to research an artificial skill-derived life-form: Arahabaki itself. Verlaine, however, had other plans—

And chose to betray Rimbaud at the very site of the mission.

According to Rimbaud, his partner wanted to take Arahabaki all for himself and it eventually led to a fight that escalated into something violent. Rimbaud eventually emerged victorious for the price of having to kill Verlaine, although their battle alerted the military’s attention and their tracking unit, and due to his injuries, he had no choice but to absorb Arahabaki and use the skill as his own, losing most of his strength and his memories in the process. Thus, the Impostor Predecessor Incident was staged in an attempt to lure out the real Arahabaki — Chuuya Nakahara.

And as soon as Chuuya finishes elaborating the entire fiasco, Adam shakes his head. “No, I must correct you,” he says. “Paul Verlaine is still very much alive.”

You lean in a little more, intrigued by the statement, which seems to surprise the rest of your friends; you had always been known for your gentler personality among them, never really choosing to involve yourself in any quarrels and dangerous situations, so this came off as quite the shocker. “What evidence do you have?”

“I can prove it,” Adam replies, his tone leaning into being a little more serious, “but doing so would violate my obligation to secrecy in regard to the mission. The only individual concerned in this matter is Chuuya, ergo he is the only one authorized to learn the details.”

“Can’t we have at least some form of proof?” you argue, catching the interest of the Flags. Your enthusiasm towards the affair seems to have caught their attention as well. “We’re already involved in this, too. I mean… as much as the issue may be about Chuuya’s past, we deserve to know at least the significant details so we’re well-aware of what we may be dealing with.” There is a short pause before you add, “Chuuya is our friend, too, after all.”

(You have absolutely no idea how your interjection just saved their lives.)

As if processing your words, Adam blinks before handing you a file holder from behind his back.

“Huh? Where did he get that from?” Albatross questions, looking back and forth between you and the foreign man. “Did he just—?”

“I suppose I can provide you with some evidence without breaching the regulations assigned to me,” he says, handing you the file holder.

You thank him promptly before opening the file holder, the Flags piling up behind you to take a peek as well.

“Yoshino Ryota,” Iceman says, his tone carrying a sense of familiarity. “Wasn’t he one of the two guards at the top floor of HQ?”

Doc tugs his IV pole closer to him as he looks over the document. “If I remember correctly, the boss had the two of them replaced only recently after an incident occurred — something about one of their heads getting blown off and the other getting minced.”

“Death by implosion?” Lippmann finds himself wincing at the descriptions offered by each document. “How brutal…” he murmurs.

You hand the sheets over to Piano Man, turning to Adam yet again. “Is there anything else you could provide us with?”

“Whoa, (Y/N),” your leader snickers, a little amused by your zealous behavior. “You’re awfully fascinated by this whole ordeal. Mind sharing?”

You feel your face burn up at his sudden accusation. You? Fascinated? You were only being a good friend by taking as many precautions as possible. You couldn’t fight and neither did you have any ability to your name, but you still wanted to be as useful as possible to them in order to aid their safety.

(Again, you have absolutely no idea that what you are doing right now ends in saving their lives.)

“I’m just… trying to help,” you mutter, a little shy now. “Verlaine is the King of Assassins for a reason, after all. Better safe than sorry, you know?”

“(Y/N)’s right.” Chuuya stands in front of the closed door. “This may be my problem, but if something ever happened to any of you guys, I don’t think I could just ignore it. I’d try to help whether you liked it or not; I bet the rest of you’d feel the same way.” He looks at Adam, his gaze now stern. “That being said, detective, spit it out and tell ‘em, too, or I’m not cooperating.”

Adam nods. “I understand perfectly how you feel, Chuuya,” he replies, his voice a warm assurance. “You value your friendships and make decisions accordingly. I suppose this is what is called human nature.” And suddenly, he’s approaching the shorter boy with a graceful stride in each step. “Very well. I will give up on trying to persuade you and instead propose a different method.”

And out of Adam’s elbows shoots two anchored wires, spinning around in the air before wrapping around Chuuya. The magnets on each anchor connect, binding him in the process, leaving him confused and irritated as the brunet hoists him under his arm and leaps out of the doorway.

“My mission is the priority, and it is what you humans would call—”

He pauses, mulling the words over in his system.

“...one’s nature, I suppose. Therefore, I will be borrowing Chuuya for the next thirty minutes,” he announces, and within the next few moments, he’s off running to the next residential district with Chuuya in tow.

Awkwardly, you stare at the open door before you, pursing your lip.

“...So,” Albatross coughs, “what now?”

Iceman can only shrug, taking a cube of cue chalk from the pool table to rub at the tip of his cue stick. “All we can really do is wait.”

Everyone is quiet for a good moment, letting the awkwardness of the situation pass before Piano Man speaks up.

“Iceman’s right,” he says. “I say we have our fun while waiting.” Picking up the rack from the side, he grabs each billiard ball and places them inside, shaking the triangle for a bit to even out the spacing between each one. “How about we help ourselves to another round?”

You shrug and smile, walking towards the table to grab a cue stick of your own. “I’m down.”

No one argued against it — if anything, they were all for it. It was precisely because of that that the pool hall became full of its usual noise: the clacking of sticks against the cue ball, the combination of cheers and trash-talking, the sizzle of the alcohol being poured and the chime of the glasses clinking together. It was a scene you would never, under any circumstance, find yourself wanting to trade for anything else in the world. And why would you when you were blessed with such a closely-knit group of friends who would always be there for you during your ups and downs, your worst moments and best celebrations?

(Little did you know.)

One by one, each sphere began to fall into the pocket points, eventually only leaving one left during your turn. All eyes were on you now, and only a singular point was needed in order for you to bring home the gold.

Carefully, you aim, the chalked-up tip of your stick very breathily brushing up against the white cue ball before you as you make your attempt to center your push against the remaining red pool ball. The alcohol, however, makes it difficult for your hands to focus, quivering as they try to stabilize themselves for your point’s sake.

That’s when you feel a pair of arms slither gingerly up around your own, steadying your hands on the stick to allow you to focus better.

“Here,” a suave, familiar voice murmurs beside your ear, and for a moment, your breath hitches in your throat; you can’t tell if the warmth blooming across your cheeks is coming from the beer or the contact. “I know the booze makes it difficult for you to keep your hands in check, so aim like this.”

And then—

Clack!

Albatross’ jaw drops and he whines, stomping his foot on the ground almost childishly. “No fair, Lippmann! You can’t just leech onto (Y/N) for a point like that!”

Lippmann’s laugh is canorous. You find yourself stunned at his voice — as is the situation with everyone else in the room — when he chuckles at Albatross’ complaint, only waving a hand to dismiss the younger Flag’s protests. Staring at him was something you simply couldn’t help yourself doing, not with his unusually handsome face and sweet, attractive smile. His beauty, after all, was unrivaled; whether he decided to dress in men’s or women’s fashion, anyone would find themselves falling too easily for him.

You were no exception to the rule. Though you never looked at him in any other way than as friends, the thought of him being so beautiful that it stilled your heart every now and then would still sometimes catch you by surprise.

Smiling, your hand reaches up to squeeze his shoulder playfully. “I’m giving him half my point since he helped me gain it.”

The others groan and mutter to themselves about the entire ball game being unfair, with Piano Man even huffing about how the blond had, yet again, used his charms to work his way out of last place.

Unbeknownst to everyone else in the room, however, and including yourself, the actor’s gaze lingers upon you for a little longer than it should while you laugh, blissfully unaware of his attention. You’ve never known anything about the way his body would naturally gravitate to yours under any setting, the way he would every so often mirror your speech patterns just to keep you interested in the conversation, or the way he’d speak softer around you, his language a little more gentle than with the others. It’s why you never bothered to acknowledge it — to acknowledge him.

His thoughts, however, are cut when the ring of your phone echoes throughout the pool hall, and with a long sigh, you excuse yourself quickly to take it, only to find that you’re being summoned by your friends’ boss himself.

And so, with a brief farewell and a promise to return shortly, you leave, the sounds of laughter, alcohol glasses and billiard balls becoming more distant as you walk outside the Old World bar.

The first time you had ever heard of the name Paul Verlaine was on the day of Chuuya’s one-year anniversary as a mafioso, and the first time you see him personally is only hours after through smoke and ruin.

“Hm?” Amidst the grunts and groans of your friends and the wreckage of the place you once called your safe haven, you freeze, unable to move a limb in fear. “I don’t exactly recall seeing any record of you anywhere.” He pauses, not even turning to you to see your face. “Nor have I heard of a person like you being in Chuuya’s life before.”

There was no warning. Everything went down to hell while none other than the boss had attempted to recruit you into the Port Mafia earlier (to which you had politely turned down, saying you’ll “think about it”); Paul Verlaine had entered the Old World bar so casually — almost as if he were nothing but and under the guise of a regular customer, ready to drown himself in alcohol after a particularly overwhelming day. Not a single person in the room had assumed otherwise given his attire was that of a normal black suit and the sunglasses that all mailmen of the Port Mafia wore as their uniform, and the only addition to his ensemble was the porkpie hat similar to that of Chuuya’s. Yet before they knew it, their bodies were thrown all over the place as if they were mere ragdolls, their weapons practically comparable to toys against the only man left standing in the room.

Piano Man was bloodied up, strangled by his own wires with multiple lacerations decorating his body; Iceman had been stabbed with his own cue stick from earlier, the other half of it sunken too deep into his body for him to move; Albatross had been slashed cleanly by the kukri he frequented, his body left to lay in a pool of his own blood; Doc’s bones had been crushed enough to render him motionless, the pain so severe that he cannot even scream—

And Lippmann…

Lippmann was being held up by the throat, limp and almost breathless, his hands wrapped around the stranger’s wrist in a useless attempt to free himself. His eyes, typically a beautiful shine of earthy brown, were glazed over and wet from asphyxiation, his usually kept blond hair was a complete mess from being tossed around, and his pristine cream-colored crombie coat was dripping with red. The one who held you earlier and sobered you up during a game of pool with your friends to help earn you a point, the first one next to Piano Man who welcomed you into the Flags, the one whom you felt closest to in the group was now in the very hands of death himself.

And death, as you would have liked to call the perpetrator, only stared him down, his brown eyes so distantly cold as he watched the actor in his grasp suffocate.

“(Y– Y/N)...” your friend manages to choke out between desperate gasps, “run—!”

“How peculiar,” Verlaine murmurs aloud, using his free hand to brush away some of the stray strands of hair splayed across Lippmann’s face, getting a better view of his beaten-up complexion. “If my research tells me I’m correct, you were supposed to be the most difficult one to kill.”

You can only stand there, completely still in terror, your legs aching to do as Lippmann says and bolt out of there as fast as you can, yet they shake so uncontrollably that you would have thought you’d collapse by now. Rapid thumping beats against your ribcage as your mouth goes dry, and you find that your hands and feet have quite literally gone cold, numbing themselves to any form of escape as if they had suddenly shut themselves down on instinct.

“Well,” the breathiness — disappointment — in his voice snaps you back out of being in your own head, “you didn’t exactly put up much of a fight, now did you?”

It was almost as if you weren’t even there. Your presence was barely acknowledged by him, and though you suppose that may be quite the plus when it comes to your survival, your friends were all barely being grazed on the cheek by death’s fingertips and all you could do was stand there with the thought of being next.

