#at its best this leans into a sort of theatricality; it's there from the very opening moment‚ as the players stand still‚ just for a second

[mariocki]

Le frisson des vampires (The Shiver of the Vampires, 1971)

"This is where the living make a religion of respecting the dead. This is where the dead make a religion of preserving their lives."

[muzzlemouths]

Day 1 — "Best friend"

"Alright, I've got one. How do you make a tissue dance?"

You stifle a snort, smiling ahead of the punchline. "How?"

"You put a little boogie in it!" Sun slaps his knee with a metallic clang that echoes, shoulders bouncing with laughter that mirrors your own. "Get it?"

"Very funny," you answer. "Did you hear about the guy who stole all that soap?"

The kiddie chair groans under his weight as Sun leans closer, his laughter momentarily forgotten. Suddenly he's very, very serious. "I haven't heard a thing," his rays dance a little, shrinking inward. "Did they catch him?"

Humming, your hand digs idly into the tub of pony beads sitting between you, dragging the answer out as long as you can. A theatrically deep sigh escapes you. "I'm afraid not," you tell him. "They say he made a clean getaway."

A smirk slowly creeps onto your face as he twitches in your peripheral vision. The wall clock ticks once. Twice.

"Oh, you sneaky little—" He breaks for laughter, wheezing with an automated grind of rusty levers deep within his chassis that sounds more akin to a deflating balloon. "The set up, the punch line, the drama," his palm lands with a humored thump against the table, bouncing the beads in their tub. "That was a good one. You're going to beat me at my own game, at this rate!"

"Oh, hardly." Your hand swims through the rainbow sea of beads in search of a specific shade of blue. "I'm just repeating what I remember out of my jokes book."

Sun threads a letter bead onto the elastic cord pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "A whole book full of jokes?" His faceplate spins with excitement. "Oh, pinch me! What a thrill!"

"Yeah, it was pretty cool, I guess. The library billed me for its hospital stay, though."

"Hospital—huh?"

"Well I had it so long, I broke the spine," you curb your laughter behind a façade of seriousness, not allowing him enough time to process the first punch line before decking him with the second. "I tried getting an appointment with a good doctor, but they were all booked!"

Sun is doubled over before the last of it is even out of your mouth, having evidently picked up on where the joke was headed, already, and still it has him entirely consumed by glee. He's going to break the kid's table between you if he slams his fist into it any harder.

Having successfully located the correct shade of blue, you slide the last bead to sit beside the rest and finally tie the cord off with a knot, neat and tidy. It's nothing special as far as kandi bracelets go, but you're proud of the effort behind it, regardless. After all, you weren't prepared to do any crafting today in the first place. Sun had asked you to help him sort the new shipment of beads before you went home for the night — one thing led to another and, well, here you are.

"All finished!" Sun quells his laughter enough that he can tie off his own bracelet; a parade of pastels in every color with the letter's "BFF" at the center. It hangs on a single finger, dwarfed by his massive hand, as he offers it to you with a big, cheesy grin. "Well? What d'ya think?"

The bracelet slips over your palm and comes to a rest just below the joint like a slipper made to fit. "BFF?"

"Best friends forever!"

"I love it," you tell him, feeling warmed by the notion. "Want to see mine?"

Too impatient to wait for an answer, you hand over your second bracelet of the night — a string of midnight blue with chunky yellow stars in between — and watch as his eyes light up and his voicebox crackles with a certain gravel that isn't quite his.

"Pretty," he says. Too short of a remark to have come from Sun. He slides it along his own wrist to sit above the yellow bracelet already there.

"Well, I should get home." The miniscule chair topples backwards as you stand, hands bracing against the table. "Sorry I couldn't stay longer tonight. There's a concert opening downtown and I want to get back before the traffic gets too bad."

Sun follows your lead and awkwardly squirms his way out of the kid's chair. "You could always stay the night," he says. The giggle in his voice is the only way to know for sure that he's joking. "Let me walk you out, at least."

These moments are your favorite. When the world is quiet, and you can enjoy each other's company without worrying about what tomorrow brings. It makes every goodbye feel like it will last forever. Who would have known that a friend could ever feel so much like home.