Verlaine sighs in mock compassion. “Pity… I’d say this is the most awful way for you to go out, no? What, with you born with such luck, after all — blessed with such a beautiful face…”

The hand formerly tucking away Lippmann’s hair behind his ear grabs him by the face.

“A career in which your hands are able to remain clean…”

The assassin’s fingers press against your friend’s throat a little tighter, leading him to start choking on his own saliva.

“People who adore you endlessly…”

His lips begin to turn blue from the lack of air, and Verlaine can only smirk.

“Friends who love you to death...” He watches Lippmann’s eyes roll back, hands wrapped around his wrist in a desperate attempt to flee slowly going limp. “Don’t worry, I’m not so merciless. I’ll grant you the favor of eternal sleep first.”

And then he smiles so kindly that it almost confuses you.

“That way, you can end your perfect life without having to see the rest of your loved ones suffer.”

“No, don’t!”

Verlaine blinks.

His head snaps over to look at you, and much like a deer caught in the headlights, you stay put.

“…Oh, goodness, what’s this?” he adds, a small smirk gracing his features as he glances back at Lippmann. “You truly are quite the blessed one, aren’t you? A pretty face, a good career, loving friends… and a darling partner to boot.”

Lippmann tries his best to turn his gaze at you, drool seeping from the corner of his lip and down his chin at the lack of air. Even at the touch of death, he still thinks of you.

“(Y/N)—“ he squeaks, coughing and gasping, “don’t—!”

“(Y/N), hm…? Come now, let them speak,” Verlaine coos, tightening his grasp on the blond’s neck, blooming purples and blues across the expanse of his throat.

Your breath gets caught in your lungs as all sorts of possibilities race through your head at the same time, all of which ending in a single outcome: he’d make a quick kill out of you, regardless of it being by crushing your head into a pulp or by making your heart implode. You had easily come to the conclusion that Paul Verlaine was too talented of a killer to be stopped by a mere civilian like you; if he had managed to take down five of the most skilled and feared members of the Port Mafia by himself without so much as breaking a sweat, then what could you do?

A weak cough interrupts your train of thought as your eyes follow the sound, leading you to a bloodied Albatross with a large gash across his chest, gushing red.

“...(Y/N),” he chokes weakly, “run…”

Yet with a trembling lip and glossy eyes, you stand your ground, looking up at the dangerous man before you again, trying your best to brave yourself.

You allow yourself the luxury of ingraining his appearance in your head first, however, even if not willingly—

And there is no denial that the assassin in front of you is a beautiful being.

He stands so elegantly, his posture balanced and effortless even as he holds another man by the throat so violently — a stark contrast to the air of poise he radiates. Blond hair perfectly frames his face in a relaxed flow of waves, the right side of his face obscured by his bangs and the left decorated by a small braid that blends well into the rest of his long, tied hair. Rich brown eyes bore into yours with the kind of intensity swirling in them that would have left you breathless had it not already been for the anxiety swallowing you whole, and even the way he dresses is sleek, not a wrinkle in his suit to be seen. The general atmosphere around him emits a kind of finesse and grace you would only be able to find in a fairy tale’s Prince Charming with the complexion of an ancient Nordic god, and, if you were bold enough to think of it, the tempting prowess of the devil himself.

Paul Verlaine is a handsome man, almost irritatingly so.

“You aren’t supposed to be here.” He tilts his head to the side and his voice almost comforts you, snapping you out of being stuck in your own head completely. “I had planned to make this quick.”

The dryness of your lips prevents you from responding as urgently as you would have liked to, and you find yourself tripping over your own words. “I… please, don’t…”

“Don’t what?"

You wince, your knees locking while his sharp words cut through you like a knife.

“Don’t— don’t kill them,” you sputter, breaths uneven and stance unsteady.

Entertained, he loosens his grip on Lippmann’s neck, and a sense of hope washes over your entire being at the action. It’s not nearly enough to keep him alive, but the chances of you doing something — anything — to help keep them alive and breathing were still there.

“Why?”

Your hands go cold yet again and you feel that familiar twist in your stomach make a knot. One excuse runs after the other in your head in a pathetic attempt to conjure up a justification good enough for him to let your friends go and to leave all of you alone, yet you know well enough that for a man only concerned with his kill, much the same as a predator ready to pounce on prey, no reason nor rebuttal will be adequate enough to make sense for him. It won’t matter at all. If anything, you find that you are approaching the situation blindly; you have absolutely no idea what you are doing, only that you are doing it simply because you have to and you are left without a choice if you want your friends to see the next day.

Swallowing hard, you release a shaky exhale of your breath. “I just… I don’t want them to die. It’s not something they deserve.”

He hums.

“Mm. And do you think that matters?”

Your heart nearly stops beating, but you continue anyway. “It… it should, because it does.”

“Hm.”

The relief you feel is incomparable to anything else in the world when he drops Lippmann’s weak body to the ground. It’s harsh, and you can’t do anything but stand there if you want to keep yourself breathing, but it’s a step forward in the direction you want the situation to progress in.

“...How interesting,” he murmurs under his breath, approaching you. With every footstep, you shrink further into yourself, afraid of the things he’s capable of doing to you. “Both your reasoning and your eyes.”

…What?

Now confused, you open your mouth to ask him what he means by that. It makes no sense, but perhaps it’s his way of returning the response you had given him only moments prior. He seems half-amused and half-bored, but something lingers in his gaze the longer you two stare into each other’s souls, searching for something—

…But what are you searching for, anyway?

“I’m feeling merciful today, and so I’ll leave them alive, as you wish,” he speaks, taking a step back. “I’ve spent far too much time here than I’ve intended.”

And before you know it, he is gone.

“(Y/N)!”

The shrill voice of a young boy pulls you out of your thoughts and you turn around to find none other than Chuuya run up to you, his feet clumsy and in a rush as he treads down the hospital’s hallway. Behind him, Adam follows, his footsteps wide yet perfectly measured as always, and he quickly manages to catch up to Chuuya with ease.

For a good while, the russet-haired mafioso is stunned, looking at you with an expression that can only be described as relief. His eyes were sunken, dark circles accentuating his brown hues, and his skin was deathly pale — both a result of his anxieties and stresses for the past week or so.

“You… you’re okay,” he breathes out, reaching out to check. “You’re not hurt or anything, are you?”

Immediately, you shake your head no, placing your hands on his shoulders with a small smile. “I’m alright, Chuuya. He left me unharmed. Didn’t even lay a finger on me.”

He sighs and smiles at you, reaching up to squeeze your hands in his own while you turn your gaze over to Adam.

“Are you two alright? Did anything happen while we weren’t with you?”

Adam nods, briefing you on the situation on their end quickly. “That’s very kind of you to ask, Mx. (Y/N). Quite a lot occurred in your absence.”

Verlaine had apparently come to fetch Chuuya dressed in his mailman attire while you were busy calling for help for the Flags. You didn’t understand most of what happened with his ability during the fiasco that transpired, only that it must have caused him a great deal of pain when Verlaine had opened up his Gate before Dazai had come in to salvage him using his anti-skill ability.

Yet even amidst his own suffering, his first thought was of his friends.

“Are the others alright?” Chuuya places your hands down gently, still squeezing them, hoping for a good answer. “Piano Man, Lippmann, Iceman, Doc, Albatross — are they…?”

You give him another reassuring smile, squeezing his hands back.

“They’re alive.” The breath he’d been holding released itself at your words. “Not… not particularly in the best condition, but they’re alive.” You gesture towards the door to the emergency room, entering with both Chuuya and Adam, and inside you find your beloved friends.

All of them seemed to be in critical condition. Piano Man had multiple bandages wrapped around his body, particularly around his neck where he’d been strangled by his own wires; Iceman seemed stable enough, and he almost looked as if he were only asleep, but the IV bags full of blood and the lack of color on his face were enough to say that he was still in a severe state; the same could be said for Albatross, who, although was in a rather wonky sleeping position, had multiple dressings and blood bags used to aid his rather serious condition; Doc was decorated in plaster casts and splints in order to realign most of his broken bones and immobilize his movements for healing, though surgery could definitely be seen in the long run—

And Lippmann, the only one you caught barely conscious at the time of your unexpected encounter with Verlaine, was now fully unconscious, bandages wrapped around his throat, dressed in a hospital gown instead of his typical suit and crombie coat.

“I… Your boss — Dr. Mori — said they should fully heal in a few months or so. Their injuries were indeed life-threatening, but nothing that your organization’s doctors couldn’t handle.” You take a deep breath and place a hand on Chuuya’s head, stroking it affectionately. “They’ll be okay. Promise.”

“...That’s all I needed to hear,” he responds, and you can almost hear his voice tremble when he speaks.

You only nod, turning your full body to face both Adam and Chuuya.

“I should get going now… I’ve been here all day and I do need to run errands back at home,” you explain. “The nurses told me to tell you to feel free to stay as long as you need.” A glance at your friends tells both the android and the gravity manipulator all they need to know. “They’ll need as much support as they can get, after all.”

Chuuya reaches up to squeeze your shoulder as he nods. “Right, take care, (Y/N).”

Again, you nod, but before you’re able to take your leave—

“Oh, and one more thing—”

You blink.

“What is it?”

He pauses for a good moment, running the words through his head first before saying them aloud. “Stay away from Verlaine at all costs. I don’t know the full details of what happened, and he may have been lenient with you considering you were in the same situation as the rest of ‘em—” he gestures to the Flags, “—but there’s no telling whether or not he’ll be merciful with you the next time anything happens.”

His lips press themselves into a thin line as he looks down, avoiding your gaze.

“I nearly lost all of you only around a week ago… I can’t afford to let something like that happen again.”

You don’t say anything in return, but the nod of your head is enough to tell him that you’ve acknowledged his simple request — to avoid Verlaine at all costs.

(That chance encounter you had with him earlier was only the first of many to come.)

Soon after, you find yourself back at your apartment; it’s a small, humble place with just enough living space for yourself. There isn’t much to it other than the essentials and a few decorations you find enhances your home, but it’s cozy enough for yourself. There’s nothing extravagant nor overtly special about it, but there’s no need for it to be — it’s comfortably lived in, snugly shaped to fit its sole inhabitant’s needs, carrying with it a certain intimacy meant to cater to you and you alone.

Per usual, you go about your nightly routine, something you had perfected over time to soothe you after a particularly long and stressful day. The monotonous practice of taking a bath and changing into your pajamas before eating a warm meal seems to pacify any feelings of worry and stress you’d been holding onto earlier, and not long after, you are in the comfort of your own bedroom, the balcony left open to allow the gentle night breeze to caress your skin.

The thought of the events that occurred three weeks ago haunt you, however, and a single question lingers in your mind:

Why did he spare me?

It bothered you, and it had been almost a week.

(You don’t know it yet, but he’s found himself quite preoccupied with the thought of you.)

Almost a week since you met death face-to-face; almost a week since you stood in front of him as life itself; almost a week since you had spoken words that should not have made sense, yet mattered enough when it came to saving the Flags’ lives; and almost a week since Verlaine had gazed upon you, not as something of a nuisance, but as something to be considered.

Every so often within the small time frame between what happened and the now, you find yourself wondering how things would have ended had he decided to put you in the same condition as the rest of the Flags. He spared you, after all; there was a look in his eye that was unreadable during the life-saving conversation you had with him — something that could only be described as… fascination? Interest? Captivation?