Sun opens the door for you, but stands in its path, shifting the weight between his feet with a metallic ring of his bells and a doting expression like he has a thousand things he wishes to say to you. Ultimately, he settles for something simple, yet no less fond.

"See you in the morning."

[dell-amor-te]

“Of Blood, Bindings, & Burdens Halved”

Part 2 of 2. (Part 1 here.)

Word Count: 2,449.

Warning(s): Canon-typical injuries, literal hurt/ comfort, no beta but I try my best.

Pairing: F!Rook x Lucanis Dellamorte.

Summary: Healers make the worst patients. And ancient elven gods make for the worst to ask for straight answers from.

🐦‍⬛Read the whole thing on ao3.

It couldn’t be right. Surely.

Lucanis kept scanning the book, over and over and over again. He was certain his eyes were tricking him somehow. They had to be.

Maybe he was jumping a line, or mixing two of them up. But then he would trace his finger from one line to the next, and they would match.

Over and over and over again.

Ma vhenan…My heart.

She had to have lost too much blood. She couldn’t have meant that. Her head had been resting against his chest. Maybe she had heard his heartbeat. She couldn’t have been referring to him himself, though. That was impossible.

Wasn’t it?

True, she had flirted with him. But Nöa had a certain way of disarming people that came naturally with looks like hers. Yes. She was beautiful. Perhaps the only thing conventional about her were her features.

Classically alluring, some would say. Lucanis would agree.

It was also true that at times he almost thought maybe, just maybe. there was something there. Between them. He was always quick to kill those thoughts.

Because it was impossible. After all, most people considered Crows heartless. And he was a very good Crow. How could anyone think of him as their heart?

How could she think of him as her heart, when her own hardly fit in her chest?

Lucanis sorted the book back in its place. He couldn’t keep looking at the page. He’d drive himself mad. Plus, Nova’s shift was nearly over. Caterina’s cane had beat far too many lessons into him, and one of them had been to always be punctual. Whether it was a contract or a social obligation made little difference.

Lucanis hurried down the winding stairs, footsteps echoing against soft stone walls.

Step. Ma vhenan. Step. My heart. Step. Ma vhenan. Step.

By the time he had made his way to the infirmary, his heart was pounding. He stood outside the door for a moment, taking a deep breath. Once he was confident he could at least feign normalcy, he opened the door.

“Thank the Maker, you’re back!” Nova said dramatically, practically slamming his hands into his hips. “She’s your problem now.”

Lucanis raised an eyebrow, pulling the door closed behind him. “What did you do?” He questioned.

Nöa smiled innocently. “Me?”

Lucanis hummed a dubious confirmation.

“Yes, you.” Nova marched up to Lucanis. “Don’t let her have her way. There’ll be no living with her if you do.” He threw his hands in the air before making his exit. “Damn master assassin and yet he caves the second my sister bats her eyelashes.”

Lucanis chuckled, watching the other Volkarin elf leave. “Did the skeletons teach him that?” He asked Nöa.

“No, that’s all genuine Casanova, I’m afraid.” She told him. “You can’t teach that kind of theatrics.”

“But what did you do?” He asked, leaning himself against the cot.

“Nothing!” Nöa insisted with a shrug.

Was that the first time she had shrugged in a week?

“I just mentioned it might be nice to get some air.” She said at length. “Maybe stretch my legs?”

“Nöa.” Lucanis drawled.

“Baba said to give it a week as long as I kept improving. Now look at me.” Nöa hung her legs over the side of the cot. “It wouldn’t be far. Just around the courtyard and back. I’ll even tell you if I get tired so we can turn back early.” She vowed. “Jumper’s honor.”

Lucanis sighed. “If you get me in trouble with your father…” He warned, raising an eyebrow.

Nöa practically beamed up at him, knowing she had won. “It’s all on me.” She assured him. “Besides, I wouldn’t lie to you.” She was already putting her feet to the floor.

Lucanis offered his hand to her so she could stabilize herself. She hadn’t been up in a week, after all, save to go to the washroom. Honestly, the fact that she waited this long before pleading to make an escape from the infirmary was a miracle.

Her right arm remained in a sling, that way her muscles in her shoulder wouldn’t be pulled while the skin and artery mended.

“I’m good.” She said quietly.

“Alright. Tell me if you get light-headed.” Lucanis walked by her, at the ready should she need him.

“I will. Worrywart.”

Lucanis smiled in the face of her harmless ribbing, moving away from her only to open the infirmary door before returning to her side. Nöa didn’t bother with the slippers she kept by the door, in favor of leaving her feet bare.

They walked together. Slowly.

The second they made it out in the open air of the central courtyard, Nöa took a deep breath, soaking in the open air. She loved the infirmary, she did. It was her space, her own little pocket of the Fade. She had chosen it as her quarters for a reason. But she had missed the fresh air.

“What do you think? Want to have a go-around?” She nodded to the empty training circle on the far side of the cobblestone yard.

“Not a chance.” Lucanis shook his head, still smirking. “How do you feel?”

“Good enough to joke with you about having a sparring match.”

He laughed sardonically.

“I’m fine, thank you for asking.” She answered a little more genuinely. “I know it got worse than you all want to say. I was the one who almost…” She bobbed her head.

“Died.”

Lucanis didn’t want to say it. He had known it every step of the way back to the Lighthouse. At one point, he thought she was gone, however briefly. He didn’t often utilize Spite willingly, but his wings had more than come in handy on that particular flight.

“Yeah, that.” Nöa said softly.

Silence lingered for a moment.

“Tired?” Lucanis asked the further they strayed from the main body of the Lighthouse.

“Are you kidding?”

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

Nöa chuckled as she led him onward. Ancient cobblestone with grass growing in between was nice and cool, spreading through Nöa from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. Every so often, when she could be bothered to wake up early and greet the dawning day, the breeze in the Fade would shift just so, and she would yearn for Arlathan.

She missed the marriage of the quiet and the chaos of the forest. But the Lighthouse made for a fine substitute. For now.

At Lucanis’ quiet insistence, Nöa took a break, resting on a stone-carved bench near the very fringes of the courtyard. The nothingness of the Fade below hung close at hand. She wasn’t going to make the attempt, but Nöa almost wondered what would happen if one of them were to fall…

“Did you say something?”

Lucanis’ eyes studied her. “I just thought you looked like you were thinking about something.”

“Nothing important.” She assured him with a quick laugh.

Lucanis almost laughed back. He settled for shaking his head, amused. “It’s good to see you…back to being you.” He said in a very guarded way, in a way that immediately caught Nöa’s attention.

That’s not what you meant to say.

She smiled anyway, though he caught the slightest strain in the look. “It feels good to feel like me again.”

“Good.” He nodded, pretending to survey the empty courtyard. He cleared his throat, but he didn’t say anything else.

“Thank you, by the way.” Nöa offered, scooting a little closer to him. “I don’t know if I’ve remembered to say that in the midst of all of this.”

How nice. She appreciates you. That must be a new feeling. Usually people curse your name.

“You have. Quite a few times.” He assured her, ignoring Spite’s nagging. “Your fever must have fogged up your memory a bit.”

“Well, it bears repeating, anyway.”

“It wasn’t a problem.” He said.

Aren’t you two precious?

Nöa and Lucanis spoke at the same time.

“Quiet.” Lucanis hissed.

“Shut up!” Nöa scowled at the demon.

Lucanis’ attention snapped to Nöa, Spite entirely forgotten.

Uh-oh.

The moment they both shot their glares at Spite, the demon cackled, and then vanished, his cruel laugh echoing after he was gone. Lucanis’ gaze remained fixed on Nöa. Nöa didn’t shirk away from his gaze, though her shoulders tensed.

“You can see him.” Lucanis said quietly.

It wasn’t a question.

Nöa didn’t answer him, but Lucanis could see the way the muscles of her jaw tensed. They both knew what it meant for her to see Spite.