You were never the strong type, neither did you wield a special ability that even made you worth considering in the eyes of an assassin like him. There was no power in your veins, nor did you have anything he wanted when it came to his issue involving Chuuya. In fact, you had absolutely no business standing there when it all happened, yet you chose to remain anyway, both because you had a moral obligation to your friends and because of fear.

Paul Verlaine is a bearer of destruction, after all — someone more than capable of bringing wreckage and ruin everywhere he goes. That natural talent of his does not rage through him in the same manner as a devastating storm, however, and it instead is as eerie and as still as its eye. He is chaos within the serenity that houses demolition, embellished by a deception of peace, similar to that of the false clarity the clearness of the sky brings in the middle of such a calamity.

"How interesting. Both your reasoning and your eyes."

If anything, his potential fascination in you scared you more than it should. And with him still being on the loose…

"I’m feeling merciful today, and so I’ll leave them alive, as you wish."

There was no telling what he would do next.

You sigh, trying to brush your thoughts off, dismissing them as you smoothen out your nightwear in the small, cozy space you called your own.

Only this time, you are not alone.

The moment you turn to the mirror in the room, your heart plummets to your stomach.

Paul Verlaine.

Immediately, you turn to face him, but your step backward creates a stutter in the rhythm of your heartbeat as he follows, taking a step forth, mimicking your movement.

You didn’t even so much as hear him. His movements were so quiet and precise that it completely slipped your mind how easily he was able to enter your home without making the slightest indication that he was there.

“…If you have any plans to kill me, please—“ you gulp, the air around you suddenly tasting so thick and unbearable, “just… just make it quick and painless. I won’t ask for anything more.”

But he says nothing in response to your request.

It irks you at first, the stress pulsing through your veins the longer he stares at you. Your heart is screaming, eating at itself alive because of how agonizing the fear of being right in front of him is becoming, yet he makes no move to snap your neck or crush your bones—

And instead, he reaches a gloved hand up to your face.

You can’t feel the warmth that radiates from his skin. His gloves hide the dirt and blood that stain his entire being, and that barrier is something he’d rather keep when touching you — you, who knows nothing of the anguish he grew up experiencing; you, whose only worries of every day life are your schedules and mundane tasks; you, who are clueless to the kind of bloodshed and violence only he is capable of drawing out from his own palms. His fingers grace your cheek so gingerly, and had you braved yourself enough to look at his hand, you would have caught a glimpse of him trembling, almost as if he were afraid, feeling unworthy of tracing the softest patterns on your skin.

He knows he doesn’t deserve a moment with you like this, that even God himself above would frown in disapproval at the sight of an inhuman being indulging in the presence of someone like you. But God almighty be damned, because that same divinity abandoned him the moment his existence was manifested in that laboratory, leaving his entire existence to spiral down to hell, and the last thing he wanted now was to let such a cruel deity take away what little innocence he had left to keep — the small piece of heaven, of innocence he seems to have found in another person that is you.

He doesn’t speak, and neither do you move, your breaths shallow and quivering, halting entirely when he takes your chin in his hand, thumb brushing along the seam of your lips so tenderly.

Paul Verlaine is a man of violence and a man who knows nothing but war, both of internal conflict and between people, and yet you, without a sliver of knowledge about anything beyond the boundaries of your own comfort, somehow manage to tame that beast of a man every single time you come into his view.

(Unbeknownst to you, however.)

“…What are you doing?”

You choke on a whimper, trying to keep your terror at bay while he stares, holding you. You are afraid, deathly so — with a swift movement of your hand, he could easily twist your head to the side more than it is capable of taking, and your life would be over in seconds.

But he never takes the chance, no.

The longer you look up at him, the more you notice the way his eyes begin to grow so soft — they glisten in the light of the moon with the kind of fondness you would only be able to see from an artist drawn to his muse, a knight during a rendezvous with his noble sweetheart, a poet obsessively writing sonnets for his beloved.

That dollop of fondness for you only continued to swell in the weeks following your first encounter.

(He simply couldn’t get you out of his head.)

His lips press themselves into a thin line before he speaks.

“Do yourself a favor—“ for me, “—and stay out of trouble for now, alright?”

The voice that exits his lips is far more gentle now, hushed and almost affectionate. It’s a stark contrast to the way he’d threatened you and the Flags earlier in the Old World bar.

Slowly, he lets go of your cheek, taking a few steps back toward the balcony.

“Wait,” you surprise yourself, reaching a hand out to him, and he pauses in his tracks, his attention solely on you. “Will I see you again?”

(A part of you still want answers, after all.)

“...That depends,” he answers. “Will you let me?”

Taken aback by his question, you are unable to answer, and so he continues.

“I’ll see you again soon.”

There was no underlying threat behind his voice. Just a promise made certain.

And before you can ask about anything else, he is gone.

Not a moment during the few milliseconds that you blink is wasted — only the swishing of your cotton curtains with the gust of a breeze is visible before you, and before you know it, the King of Assassins has taken his leave as quickly and as quietly he had arrived.

This wouldn’t be the first instance in which you’d meet with him.

“…Psst— Earth to (Y/N)? Hello?”

The fog in your head immediately clears at the sound of Albatross’ voice.

“Huh?”

“What were you daydreamin’ about?” he asks, a cheeky grin decorating his face. “You’ve been pretty out of it lately, what, with the way you look and all—“

Bump!

“Ow!”

A quiet sigh escapes from Iceman’s lips as he takes the cigarette away from his mouth, having elbowed the blond a little too harshly. “Knock it off.” He seems to have sensed your current state of confusion, not about what Albatross said, but of the events that have occurred lately in your life.

(Not a single one of them knows about the fact that you’ve secretly been seeing the King of Assassins behind their backs.)

“I was just mentioning it out of concern, honest!” Albatross whines, rubbing his side.

You chuckle and ruffle his hair affectionately. “It’s alright, ‘Tross. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” This time, it’s Lippmann who asks. “You seem like you’ve been in your own head a lot as of late.”

Shaking your head, you smile.

“I’m fine, really.”

The evening hums with the typical clinking of glasses, alcohol buzzing through your veins as your friends fill the pool hall with their usual chatter. It had already been three months or so since the incident, and they seemed to be recovering quite well. Save for their major injuries, they seem to be back to normal, with Piano Man and Doc sharing a few drinks and Iceman and Albatross playing another round of billiards. Next to you is Lippmann, swirling around his whiskey in his glass before he turns to you with a small smile gracing his perfect lips.

“Hey,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand softly. “Walk with me for a moment? You look like you could use some fresh air.”

“...Okay.”

Not another word was shared between the both of you as you excuse yourselves from the rest of the group to exit the Old World bar, making your way to the entrance before walking down the streets with him. Shared laughter and stories echo throughout the quiet night, the streetlamps above you both casting shadows along the tranquil residential areas, stretching the peaceful atmosphere between you both. And after a while of talking to one another, which, admittedly helped calm your nerves a little from all the unease you’d been feeling lately—

“(Y/N)...?”

“Yeah?”

He chuckles to himself rather awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “This is really awkward… I mean, I had this whole thing planned out, and, well…” Lippmann faces you with a small smile — something so genuine that it couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. “I’d like to ask if you’d be willing to go out with me sometime…?”

…Oh.

Oh.

So now everything about the way he approached you made sense.

It was so obvious in the way he talked to you, so much more gentle in his words and mannerisms as opposed to when he was interacting with the rest of the Flags; obvious in the way he always offered to give you a ride home just to see you off safely; obvious in the way his gaze would direct itself to you first before anyone else in the group whenever he told stories or made jokes; obvious in the way he always took the seat next to yours, the way he would order the same drink as your own, how he never failed to smile whenever you did—

“Lippmann…” you begin slowly, “I… I’m sorry.”

That itself is enough to tell him everything he needed to know.

There’s nothing about him worthy of rejection — everything about him is perfect. But human feelings simply didn’t work that way, and reciprocation is always a gamble.

Ever the actor, he only smiles back at you. You can’t tell just how much he’s hiding behind it.

“It’s alright,” he says with a small nod. “Don’t be sorry. I’m just glad I finally have that out of my system.”

You smile back, bittersweet. “I hope this doesn’t change anything between us.”

He shakes his head and waves his hand, dismissing the thought immediately. “It won’t, I assure you. Though, I must ask… is there already someone?”

You find yourself a little taken aback by his question.

(Does the King of Assassins count?)

And then you shake your head no.

“...I see.”

An awkward silence befalls the both of you before he gestures to the way you both came from.

“Let’s head back, shall we?”

The rest of the night goes on as it usually would, and the weight of Lippmann’s confession from earlier doesn’t seem to lie heavy on either of you. If anything, he takes it better than most men would take it, and remains the same respectful friend toward you as the hours of darkness outside deepen.

You’re more than grateful to have a friend like him. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Your time together eventually ends, and before you know it, the cool air of the night brushes against your skin while you’re stepping away from the bar, bidding your friends farewell with a wave, letting your glance linger a little longer on Lippmann after what happened. They had insisted on walking you back home to your apartment, only for you to kindly turn them down, knowing that their tipsy selves would very likely argue over something trivial on the way back (not that you would have minded, though — any banter they had with one another was always light-hearted and never serious).

Now, with only the quiet rhythm of your footsteps, you allow yourself to get lost in your own thoughts once more.

The confession plays over and over again in your head. You grimace at the memory of it, silently wishing to yourself to never have to go through anything like that ever again.

It wasn’t that you didn’t care much for Lippmann at all. In fact, it was precisely because you care that you turned him down. You didn’t feel anything for him beyond the friendship you enjoyed with him, and there were never any romantic undertones or hints to the gestures and words you had directed at him. There was no use in forcing anything either — you didn’t want to hurt one of your dear friends, and the sting aches, not of regret but of knowing that he definitely deserved better than being rejected on what was supposed to be a happy Friday night for all of you. But Lippmann deserves something real for someone as flawless as him, and you didn’t want to selfishly take him for yourself without being able to give him that.

(You have no idea of it at the moment, and a life spent with Lippmann sounds pleasant to the ear, but the tug on your heart was being pulled by another already, even if not strong yet.)

Not long after, you are in your apartment again—

…only to find that a familiar blond is sitting on your couch.

And it isn’t the blond that had just confessed to you earlier that night.

“You’re back,” you state simply, your shoulders a little more relaxed now compared to when he first arrived on the railings of your balcony.

His footsteps were deadly silent entering your home, his general presence even quieter, and he sits with the grace and confidence of a polished killer even while he's only reading, but you no longer shake in his presence.

You’ve begun to look forward to them, for some reason.

You don’t really understand why, but you choose not to at the same time.

“I am,” he responds, his eyes never leaving the small book of poetry in his hands.

Cautiously, you circle around him, trying to put some distance between you both before heading over to your kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea.

(How strange; you are making two.)

Your mind wanders yet again.

It’s officially been three months since the incident occurred, and here the King of Assassins was, lounging around in your living room as if he, too, lived in your space, visiting you almost every night for your company. The Flags had survived, and though you find yourself thankful for whatever miracle took place during the time of their supposed massacre, you still feel a sense of unease around the man in your room knowing that both you and your friends are supposed to be dead. After all, Paul Verlaine meant to erase you and the Flags from existence with the experience of a killer, cold and efficient, who never knew hesitation.

His words ring in your head again and again:

"I’m feeling merciful today, and so I’ll leave them alive, as you wish."

(Unbeknownst to you, that had been the first time he’d ever hesitated.)

Verlaine sits on your couch with his ankle atop his knee, cheek resting on his fist with his elbow supporting the weight on the arm of the couch. His eyes rove over the words in the book — your poetry book, one of the few that you keep on the coffee table — as you continue preparing some drinks for yourselves. If such a situation were under different circumstances in a different setting, the sight of it may have even been domestic, the room warm and bathed in the soft glow of your night lamps, garnished by the scent of fresh linen and the steam coming from brewing tea, and the atmosphere quiet with only the gentle breeze and the occasional chirps of the crickets outside to make for some late night ambience.

It doesn’t take long before your refreshments are ready, and your cold hands grasp one of the mugs tightly to try and soothe yourself for a moment.

And then he speaks up.

“You look well,” he muses aloud, and the observation somehow sends something of a cold shiver up your spine.

You hum, taking both mugs, trying to steady your hold as you place one in front of him and sit next to him on the couch, albeit putting some distance between you two.

“I could say the same about you.”

He hums, taking the mug and blowing on the steaming liquid for a moment before taking the first sip, savoring the calming taste and scent of your brewed chamomile.

The air between you two remains thin, and for a long time, not a single word is uttered between you both. For some reason, the silence helps your nerves ease up a little more before you gather the courage to speak.

“...Adam told me a little more about you.”

“Did he now?” There’s a slight edge to his voice that you choose to ignore. “What did the android tell you?”

Your lips press themselves into a thin line before you answer. “I… Well, he told me quite a bit about your targets — particularly the one back in the U.K.”

“Hm?” He raises a brow. “Ah, the one involving the queen?”

He’d said it so casually, too. There was an incident not too long ago at the coronation chamber in one of England’s cathedrals involving the assassination of three highly skilled and trained imperial guards, all of whom had their bones crushed and died of severe internal injuries shortly after. Like the documents you had read from before, there was no struggle seen from the victims — only that they were dealt with quickly. Not too long after came the assassination of the queen’s body double followed her ceremony, the event of the murder as swiftly as the manner in which the crown was placed on her head.

To think that both the British royal family and the Order of the Clocktower were both known to be impenetrable forces, and yet someone like him managed to sneak in and even kill people; it was befitting of his title as the King of Assassins.

You nod in response. “Yes, that one.”

“Don’t think much of it,” he coos at you, almost lullaby-like in tone. “That has nothing to do with you.”

Again, it goes quiet. And again, had the events from three months ago never occurred, you would have found your current situation with the assassin quite domestic.

“You haven’t asked me why yet.”

His words break the silence between you both.

You blink at him.

“Huh? Asked you what?”

“Why I didn’t take the chance,” Verlaine clarifies. “Why I let you live.”

Rendered speechless at him asking you why you have yet to ask him of what happened back then, you stare at your tea, slowly growing colder by the minute.

“...I figured somewhere down the line that I shouldn’t question good luck.”

He nods, placing the book of poetry down on the table.

“I see.”

After taking another sip of your drink, you set the mug down on the table and place your hands on your lap before looking up at him. If you’d been paying attention earlier, you would have been able to catch the slightest hint of a smirk playing on his lips, disappearing as fast as it had first etched itself onto his face.

Your curiosity gnaws at you the more you bite back at it to hold yourself from asking any more than necessary.

“...If I asked you now, would you still answer?”

Yet your curiosity, as always, remains stubborn in its endeavor.

He chuckles — the sound is melodic, but his timbre is empty. For a faint second, you find yourself captivated by his short-lived laugh, appropriate to his handsome face. Then, he turns to face you with a much gentler version of that expression he first looked at you with. If he was considering your existence during the first meeting, now he was leaning into appreciating it a little more.

Not to your knowledge, however.

“Sweet thing,” he murmurs into his mug, drinking his tea before setting it down. “Does it really matter now? Would you rather I have made quick work of you and your friends?”

“I’d at least like to know the reason behind why you spared me entirely.”

Verlaine tilts his head, resting his arm on top of the couch’s headrest. “Curious little one, aren’t you?”

You gulp and look down, unsure of how to respond.

“I… well… I just want to know, is all.” You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, feeling small under his gaze. “And to answer both your questions: no and no, but I would rather try to understand. You keep coming back here, and I’ve eventually welcomed you into my home for the past few months of your returns. I just want to put a reason behind your actions to put myself at peace.”

That, you think, and I want to get to know you beyond your name on newspapers and wanted lists.

His brows furrow. “Don’t you think your friends would be upset if they knew about how you’re willingly trying to come closer to me?”

“Then why do you visit me every night?”

Suddenly, he is rendered silent. What answer does he have to a question he’s never thought of entertaining?

Truthfully, it was because of the innocent look your expression had that day that he lost all will to commit the massacre then and there. How interesting it was to him, both your reasoning and your eyes, able to cease an act of violence completely.

“...Would you like me to stop?”

The conversation is in circles — no questions are answered, only rebuttals are offered.

Thus, you decide to end that.

“...No,” you whisper, a little timidly now. “I must admit, I’ve learned to expect your presence every night when I come back home. It almost feels empty without you in it… Like I’ve learned to look forward to your visits.”

His heart stutters at your words. What?

“Are you hearing yourself right now?” he scoffs, looking down at you despite you never returning his gaze.

Slowly, you reach your hand out to his own, taking his gloved one in yours. His gloves are a pristine hue of white, not a stain or a single inkling of discoloration present, and your fingers brush over his covered knuckles so gingerly, much the same way his fingers had brushed themselves along your cheek the night he first met you by your bedroom balcony. It’s a tender, almost intimate gesture coming from you — the kind of gentleness he never thought he was deserving of nor something he’d be able to experience from a human being.

“...You’re not afraid,” he mutters.

“Not as much as I was when I first met you.”

Little by little, your palm meets his, and the size difference between your hands nearly makes him want to squeeze yours. It’s softer, far more delicate, and much more innocent compared to his own. How ironic that the hand that has taken the lives of many, waged destruction and ruin across multiple organizations and different people, is now so tenderly pressed against yours.

And with a bold move, you slot your fingers between his longer ones, your palm fully fitted to his.

His breath hitches in his throat at your actions.

For a moment, he considers doing the same, and you can see the way his fingers twitch, knuckles bending ever so slightly in order to mirror your movements—

Then he stops.

And he pulls his hand away.

No. He can’t let this continue. An inhuman being cannot find something as human as love in another person.

Paul Verlaine is a murderer, after all — a monster whose only purpose to serve in life is to take and take. Inside him brews a storm that he realizes is far too tumultuous for anyone to subdue, and such an innocent soul as yourself is deserving of something worthy of your fondness and endearment, of your love. After all, no matter how much he yearns for a sense of humanity, he will never receive it, and a beast such as himself will never be deserving of a beauty such as you.

He has nothing to his name — no friendships or family held any value to him because he had none; the only names he had learned to familiarize himself with belonged to the lives he had taken, and even then, they were only for the briefest periods of time, used as information to make the kill; his hands were tainted in blood due to his life as an assassin; and he knew, deep down he knew of no one who would be willing to share their love with him in the same way others — human beings — would receive it.

Someone— rather something made to kill is not worthy of your attention, much less your affections.

He knows he’ll never be able to measure up to the other blond you call your friend. Fate was cruel enough to allow their paths to align, even if violently by his own hand, because in him, he saw the reflection of someone he could never be for you.

“Paul…?” you call, and goodness, it’s the first time he’s ever heard his name on your tongue. You call him so sweetly, it almost makes him forget about the way his name would be uttered with malice and spite by the vast majority of people he’s come across in his life.

“Paul,” you call again, a little more worried now that he isn’t as responsive as he usually is. “What’s wrong?”

He stays silent for a good moment before answering.

“It seems I’ve made quite the grave mistake.” He chuckles bitterly. “It isn’t a good idea for us to continue.”

You retract your hand, hesitant to ask, but you do so anyway. “What do you mean…?”

“(Y/N),” he breathes out your name, speaking it in an almost hazy manner, “you shouldn’t keep letting me in like this.”

A frown makes its way to your features. “Why is that?”

Abruptly, he stands.

“You wouldn’t understand.” You nearly wince at how sharp his tone had become once more. “You… a human being like you shouldn’t keep having to entertain a non-human like myself.”

Panic begins to pool in your chest, the weight of his words lingering heavily in the air. “What are you talking about?” And then you freeze. “Is… is this about that again…?”

That.

He’d opened up to you only recently about his origins — where he came from, how he came to be, what he was made for — and you came to accept him wholeheartedly still. To you, his past didn’t matter. Never did, never will. You’ve become aware of his internal struggles, of coming to terms with accepting that he was fundamentally not like everyone else around him, that even if he was created to be strong and physically perfect, he would still forever be incompetent and hollow inside, a mere shell housing no soul.

A bringer of war he was born, and a bringer of war he will always be. And a bringer of war had no business trying to earn your love.

“Paul,” you begin slowly, taking his hand in yours and squeezing it tightly. “You know I don’t care for any of that—”

His voice comes out as an aggravated hiss and he glares at you — something he’s never done before, not even during your first meeting when he had every intent (rather, almost every intent) to kill you.

"Don’t."

Your shoulders drop and the expression on your face nearly weakens his resolve.

“...Paul?” you call one last time, shakier now. God, the things he’d do to keep hearing you say his name like that, but he’s well-aware of the fact that his name does not deserve to have a place on your tongue. “Paul, wait, don’t go.”

Yet before you are able to stop him, he leaves the same way he had first entered your abode all those months ago — through the bedroom balcony.

You aren’t sure if he’s ever going to come back, and there is a painful stab to your chest as you realize that.

That ache in your heart never fully goes away, even months after Paul’s disappearance. It dulls itself every now and then, usually quieting down into a throb, but the pain of him leaving you ironically never leaves.

Your home isn’t the same anymore after he’s vanished — you’d become so used to his presence that your space now feels much closer to being the apartment it was when you’d first moved in: empty and somber. Every night, not to the knowledge of the Flags, you’d take a stroll around Yokohama in a desperate attempt to search for him despite being well-aware of the fact that both your friends and the man you’d been having secret rendezvous with have become sworn enemies over half a year ago due to the incident that occurred.

It hurts, the constant “what-if”s plaguing your mind and having been left in the dark by Paul, whom you’d grown so unusually close to in the times you’d spent together.

“(Y/N)?” This time, it’s Iceman’s voice that breaks you out of your own head. “Are you alright?”

You remain quiet for a while, mulling over your own thoughts until—

“Maybe they just had too many drinks tonight— ow!”

Cue Doc poking Albatross’ side with the needle of his medical syringe.

“I’m alright,” you murmur before deciding to change the topic. “You’re always asking about me, though… How about all of you? How have you guys been? Y’know, since…”

There is no mention of what you are referencing, but they all know.

“The boss said our injuries have already long since healed,” Lippmann answers with a smile. “Everything’s been alright on our end, but…”

“But…?”

Piano Man shares a glance with everyone else, then looks at you. The air in the bar becomes heavier than usual, and even with the soft hum of jazz music in the background, the tension only gets thicker by the second.

“...We were planning to start looking for him. For our sake and everyone else’s safety.”

“Him?”

“Paul Verlaine.” An uncomfortable silence befalls your group. “If we don’t start looking for him now, he might just come back for us.”

You don’t even realize you’re gripping the glass in your hand tight until the condensation slips between your fingers. You’ll admit that in over the half-year that passed since you’d first had your secret meetings with Paul, you eventually came to forget the fact that he and your friends had bad blood going on with each other.