“Do you want me to apologize? Because I won’t.” Nöa said firmly.

“What were you thinking?” He was almost seething.

“A demon shared is a demon halved, right?” She tried to no avail. More seriously, she said: “I was thinking that this was my chance to help you.” When he opened his mouth, she raised a finger. “Don’t you dare say that you don’t need help. You want him gone. I want him gone. I swore to help you get him gone.”

“I was ready to die to make sure that he was gone.” Lucanis shot back. He didn’t raise his voice, but he rose to his feet. “I can’t very well do that now that your life is on the line, too, can I?”

“And why is that?” Nöa didn’t back down, standing toe to toe with him. “Why are you willing to die when it’s your life, but the second it’s anyone but you, you can’t tolerate even the thought of it?”

“It’s not just anyone. It’s you.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” She scoffed. “Why would that matter?”

“Because I can’t lose you!”

The air around them went silent once the echo of his words faded. Deathly silent.

“What?” She said softly.

“You know.” He shook his head, at a loss. “Surely you must know.”

A terrifying reality, one more horrifying than the thought of her fate being bound to his own.

“Did you mean it?” Lucanis asked deliberately.

“What?”

“Vhenan. Did you mean it when you called me that?” His words were insistent, urgency speeding his cadence. Practically begging her to put him out of his misery.

Nöa’s eyes widened.

She remembered saying it, then. At least he knew that much. Even if her lips were loosened by the moment, she was clearly aware she had said it.

“You can’t know what that means.” She shook her head. “How do you…”

“I know how to read. And we live in an ancient safe haven of knowledge.”

He closed the gap between them slowly, until it was Nöa’s turn to fill with anxiety. He took her face in his hands, impossibly gentle for the wickedness those same hands had wrought. And yet her cheeks fit so well in his palms, and her blush-warmed skin felt so good against his fingers.

And when he looked into her eyes all he could think was…

“Anima mia.”

Those words tasted so right on his tongue.

“I…don’t know what that means.” Nöa’s words were faint, carried on a breath that smelled of coffee with far too much milk in it.

“Let me show you.”

“Oh…okay.”

Everything he felt went into his kiss, and Nöa could feel it all at once. His trepidation. His certainty. His uncertainty. His frustration. His adoration. His hope beyond hope. His fear.

It was all-consuming.

Nöa shared in every inch of it, matching his intensity with ease.

It was the sort of kiss you didn’t want to end.

Lucanis pulled away, just barely, his face only inches from hers. Her face still held safely in his hands, she laughed shakily, exhilarated.

Lucanis couldn’t help but laugh, too. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Nöa asked softly, breathless.

“I’m not the best at that.” He admitted. “That’s…that’s the first time I’ve kissed someone because I’ve wanted to, not because I had to. Not for a job or to get information. Just because I…”

Maker, he had wanted to kiss her for so long.

“I never thought I’d see you again.” Nöa said, leaning into him, awkward as it was to have her arm tucked between them. “At the Ossuary, seeing you again…”

“I know.” He pressed another kiss into her hair, his fingers twisting through half-curls. “I…I dreamed of you.”

“Made an impression, did I?” She half-laughed, eyes flooding.

“You did.” He answered earnestly. “Honesty is hard to come by in a world full of knives in the dark. You were honest that night, and every moment since. You were you. And you’ve allowed me to be me. I…”

What did he mean to say? That he had dreamed of her, and yet getting to know her had exceeded any dream? That he was fairly certain it was that spark of affection, that glint of hope he held onto so desperately in his darkest hours, that had been used to corrupt Spite, to bind the demon to him that she now shared with him?

“You…mean a great deal to me.” He said at last. “More than I know how to say. But I’d be happy to show you, if you’ll allow it.”

She took one of his hands in her unhindered one. She kissed his knuckles, calloused and worn. She reached up on her toes, kissing his lips again.

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me now, Dellamorte.” She said, earning a soft laugh from him.

“I’m still not thrilled about the circumstances…but there are worse fates I can think of.”

“We’ll figure this out.” Nöa assured him. “No death required. But I’m afraid a life might still be.”

Lucanis caught her meaning immediately. “A burden shared, a burden halved, right?” And he was more than glad to share his life with her. “I leave myself in your capable hands, my lady.” He said confidently, kissing her hand just to make sure she knew he meant it.

“Maybe just a hand for a while.” She teased gently. “But they’re both yours. For as long as you’ll hold them. I told you, didn’t I? I believe in decisions, not destiny. I’ve made my decision, and I’ll stand by it.”

Decisions, not destiny.

Lucanis pressed a kiss to the center of her brow next.

“My turn.” She stroked her hand along his cheek before kissing him again.

Lucanis closed his eyes, melting into her. He wasn’t sure what decisions he had made that could have ever led him here, to this point, to this moment, to be with her…but he was glad for them, no matter what pain had made them all worth it.

She was worth everything to him, and now he knew she felt the same about him.

And for the first time since this all began, Lucanis felt hopeful.

[enderknees]

“We’ve never seen the sun before. The real one.”

Maybe it’s the way his voice is soft, devoid of its usual cheer as he says it, but this strikes you as particularly tragic, in some sort of cosmic sense.

“I can’t leave the daycare and Moon can’t go out during the day for...obvious reasons.”

You rub your thumb across the back of his hand, feeling the way the metal joints mimic the bones in your own hand perfectly. The care put into their construction still amazes you, even now.

“You’re pretty close.”

“What?” He’s turned his face to you, you don’t look up to meet is gaze, but that feeling returns. The gentle warmth of the sun. You pretend the heat rising to your face is from the memory of the sunlight on your face, and not the embarrassment of what you’re letting slip.

“To the sun. The real one. It’s...clean. Bright. Warm. Comfortable...You’re like that, too.” This feels too much like a confession for your liking, but it’s the truth. “Maybe not so hot, or at least I’ve never been burned by you.”

His grip on your fingers tightens just a bit. He doesn’t say anything, still looking at you.

You meet his gaze, his expression is something you can’t quite read. He’s searching for something in your face, you don’t know if you want him to find it or not.

“I could show you, one day.”

“You could.” His smile softens, he looks away, back to where he’s been toeing a loose ball from the pit around in a one man game of football.

He says it in the way he tells children that they could grow up into dinosaurs. Like he doesn’t believe it himself, but wants to humor you. You don’t like it.

“I will,” You say, with a huff, doing your best to channel the affect of the most fearless children to have ever graced the daycare with their presence. Tilting your chin up challengingly, you attempt to put as much unfounded surety into the words as possible. “I’ll do it.”

He laughs, and though he doesn’t completely turn his face to you, his face tilts so his eyes can come up to meet yours in a shy half-glance.

“Oh you will? How? Do you have it all figured out in that clever little head of yours?”

“I do, actually, thank you very much.” You stand, letting his hand slip from yours, briefly mourning the absence as you take one long stride, then another.

“AND,” You put one finger up to the painted sky, pausing with an amount of drama that would make Sherlock Holmes himself impressed with your mastery of theatrics, before spinning around and pointing at him “this is how I’ll do it.”

His grin is wide now, the last traces of gloom losing their grip on him. Hook, line, and sinker. You’ve roped him into your little game of pretend and out of the pit he was sliding into.

“We’re busting you out, bub. A good ol’ fashion jailbreak. A game of Sunny and Clyde. Just you ‘n me, we’ll see the world.”

You lean in conspiratorially. “We’ll set a fire, and give ‘em the slip while everyone’s evacuatin’. I’ll tie a rope off on the roof ‘n then we’ll scale down it to the getaway car. I’ll take ya home, and you can live in my guest room. I’ll even introduce you to my cat.”

He’s laughing now, your chest feels tight at the noise.

He’s joined you in your little play now, hand coming up to his forehead in imitation of a swoon of appall that makes you laugh in turn.

“You’re trying to get me in trouble. Like I’m some—some rule-breaker! I would never stoop so low.”

“Shucks.” You kick the ball that had made its way over to you as Sun laughed, sending it rolling back to bump against his slipper. The bell on the toe jingles at the impact. “It was worth a shot. I guess I’ll just have to come up with another brilliant scheme.”