The plan was to keep it a secret for as long as possible, after all. It was a selfish, selfish wish, but you couldn’t help it—

Not when you’d also found yourself falling for him in the shared, and especially intimate times you’d spent together.

“...Maybe we should just leave him alone,” you respond, trying to keep it as casual as possible. “He did spare our lives, after all.”

Albatross cackles, pausing mid-sip. "You serious, (Y/N)? Leave him alone?"

“He let us live,” you argue, but your attempt to not sound as defensive slowly begins to falter under your temper, built up from the lack of Paul’s presence over the past few months that followed since his disappearance from your life. “That’s already more than what everyone else got.”

“You think that means we’re still safe?” Doc retorts, standing up from where he was initially seated.

No. No, it didn’t mean all of you were safe, but you — you were confident that you were. It was all because Paul had always come back to you. Time and time again, night after night, before the next day would rise, he would always come back to you. Not them. You.

A slow exhale leaves your lips and you sigh. “I just don’t think chasing after him would be a good idea.”

Maybe, just maybe, if he came back, you could convince him to—

“What are you saying, (Y/N)?” Piano Man frowns, clearly in disapproval of what you are suggesting.

“I’m saying we shouldn’t have to go after him considering what happened to all of you. He let us go, didn’t he?” you finally argue, pushing your glass away from yourself.

Lippmann holds your shoulder in an attempt to calm you down, but the same frown on Piano Man’s face is mirrored in his own expression. “That doesn’t sound like you, (Y/N). Where is this coming from?”

You shrug your shoulders, mainly to shove his hand off with how unnecessarily irritated you were becoming, but also to force the nonchalance you were fighting so hard to keep. “I don’t know.” You pause. “Listen, I care about all of you, alright? But I’m also tired of going after the things that shouldn’t concern us anymore—”

"Shouldn’t concern us?" Piano Man scoffs, the look on his face now darkening. “(Y/N), he tried to kill us—”

“But he didn’t, did he?”

The tension between all of you swells into something so thick that, for the first few moments, nobody in the room dares to make a move.

Lippmann, however, is the first to cut it.

“You’re acting like you know something we don’t.”

You stiffen before standing up from your seat and leaving a few bills on the table for the drinks you had earlier. “...I just don’t want to start a fight we have almost no chances of winning right now. Neither do I want you to gamble away your lives for a single person.” There is a pause in your statement before you continue, sincerity lacing your words this time. “I can’t handle being like this anymore — having to chase after a life lived so… so dangerously.”

And just like that, as the night wears on, you begin to feel the unbearable crack in the trust you’d always shared with them.

They’d understand someday, you hope to yourself. Perhaps not now, but when things have settled down and when you are ready.

(It’s the last time you’ll ever see them again. For now, at least.)

“...I didn’t think you would return.”

Your voice cracks as you speak, and tears blur your vision as you race towards him. There was no silence held between the both of you, no moment of reflection before you rushed into his arms. Instinctively, he holds himself out for you and lets you crash into him, your face nuzzling the crook of his neck, your body relishing in his warmth as he wraps himself around you for a tight embrace. In the process, he takes off his hat, his eyes shutting closed as he nuzzles his nose into the crown of your head.

“Shh, shh…” he whispers, hushing and cooing at you softly to soothe your sobs. “I’m here.”

Not once in his life had he ever felt this wanted before. He had always known he was replaceable, maybe not easily so, but he was, and yet here you were, crying like a child who had lost and found their precious stuffed toy because you had no idea whether or not he would come back to you.

“I thought… I thought you weren’t—” you hiccup, pulling your head away as you look up at him, the moonlight accentuating the gloss of your eyes.

Ever so tenderly, he holds your face in his hands, wiping your tears away with his thumbs before pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose — the both of you are well-aware that the action comes off as unexpected and completely new, but it isn’t unwelcome, and it comes as it is so naturally that it doesn’t feel unusual. So, he carries on, pressing kisses all over your face, murmuring whispers of sweet nothing in the process while peppering you in his affections.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your forehead, pressing one last kiss there, letting his lips linger a little longer. “I’m sorry… I was wrong to run from it all — from you. It’ll never happen again, I promise.”

“...I don’t think my heart would be able to take it if it does.”

His own heart aches at your response.

And when you finally, finally lean up to kiss him, his brain goes haywire, unable to process anything. Your soft palms cup his face so lovingly and your lips feel so mellow against his own, he finds his vision going hazy and his heart thumping quicker than he’s ever remembered it to be capable of.

(The last time his heart beat this quickly was when he made his first kill — even then, he no longer remembers anything of it, except that whatever this is he is experiencing with you is far more pleasant.)

He’s stiff at first, even when you move your lips to guide him, one of your hands leading his own to hold you, allowing and giving him the freedom to react as he pleases. He could take the opportunity to crush your ribs at an instant, make things quick for you by letting you enjoy the moment as you do whatever you desire to distract you, but he can’t bring himself to, not when he wants to enjoy it with you, too.

(And certainly not when he wants to keep you all to himself.)

When you pull apart for a brief moment to allow yourselves to catch your breaths, your fingers slip beneath the fabric of his gloved hand—

“What are you doing?” he hisses, pulling back slightly when he senses you trying to take them off.

He doesn’t mean for it to come off that way, but really, you don’t deserve to have his tainted hands touch you — not without at least a layer of a barrier between his skin and your own.

“Huh?” You blink. “What’s wrong…?”

The question sounds so innocent, and he nearly melts on the spot when it is accompanied by the curious tilt of your head. He can’t find it in himself to tell you.

So, when he doesn’t answer, you continue with languid movements, slipping his gloves off of his hands, setting them aside on the bedside table. His hands are warm and oh-so soft — you would think that an assassin like him would have hands as calloused as the bark of a tree from the amount of lives he’s taken, but his ability gave him the title of a king for a reason, and for that same reason, his hands remain as pristine as they are.

“…Here.”

And when you bring his palm up to your neck, he’s done for. You’re far too trusting, letting a man like him hold you this way, in such a vulnerable position, but goodness, he can’t help the way his breath stutters at the sight when he sees you look up at him as if you were offering him your own life.

Hell, if you really were, he was going to take it.

And you let him.

Not a moment is wasted when he leans down to press his lips to your own, a breathy sigh coupled with a heady moan escaping his lips as he savors the feel of your skin beneath his touch during the kiss. Astonishment is present on your expression for just a brief second before you melt into him with the sweetest whine, your arms finding purchase on his broad shoulders, wrapping themselves around his neck while he pushes himself against you because it’s not enough for him — he finds himself wanting more.

“Paul,” you mewl, his fingers slowly trailing up your cheeks. He doesn’t let up — he is far too consumed by a hunger that can only be satiated by you.

Slowly, your knees buckle. His stronger arms wrap themselves around you to keep you upright while your hands grasp onto the soft locks of his hair, and in the process, you find your bodies pressed together so intimately that he can’t help but growl at the feeling because you’re just so damn soft compared to himself.

And then you stumble, the back of your knees hitting the edge of your bed, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t dare pull away, slowly guiding you to sit down and urging you to move back on the mattress, giving him the space to crawl and take his place on top, and oh, letting his hand dwarf your own when he holds one of them in his hair, your grip tight and needy, bringing him down over and over again to meet his lips with yours.

When you whimper, lips swollen and pursed as you gaze at him with glossy eyes, glazed over with a sheen of the same kind of yearning he has for you, he nearly snaps.

It takes everything in him to be gentle — to hold back in fear of hurting you because you tempt him so.

“It’s okay,” you coo, his hands trembling as they hold you.

He can only sigh and bury his nose into the side of your neck, nuzzling you there with the softest kiss. “You were supposed to be afraid of me.”

You stifle a giggle, sitting up to cup his face in your hands again.

“How can I be,” your tone is as soft as the sheets beneath you, “when you hold me with the kind of gentleness I’ve yet to see from another man?”

Something in his chest clenches at your words. The way you talk about him so endearingly, almost lovestruck and in a daze (and you are), has him dizzy with the most amorous haze. You speak of him as if he were the most deserving being of your love when he himself knows that every single moment he has with you is out of his own selfish desire to have you all to himself.

You think he deserves it anyway. The same can be said for you as well, after all.

He holds your hands in his own, kissing your knuckles fondly before you intertwine your fingers with his. The atmosphere becomes a little more playful when you try to flip your position, your gesture affectionate and skittish.

But he’s stronger — and he uses that strength of his to grab you by your waist, positioning himself beneath you, sitting against the headboard while he settles you onto his lap, your legs parted to accommodate his thighs. Sensing your hesitation, he grunts and brings you down onto him, and you stiffen at the sensation for a moment when he presses his hand against the small of your back.

To have the King of Assassins himself be the very throne you sit upon was quite the statement on its own.

He wastes no time and effort, capturing your lips in his own again with the kind of greed you’ve never experienced before, him gripping your hips to keep you in place, and—

“Paul—!” you whimper, and his hands rough as they guide you to roll yourself against him, the heat of his body radiating to match your own. He sighs yet again, his kisses fervent as he grinds you on his lap, the world around him fading away as the haze of the moment begins to sit and linger, dizzying him.

The air around you grows hot and heavy, and you make an attempt to put some space between you both, only for that same attempt to be refuted, shot down quicker than you are able to proceed with the act.

“Don’t you dare,” he groans with a guttural undertone — a warning to keep you still. Immediately, his voice pushes you deep into compliance, rendering you malleable and submissive. You’ve gone too far into your shared bliss with him to even consider moving away from such an intimate position, and upon realizing such, his need to fan the fire teasing both him and yourself dwindles down into something so much more gentle. “Please…” A breathy sigh follows, and he finds himself embracing you close to press your chest against his own.

And when your hands move up to grip his hair once more, supporting yourself as he moves beneath you so desperately, rutting up against you like he’s been starved of human touch for the longest time (and he has), the world around you two burns away. Flames lap at the pit of your stomach when his right hand moves beneath your pajamas, pressing his warm palm against the soft area of your belly, right where that oh-so delicious feeling is licking at your insides as you both give in to the friction.

How ironic that his hands, made solely to kill, were now so gingerly holding you like this, embracing, squeezing and fondling every part of you like a man having his final night with his beloved.

(You both know this won’t be your last.)

Your toes curl and you wrap your thighs around his waist, encouraging him to go further by rocking your hips in tandem with his own as a response, lips caught in an eager lock. One of your hands finds its way down the expanse of his chest, and the other follows. The heat has become too much for you to bear — you want his tie out of the way (you convince yourself and say that he needs to breathe a little more, after all), maybe pop open a few buttons (the atmosphere has become too difficult to soak in with so many layers in the way), slide his waistcoat off (perhaps his belt as well)—

But he stops you.

He holds your wandering hand in his own, looking down at you with his face so close to yours, your breaths mingling.

His expression says enough — he isn’t worthy of this, of having you.

Yet you think he deserving, and that is all that matters.

So, you decide to take it slow instead. Languid kisses with whispers of the sweetest nothings in between, pulling his ribbon out of his hair and undoing his braid to allow his pale blonde waves to cascade down his back and shoulders. It’s an intimate gesture; you undo him so lovingly, and in turn, he allows himself to be undone for you.

His lips continue to chase yours, desperate, barely letting you breathe when you pull away every other moment for some air, but he holds onto you like he’s afraid you’ll leave. You don’t say anything about it — you only indulge in his desperation, soothing that turmoil boiling inside him that he himself cannot tame.

He doesn’t understand anything, doesn’t understand the kind of yearning he feels to have you in the most primal way possible, but he gives in anyway. For all the struggles he’s had with his own humanity, you sharing your own with him is something he will gladly take and take so as long as you are always willing to give.

(He thinks he has learned to love you. Has he really?)

And slowly, almost agonizingly so, he guides you onto your back, propping your head onto the softest pillow there is, gently leading your thighs to wrap around his waist as he continues to roll his hips against yours. You can’t help the little whines he swallows, his hair tickling your nose when he trails his kisses down to your chin, then your throat, nipping at your skin before nuzzling at your chest so affectionately, almost as if he were asking for your permission. His arousal is present — you can feel his longing and ache as much as you feel your own, and you allow him to take control, giving him the freedom to yield to perhaps the most vulnerable, most humane way to express himself right now.

Paul Verlaine was never a stranger to bedding anyone, and whenever he did, it was always first and foremost to take something for his gain — an exchange of information, important valuables for a mission, a person’s life. His body was a tool, and such a tool, as he was taught, was always useful in his line of work as an assassin, a pretender of pleasure and promises, but a harbinger of death and destruction.

You, however… you were the exception.

With you, he simply wanted to give.

And if he were to take (like he is now), it would only be because you’d be the first to give.

Either way, both would be solely for the self-centered reason that he wanted you for you – not for any sort of intel, not to take your life, God no, but because he simply wanted you.

Wordlessly, you say yes, pressing a kiss to his scalp.

When his mouth goes lower and lower, removing each article of clothing from you so delicately, casting them aside and onto the floor, he nuzzles at your abdomen next, pressing another heated kiss right below your navel.

“If you’ll let me have you…” he breathes, looking up at you with the faint glow of the moon illuminating the beautiful brown hues of his eyes. “May I…?”

You say nothing, not wanting to ruin the moment. Instead, give your answer by raising your hips, and his fingers immediately tug at the waistband of your bottoms to tug it down, starved and eager. He kisses the damp patch on the only piece of clothing left to cover whatever modesty you have left, whispering an amorous “thank you”, and before you know it, his arm is draped over your stomach, keeping you down, and your grip on his hair is tight. He keeps your lower half pinned to the bed coupled with an obnoxious slurp every now and then, rasping declarations of his affections towards you right there between your legs, his hair a mess as you thrash your feet around and his mouth glossed in your essence—

Only for him to use his ability to keep you down.

“Shh,” he murmurs between your legs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss right where your slick spills just to taste you, “there you go, there you go…”

A short-lived cry of his name comes messily from your lips as you clutch onto his soft hair, head digging into the pillows from being thrown back while you squirm (or, at least try to). “I— I can’t—“

“Mon cœur, stay,” he begs yet again, his voice simmering into the softest growl; he found more pleasure in devouring you, after all — to have your taste on his tongue is something only he is so fortunate to have. “I'll never leave again, I promise; I’d sooner stop the beating of my own heart than have the heart in front of me move away.”

Somehow, you have a feeling that there’s more to his words than he means, that he isn’t just speaking from the place between your legs, but from the very depths of the darkest parts of his soul — a place where no one else would be capable of reaching but you.

He feels (and is) inhuman enough as is. To have his heart be ripped from his grasp would make him cease to find reason in continuing to exist. After all, what purpose would there be for a man like him, born without a soul, if his heart were to be taken from his hands?

(Born without a soul… and yet, with the way he kisses you so fervently and worships each curve of your body, he has done nothing but convince you otherwise.)

In response, you can only whine and whimper, grabbing onto his locks tight, earning a quiet moan from his lips as he continues to enjoy himself, loving on you in every way he can.

The rest of the hours that follow are hours full of bliss — one movement blurs into the next and the sounds you both make are shameless, breaths mingling and voices calling out for each other. All you can recall clearly are the moments in which your legs wrap around him tight, his fingers intertwining with your own as he presses you deep into the sheets, and the shared, delicious warmth that blooms into the fiery pits of your stomach after.

Even then, he doesn’t stop. He pants your name into your ear like it’s the only thing he can say, and he says it so fondly and so lovingly, it could almost be mistaken for a prayer.

At this point, heaven may as well know your name.

When he finishes, his tongue lathering itself along your most sensitive parts, he gives you one last feverish kiss right where he’d finished his meal before claiming his position atop you once more. Paul nudges at your throat with his nose, sighing shakily as you hold him and slowly undo the belt keeping his pants up, deft fingers ginger with their movements, a reflection of the way you feel for the man above you.

“...Run away with me.”

You blink and tilt your head as he lifts his own to meet your confused gaze.

“Paul…”

“Won’t you run away with me?” he asks, his voice dwindling into a passionate whisper as his lips meet yours for the briefest moment, short but tender. “We can live together, you and I, off to somewhere kinder… perhaps in a small place of our own in the French countryside where no one else can bother us, where you’ll be free to do as you please. Our lives could have another fresh start and you won’t have to worry about the rest of the world anymore – not while I’m here.” He pauses, brushing his knuckles along the soft apple of your cheek. “I’ll protect you and take care of you… I swear…”

Having his entire existence founded upon being born essentially as a laboratory experiment, the only purpose he knew of growing up was for anything other than himself – to be an assassin, a killer, a rabid dog, a weapon of war, and to never experience the kind of autonomy that every other human being was born with, all because he was created with 2,383 lines of code, and not a soul (still, you are not convinced, not with the way he makes love to you that very same night). That being said, for once, Paul Verlaine decides that he’s had enough. He will continue to exist as he knows, for the sake of anything other than himself as he believes it to be, but this time around, it will be because he has learned to love you, and he will live with the purpose of dedicating himself to you wholly.

(He will soon come to accept his autonomy because of you.)

You don’t give him any words in response, simply pulling him down by the collar with the sweetest moan, gripping his hair as your breaths mingle together and your bodies bridge themselves together in the most humane way you both know how. He has his answer.

Paul Verlaine loves you so.

He knows he’ll wage war and conflict with him wherever he goes — born of violence, rooted in hatred, and alive by spite. But all of that changes every single time your lips part to whisper the softest phrases in his ear or when your fingers hold his face like he’s the most delicate being in the world, because amidst the heaviness of all that innate hostility he carries, there is you, and he doesn’t know it yet, but you’ll always be there to soothe him and bring him the tranquility he’s been craving his whole life.

You make him feel more than what he was created to be, and he allows himself to linger in your humanity which you share with him no matter how many times he tries to reject it. He’ll feel undeserving, incompatible, yet he’ll melt into it anyway, utterly and stupidly smitten by you.

A bringer of war he may be, but that long-held burden dissipates in your presence because you never fail to bring his restless mind and heavy heart a sense of peace.

a/n: i imagine verlaine would want to be with someone who exudes warmth in any way possible, but also a part of me thinks that he’d lean towards being a protector of sorts (given his character in stormbringer), so that desire borders on wanting someone who exhibits some kind of innocence or naiveté — someone who can ground him when he’s too far off into his own head every now and then (can you guys tell how much i love verlaine yet?) but yeah, this was a very experimental work for me with a lot of firsts, so i’m a bit nervous as to how this one will be received (though it’s def my favorite one i’ve written so far!)

anyway, again, happy birthday, paul! 🥳 i hope all of you enjoyed reading this one shot as much as i enjoyed writing it!

[korogie]

Nobody asked but my top three sfth plays are

1. Clarissa's D.I.Y Wedding (These men were able to make a cohesive story with character arcs, characters with major flaws but still so likeable, crazy funny, a love story that I'm rooting for but also a yearning lesbian who I am also rooting for. Could go on and on)

2. Oh My God is This a Joke (Funniest shit ever. A fun story where somehow the major point of conflict of a story that takes place in 1940's France being a soldier's wife being pursued while he was captured. Anyways 90% of the reason it's So so high up is because Luke as Sarah is one of my favorite performances I am entranced every time. But genuinely also one of their funniest shows)

3. The Milkman (Just so solid all around. Super funny with a cohesive story and engaging characters. Jemima and David's love story is so complicated and interesting to me that leaves a lot of thoughts for me. Also Peter and David break my heart.)

[sup3riorsese]

Solo Sammy pics cuz I saw a post saying she doesn’t get enough attention on her own and she doesn’t. This is just gonna be me ranting about my favorite jwcc character.

My poor girl has it rough. She had to sacrifice herself to save her family farm, get herself and her friends stuck on a death island trying to do said task (Which I’m sure she’s guilty about), then she had to deal with the company who were responsible for her being there in the first place. Not to mention almost dying (All the kids have almost died but Sammy could literally do nothing but sit there while they tried to save her). In Jwct, she’s all alone. Her friends don’t seem to talk to her much (Understandable they all have lives and are still mourning but even then she’s made sure they were ok with care packages), what makes that worse is that her Gf and family isn’t speaking to her either. I can’t say what made her family switch up but for Yaz, she left Sammy instead of communicating what she needed, hurting both of them in the end (I’m not saying Yaz is wrong for how she feels cuz she isn’t but the way she handled it wasn’t good), at a very brief point after her fight with Yaz, she literally says how no one thinks about what she needs (before getting cut off by a dinosaur attack on the bridge).

Brooklyn’s death clearly took a deep toll on her (It did on all of them) to the point of her hallucinating and even showing signs of masking depression (Not diagnosing her just saying she shows some signs of it). She has clear anxiety at multiple points and obviously is affected by her family leaving her. Even by the fandom, she is under appreciated (In my opinion) and her problems are often overlooked. I’ve seen too many times where when people talk about her and Yaz’s situation, they put most of the blame on her (They are both to blame but Sammy couldn’t fix something she didn’t know she was doing wrong). Another thing is about Yaz and Sammy is anytime their problems are brought up, Yaz takes the spotlight (which isn’t a problem but Sammy deserves attention too).

And the last thing I want to talk about is her and Kash. Kash had been antagonistic to her the entire time they were together. He is one of the main reasons her farm was in danger and the reason why she was there. When she and Yaz release the raptors (that ultimately kill him) she has no reaction (that we see). In fact, everyone moves past the fact they inevitably led to his death. If Sammy had any sort of reaction, anger, sadness, disgust, and maybe even satisfaction (which I think would be very interesting) that could be a thing they explore. They could even say his death led to her being a vegetarian because she couldn’t handle meat after seeing him being ripped apart. I think if Sammy was mortified at herself for being happy or satisfied at his death, it could have led to Jwct where they question how far she’s willing to go to protect the people she cares about.

Anyway in conclusion Sammy Gutierrez is amazing and under appreciated and wonderful and deserves the world. Ted talk over.

[factual-fantasy]

29 Asks! Thank you! :}} 🚗

My rule of "no fanart" applies to fanfics as well. I have now updated my pinned posts FAQ to address this 😌

(Referencing this post)

XDD I'm glad! :}}}

Oof- sorry! No alcohol for us thanks! 😅 But hey- thanks for the offer! :)

@dunkudunk

AAAAAA THANK YOU SO MCUH!!! 😭😭💞💞💞

@elegysonnet

My favorite ancient Cookie is prooobably Pure Vanilla.. and my favorite beast is probably Mystic flour 👀👀

(Link in ask)

NIRAMIIIIII I will absorb this advice thank you 🫡🫡🫡

Something tells me he shouldn't be trusted with a tool that powerful/valuable <XDD

I'm considering the paid drawing requests more and more.. thank you for this ask. I'll keep it all in mind! :}}}

..Thank yuuu.... 🥺💖e

@thesweetishfish

XD That's actually very sweet and reassuring, thank you!🥰

Keeping this all in mind, thank you very much! :}}

(In response to this post)

NOOOOO DON'T TAKE MY TABLET I NEED HER 😭😭😭

@digi-vie

Aww XDDD love the chaotic bag gremlin. And the second one is so beautiful!🥰Thank you! :))

@starrygirldrawsx3

I've been thinking about watching TFP connected shows on and off.. maybe I'll give them a go after I finish Prime..? But aaaa idk.. not having Bulk, Miko and Ratchet around would be such a bummer 😭💔💔

Honestly a paid requests thing sounds great. I've had many times where I've dealt with artblock and turned to peoples suggestions for help. If I could work out a system for that.. I think I'd be much more comfortable giving commissions a go. <:)

@neo-metalscottic (Bibi and Cici birthday post) (Webtoon OC post)

Howdy, thank you so much. <:) I'm hoping my Ko-fi does start to rake in some money overtime. I really don't want to have to do commissions.💔

As for their birthdays... uhhhh I'm having a hard time remembering the dates. I have it written done somewhere I'm sure.. I know that Gerald's is somewhere in April, and Jangles is in August. I'll have to go find those dates again-

Also thank you! :DD I'm so glad you like my OCs! :))) So far what I had in mind for those two was.. well, you might need some context first actually-

The general idea for that webcomic was that it all takes place inside the broken mind of a comatose girl. (This cliché plot is what made me drop it rather quick) But anyways- so all the characters in this world are based on things in her real life.

The clown character is meant to be apart of a species of clowns. They're shapeshifters of sorts. And the shadowy figure is his true form/a beast that he can transform into if needed. This clown character is supposed to be her minds version of her dad. Someone one who always made her laugh and was very friendly. But was also very capable of protecting her.

Now the owl... I was thinking that one night before she fell into her coma.. she saw a barn owl outside her bedroom window. But due to the surrounding darkness, she could only see its head. She ended up feeling like/imagining that all the darkness out there around it was its body.

So now in her dream scape, this black shapeshifting beast stalks the group from afar. Contorting its body into various shadowy bugs and furry creatures. But always keeping its owl face...

He only knows as much as I do, So unfortunately I'd say no 😅 I'm unfamiliar with Skeletor. But Papyrus on the other hand...👀

Woof 💀 this is why I'm just sticking with Transformers: Prime 😅There's too much to keep track of!

A much as it brings me down, yes. I'd like to be notified in hopes I can have it taken down. 😔 Also thank you! :)

(Link in ask)

I see no issue with this XD

Are they bringing ibuprofen? :(

@milk-powrit

Some characters will stay evil and will have no redemption. For example Silas, Airachnid and Megatron will see no redemption. And I cant see any world where TFP Soundwave would work with the Autobots.. same thing with Starscream and his brothers.

As for most of those dramatic battles and moments, most of it will be remedied by "they actually survived the fight and got a second chance."😅

@tango-o-mango

My favorite bot character is Ratchet :)) but Bulkhead is a very close second. I just cant help but love the grumpy old bot. He pretends to not like the kids and be annoyed by the others antics. But the truth is his spark is full of nothing but love and dedication to his team. And he would give up everything he is/has to protect any of them. 🧡

My favorite human characterrr..... well, usually its Miko, but only when she's being really sweet/cute with Bulkhead. "I'll never forget you.." "I wanna be just like you Bulk!" "I cant Bulk, I gotta get you outa here!" "We cant leave Bulkhead! "(Run Miko!) Miko's brow frows and she tears up"

But aside from those moments she can get on my nerves sometimes <XD So for that reason I think Jack is my favorite human character. He never gets on my nerves and I like how much he's matured over the series.

Now favorite duo... ooo that's a good question. It'll have to beeee... uhhh.. man. Its a tough pick. I like Ratchet and Optimus, Bulkhead and Wheeljack are always fun.. but man, Bulkhead and Miko just hits different.

Arcee: "A scout must be silent but deadly" (Miko and Bulk both snicker and laugh). "That's my girl!" "I'm never leaving your side again.." The two of them together just makes my heart swell 😭💞💞

Also thank you! I hope you have a wonderful day as well! :))

@friedfishilove

AAA THANK YU SO MUCH!! :DDD

Also unfortunately, no.😔 There's been no such healing. 1 year later and I'm still battling this condition with no cure in sight. I'm at my wits end if I'm being honest.

@imafrealinrainbow478484

My only thought is "Why do those humans look nothing like Mario?? 💀"

I've heard of Earthspark, and while I've heard some good things about it.. I've also seen some not so good things. I think I'll just stick with Transformers Prime <:D

Yeah I was surprised that "Orion" wasn't more shocked and devastated at being told that his dear friend Ratchet and him were at war. And for this long..

I wish we had a moment where Ratchet got to explain everything to him. Or better yet- can you imagine if Orion was told all this horrible stuff about Ratchet, and then somehow he has a brief encounter with Ratchet? Maybe he was on the battle field and saw Ratchet in the distance, gingerly helping Bee to his feet.

Then they lock optics, and Ratchet looks devastated. His optics are full of worry and sorrow. The way he protectively shields Bee from gunfire.. he just cant see the blood thirst war criminal that Megatron described.

Maybe after that he would start to really become suspicious of Megatron and start to figure things out..

@jade-green-butterfly

Thank you <:) I wish the same for you! :))

@wolfie-777

Judging by your name, I'd say make it a wolf XDDD

[ihave3verything]

During the day you are a journalist, but at night you record your voice for the enjoyment of anyone in need of some 'nightly help'. When a piece about the band Ghost and it's ministry brings you to Copia's world, he suffers. You are his favorite content maker of the voice and ASMR kind, and now you are there for who knows how long. Speaking to him in your lovely voice.

18+. MDNI

AO3 Chapters: I || Characters: F!Reader, Original Female and Male Character(s) Papa Emeritus IV Copia, Papa Emeritus The I Primo, Papa Emeritus the II Secondo, Papa Emeritus Emeritus III Terzo, Papa Emeritus 0 Nihil, Sister Imperator, Ghoulette(s), Ghoul(s), all is listed and updated on AO3 as we go along Pairings: Reader/Copia, Reader/Ghouls, Copia/Ghouls, OC/Primo, Terzo/Omega, Nihil/Sister Imperator, Fic Contents in general (Will be updated): Meet-Cute, Fluff, Smut, humor, Mutual Pining, Teasing, Sub!Copia, Needy!Copia, Switch!Copia, Voice Kink, praise kink, porn watching/listening, Journalism, Older Man/Younger Woman, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, masturbation, all is listed and updated on AO3 as we go along

Current Chapter Contents: Meet-Cute, pining, flirting, suggestive dialogue, Content: 3.5k words Author's Notes: Hello, I haven't posted a fic on tumblr for a long while now, but especially like this. It was usually just between me and friends so there wasn't much to put before the fic itself lol But there are a lot of fans here who may not be perusing AO3, so I thought I'd post this here :) DEFINITELY since I removed all my Tumblr links and any social media ones too with the current climate of the US and AO3 mods warning us too for our safety. But Anyways! Don't expect timely updates, I am busy with work, suffering my usual ADHD, and have many other fics being written on the side (Ghost ones in particular too and a character/reader or two from those WIPs may just make a guest appearance here :)c ). I also am not too sure yet how this whole thing will play out or how long, but we'll see! I hope you all enjoy <3 besitos all around!!

◈━◈━◈━◈━◈

"Do you know that sister's name?"

"Hmm?"

"The one, over there with her lips painted the dark-red?"

"Mmmm — no, I believe she may be one of the newer followers."

Copia could not tear his eyes off of you even if he wanted to and he stood there in a mix of emotions fighting over what he should take the time to feel first. Amongst the awe and excitement, the two that hit hardest when he first became aware of you was embarrassment and fear. An odd cocktail never felt before in all his years; and to top it all off, he still felt the lust coiling within, tightening between his thighs.

His ghoulette was by his side, all six-inches taller than him and dubbed 'Cirrus' by their fans. As she sipped away at a juice-box, her own masked eyes examined you, curiously trying to find what had obtained her summoner's attention. You were as average as they came for the clergy's disciples. She could see the parts that usually called out to any of the papas: thick hips, plump ass, beautiful smile, and an atmosphere of something dark misted about your form. Many siblings were like that though, something bringing you all to a dark following that was kinder than whatever else the secular world accepted…So what could have her beloved Copia so hypnotized by you? And could she join in first before the other ghouls did?

"Do you know her?" Cirrus gives a gentle nudge to his shoulder, lowering her eyes to him. He looks worse than she thought when he first spoke up. Eyes slightly wide though she knows he is doing his best to keep them from getting any bigger; lips parted, so stunned by just seeing you; and his pale cheeks are dusted red in the way she loves when he gets flustered. Dare she say it, Copia looks like he's just seen the reaper themselves, clad in a tempting form, beckoning him over with the curl of a finger.

With a little shake of his head, Copia licks his lips then presses them together. "No…No, I've never…"

Cirrus doesn't believe him one bit, she can feel it in their bond as Ghoul and Papa, though she won't say so. He looks like he's suffering enough.

Copia can hear the voice from where he stands so far away. He's heard it before and that is enough to make dread fall in the pit of his stomach. It sounds just like it always does, perhaps not as purposeful, yet the same low tone nonetheless. And like a Pavlovian effect he was never aware of being created, he feels a hot rush of pleasure race up his body to make all the small hairs stand-up, then back down to cause a twitch in his pants. You hadn't said anything enticing in the slightest, he had heard your laugh first then something about taxes, nothing else. Regardless, the memories, his fantasies, fill his head all at once and he must force back his cringing.

He knows you voice because he hears it at night when he needs to relax — when he does not have the time or desire to find a night time partner. Constantly he is driven to you, no time wasted as he knows exactly where you are. And when he closes his eyes, enveloped by you soft voice dripping with sex, he succumbs to the provocative words guiding him to sweet release.

Papa Emeritus The Fourth, Copia, knows your voice from the erotic audio you post online and he loves to get off to the most. That is where the embarrassment takes root, not for listening to audio porn, not really for it being your main role in kinky roleplay, but that he's become practically addicted to you. Always waiting for a notification that you've updated. Imagining your voice even when not clicked onto one of your videos, knowing your tone so well he can use it to make new scenarios to get off to in the meantime. Worst, he's found himself daydreaming of meeting you one day and what he'd say or do to make you smile and laugh and possibly go on a simple date with him. He's a big pathetic fan of a women he knew he'd never meet and was content on just supporting with donations to you subscriber account for more of your work.

And you're fucken here, in the same building, wearing the most beautiful pair of trousers that hug your wide, thick hips and blouse that shows off your supple breasts and cleavage; enjoying yourself talking to another man. Not talking to Copia who stands there stupidly with a juice-box in hand like a child. Which is all for the best, because if you came any closer (was right in front of him with all your pretty smiles) he'd probably make an absolute dumbass of himself.

Maybe he's just jinxed himself with that last thought, because you then looking in his direction. Copia's breath stops working, it's caught up in his nose and stays there like he can't remember how to exhale. Then you are bidding the other man goodbye (fucken good) and making your away to Copia (fucken NO), or to be more specific, Cirrus who he now realizes is waving her long arm up in a wave and obviously grinning at you (Fucken DAMN IT). His ghouls mean well, they are his beloved beasts, but they could be so frustrating to handle.

"Cirrus, what the fu —" He hisses lowly, daring a growl to seep into it so Cirrus understands how angry he is with her.

Of course it doesn't do anything, because when you are much closer she begins to greet you. "Hello! Sorry for interrupting, I'm trying to meet all our new members."

You are even worse for Copia up close where he can finally put a detailed face to your voice he knows so well. He's tried to make up an appearance for your voice, a temptress figure lying across a plush bed like Elvira the Mistress of Darkness herself. There are so many versions of this woman, all who commonly have those wide child bearing hips made for tight-fitting jeans, but none of them have stayed for long. They don't fit the voice, the words, the tingling sensations that crawl up his heated body from head to toe.

Now he's found it — you are truly there, and everything clicks into place. Now he's going to have to do his damned hardest not to get off to images of you, even if it is harmless (he's not going to be stupid and act like a delusional fanboy, naturally that won't be the case). Everything would feel too weird, certainly so when he is now going to be (forced) into meeting you face to face; his dick may think otherwise, but the shame is going to be waiting there after when all is over.

"Wonderful! Though, I'm not really a member of your church." You smile shyly up to the ghoulette, the skin around your eyes showing the smallest of wrinkles.

Copia bites the inside of his cheek. You're actually younger than he thought, heard, and imagined. The voice matches the body, yet still lies to anyone passing by (or hearing it while curled up in bed listening). Despite a mom-body and voice, you actually appear to be early 30s at the oldest, and late 20s at the youngest. Nary a cease on your face that is from age, only the lines that tell of how much you may have smiled over your lifetime so far. And that both worries Copia while also excites him; you must have a partner with how young and gorgeous you are; obviously you wouldn't care for someone of his age and looks. For once in his own life, there is a sense of disgust — you are far too young as much as you are a full-grown adult with experience to make your own choices smartly.

Cirrus cants her head a bit. "That must be why you're not in a habit. So why are you here?" It's so bluntly put, Copia wants to pinch her pointed ear for being so rude.

"I'm here to write up an article about you all and the band!" Your grin is so wide and your voice (pits below, you voice) is filled with glee.

"All of us ghouls and Papa?!"

You wiggle your head side to side and squint your eyes. "Well, the siblings and clergy members too, of course. It's so crazy how your church has reached out to the masses via Ghost. Usually other churches are going door to door, or being annoying at bus stops and stuff. Just handing out brochure like they're selling you a time-share or something." The annoyance seeps off your whole body and voice, like you've heard something a million times and are sick of it.

The ghoul joins in, matching the energy as she lifts her head up to the sky. "Absolutely! I'm so happy the whole Ghost project was made! Being summoned to join was the best thing to happen in my existence!"

Your face brightens up at that, scrambling in your pocket while also speaking and looking to the ghoulette. "So you really are summoned from Hell?"

As you quickly scratch away at a small notebook now in your hand, Cirrus begins to hop on the ends of her booted feet. "Yeah! Any high-ranking clergy member can summon beasts from the pits of Hell, but when a Papa does, it's super special! I felt it when the words echoed down below, and when Papa's voice was echoing in my head, I totally let myself relax and be brought up to this plane!"

"So he like… pretty much whispers in your ear — if you had one with a form even then, of course."

"…Not really? It was…Kinda like…" Then the tall air ghoul is turning her eyes to Copia. Their amber color is truly shining, so relaxed and almost longing as she gazes on the man; she knows how it looks, its just like Copia's face was when he was gazing on you a moment ago.

"Singing. Papa was singing to me and only me. Copia has such a bewitching voice, he called for me amongst the crowds of so many others…but he needed an air ghoul, and my essence…"

"I felt you there, my ghoul." Copia doesn't try to stop himself as reverence for his demon pours out of him not only in his words, but the piece of his soul that bonds them together in something like a hug. "All of the others felt so wonderful, but just a brush over your being and I was enraptured. So I focused, then you were — mnnn….well, you were there covered in blood, haha."

Cirrus' fang gleam as she giggles. "You're so sweet papa, you even took your frock off and covered me up despite the blood!"

"You were shivering, cara! As your summoner I had to instantly make sure you were ok and taken care of." He remembers the rush of protectiveness he felt when she was there on the circle of old runes — he had purposefully written them just as he practiced for days before, an intent behind every line. That was how it was with every ghoul he summoned, that need to ensure their new livelihood was safe the moment he saw their bare bodies mucked with thick blood that still shone so brightly. Perhaps he had actually fallen in love with each of them then, those decades old beasts who had lived a deadly life away from the Human realm.

Suddenly Cirrus is speaking again, but facing you who had been standing there frozen with the tip of your pen on the pad of paper. "This is so rude of me! I haven't even introduced you to Papa yet!"

Copia snaps his attention to you and he watches you blink a few times before you give him a small smile. The thought that you may be disappointed now to pay him any thought and are just being polite as Cirrus brings him up, swirls in his head. Why else would you give such an indifferent face. He doesn't blame you: he'd be more interested in such an impressive figure as Cirrus too.

"Papa this is …"

There hadn't been an exchange of names yet, but you don't hesitate to reach out a hand and tell them both yours. Copia only hopes his hand isn't as shaky as he feels — grateful for his gloves that keep his sweaty palms hidden.

"Please, call me Copia — Papa is my father." A fucken joke? A dad joke no less!

But your eyes fall to the ground, hiding away a big smile as you chuckle so sweetly it makes Copia whole body heat up in a flush. "Copia," No, no, no, you've said his name in your perfect voice"that's a unique one, really. It's very nice to meet you." And your hand gives his a quick squeeze, then releases.

"Me too. I mean, to meet you too! Eh, your name its, uhh, very nice too!"

You playfully look like you'd beg to differ, but say nothing and now truly grin. "You're very sweet, Copia. Very nice to little 'ol me."

In a race to keep himself from groaning aloud, he pulls his drink up for what was meant to be a sip, only to become a gulp that he swallows loudly instead; he fails to see to see Cirrus covering her mouth to keep her own laughter at bay. After a few clearings grunts of his throat, he attempts to keep the conversation going.

"I love your lipstick!"

"Aww, thanks! I love the darker colors." You give their plump shape a pucker like you are going in for a kiss.

"Though, they tend to be hard in keeping from staining everything my lips touch." You lick your lips, the tint to them not budging, stained in that dark color despite the long hours the party has gone.

Endless images fill Copia's head, each one of your lips pouting, wrapped around so many things, daring to see them below him. He wonders how they would feel not just there, but on his shoulders, across his chest, around his fingers, pressed on his cheeks, locked with his so deeply he'd be weaing your lipstick for hours after. Having their shape imprinted on every inch of his body to make him look like some lovesick fool.

There is nothing left in his juice-box to cover any reaction he has (especially physically), so in a moment of desperation Copia turns his head away and raises his juice to no one in particular far off. "Oh, excuse me! Someone over there is wanting me to go over! Look, more drinks!"

He looks back at you, finding you looking confused and curious. "I'm sorry to end this conversation so soon, please excuse me! I hope we can talk more another time." Dare he thinks it, dear God does he hope so.

"Of course, I'm sure we will with my —" Before you can continue, Copia is speed walking away with an odd limp in his step. You watch his back disappear in the crowd of so many, lost in the sea of blacks and reds like an enigma.

Cirrus sighs and rolls her eyes. "He's a very busy, you know. Still relatively new to his role now as Papa Emeritus."

"I understand…"

Your voice sounds very much like wistfulness to Cirrus' ears, making her wonder if there is a chance she can meddle a little in things that fill her head now. When she tells the others, they'll definitely feel the same. Its very cute to watch you continue staring where Copia went, how your soft lifts all but pout. Oh, how Cirrus wants in, she wants to have a taste of you…after Copia does, of course, if he would like to (and it seems so). The waiting game is one that any ghoul would be impatient about, but the reward is all worth it.

"You were saying something as he left. You'll be seeing Papa again?"

Nodding and turning back to the ghoul, you come back into the moment. "Yes, I will be setting up interviews with many peeople here — you ghouls included — but Copia mostly. I want to hear about his life before and after his promotion. Pick his brain at a few things and learn more about the clergy."

"It sounds like you know a bit already. Not everyone is aware of how ghouls are summoned."

"Aware is the key word here, until you both told me more right now. I've done some reading beforehand by fellow fans and articles online, skimmed a book or two. That's part of my job as a journalist."

That piques Cirrus' interest. "You are a fan of Ghost?"

A soft blush covers your cheeks, and you bite your bottom lips softly in a smile. Your shyness fills the ghoulette's cursed blood with flames, feeling a desire to chase and capture you in her arms; but just as quickly she covers it up, knowing how fearsome her face will look if you catch it in that moment.

"Yes…Not like a huge, huge fan though! But when the opportunity to do a story about religion came up for the news site I work for, I felt the need to cover your guys' church."

"You are so kind!" Cirrus steps closer. It's the same move she uses when it comes to anyone she finds interest in. Yet, what you do next is absolutely new.

"I've been told that before," your face changes, eyes lidded with something dark and alluring that makes Cirrus' focus zone in solely on you. Not only that, but there's a new timber to your voice, your words, that makes her ears tingle enough, she feels it like a warm blanket over her body. "I'm truly glad I chose you and this church as my topic"

Then you take a step closer as well, and there's little space between either bodies. "I'm grateful I'm here to meet you. You're so much taller than photos and videos would lead someone to believe; and so stunning in person!"

"You didn't choose me specifically, silly. You chose all of Ghost, all the ghouls and Papa." Cirrus can't take her eyes off you — doesn't want you to stop talking.

"True, but still, you are all so skilled and lovely in your own ways. I can't wait to talk to each of you one-on-one. I'll make sure you are comfortable and satisfied with our time together."

And Cirrus has never felt herself so captured. She's the lioness here, the one they joke about keeping behind chains so she doesn't play that ghoulish game of run and seek. And despite that, here she is, feeling so heated and at ease by a mere human who is much shorter and far less powerful than she. This must be whatever has her powerful summoner so uneasy, like he knows what strengths are hidden under that plushy flesh Cirrus now wants to caress and bite at.

If Copia doesn't get his shit together before Cirrus and the others snap, he's going to end up with some seriously sloppy and marked seconds. There could be a chance they'd ruin you for anyone else but their pack.

Cirrus' hair blows up a bit, a spark of her element rising enough it seeps out of her in a small gust. Absolutely embarrassing, though not enough to make her feel an ounce of it.

You grin so widely she fears your face will split in half. Stepping back and combing fingers in you hair to push it back, you put your notebook and pen back in your pocket. "I'm so sorry, uhh —"

"Cirrus, that's what you fans call me. I like it." I'm going to make sure you call it out without realzing it when I get my claws on you.

"Cirrus, like the clouds in the sky. I love it!" You give her a polite nod. "I'm sorry to run off, Cirrus, but I need to talk with Sister Imperator about setting up times for the interviews." You nod over to where the blonde woman stands, arm hooked around Nihil's elbow like a leash to keep him close.

"Of course, don't worry — I can't wait for ours!"

"Wonderful! I'll talk to you later then!"

"You bet!"

You are off with a confident stride in your step. The way your hips sway in those perfect trousers that show off your assets, how your shoes click on the marble floor echoes throughout the building. Cirrus squeezes her juice-box without thinking, and whatever was left is now a puddle on the floor as she watches you walk off. Only one thought stands out from the dozens of new ones.

Copia better hope his fat, perky ass gets interviewed first.