“I guess you will.”

He falls back, smiling, arms wide and his back thumping softly when it meets the table top, then heaves a sigh that takes the remaining tension in his body with it.

You walk back over, looking down at him as he looks up at the rafters.

“It’s a promise.” You say as you thrust your hand down into his face, pinky extended in an imitation of the first time you met.

There’s a beat, then he’s interlocking his pinky with yours.

“It’s a promise.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Hello DCA fandom, please accept this little snippet of something that I've been working on :)

[ms-erin-kallus]

Girl Dad

Kallus gets absolutely played by his three year old.

“Daddy!” a small voice rang through a warm summer’s, bright blue sky high above the bustling marketplace that wound its way up and down the crowded streets of the quaint island, Pabu.

Kallus had decided to retire there after the war ended because of its remote location, eclectic population, and simple way of life. They had decided that it would be the best place to raise the three year old girl that was barreling toward him at full speed, impervious to any and everyone that had the misfortune of finding themself in her way.

“Daddy!” she screeched the second she spotted her father as he looked around erratically for the source of his instant and crippling panic. “Daddy,” she said again completely out of breath as she stopped short of the tall, imposing, and suddenly petrified man, totally oblivious to what she had just done to him.

Instantly Kallus dropped to his knees in front of the little girl and grabbed her tiny shoulders that heaved heavily as she struggled to catch her breath. “Are you alright?” he barked unintentionally from fear, which startled her. “Did someone try to hurt you?” he asked as he looked around, ready to erase her potential threat and however he deemed fit. “What happened?” he asked again more sternly to a child that simply did not care.

“I’m fine,” she huffed as she theatrically strained to pull away from him while he furiously checked over her to make sure that he didn’t miss any small injury.

Tangled, dark brown curls bounced in her face as she tried, unsuccessfully, to escape from her father’s grasp. “What happened?” he asked her as calmly as his trembling voice would allow. Bright, amber eyes stared up at him with sincere confusion as his heart continued to slam hard against his chest.

The little girl in a pale pink dress, somehow already stained by whatever it was that small children always found to mysteriously ruin perfectly good clothes, leaned in close enough that their noses almost touched. “Look what I found.” she said as seriously as a three year old could as she pulled out the mysterious brown item that had been alternating between flailing in the air and dragging on the ground behind her as she sprinted up to him. Pride beamed across her tiny face as she excitedly held it up for him to see. “Incredible,” she said more to herself than him, but also incorrectly as she left out the <em>r</em> like she did with most words. It was one of his favorite little things that she did.

Kallus cleared his throat and blinked away the trauma of the previous ten seconds as he looked at what he realized was a costume of some sort. Before he could comment she pulled it away from him to hold up at her side and stare at in literal awe.

“It’s a spaceship driver suit, daddy,” she said to him as she looked back at Kallus with an expression of childlike wonder. “The driver,” she informed him quietly and with utmost seriousness one more time as if he hadn’t understood her the first.

“It’s-“ Kallus began before another loud commotion pulled everyone’s attention in the direction that the little girl had come from a minute prior.

A very angry ugnaught came running toward them as fast as his squat body would allow, his finger pointed straight at Kallus’ young daughter. “You better pay for that, you little brat!” he threatened her hostility, which Kallus did not take kindly to regardless of the child’s now obvious crime.

Silence fell over the crowd as they watched Kallus stand and subsequently tower over the unfazed store owner. The little girl instinctively hid behind her father’s leg when he did before she peered around it anxiously. “I’m sorry,” Kallus began to apologize. “I’m sure that she didn’t intent-“

“I don’t care!” the shopkeeper screeched. “You better consider yourself lucky I didn’t call the guard on her to teach her a hard lesson about the law!” he threatened as he stepped forward and glared at her menacingly.

The pressure hugged around his leg by tiny arms tightened and was more than enough to set off Kallus’ protective instincts. His hand reached back and pushed his child completely behind him, intentionally making a formidable barrier between her and the man that was about to learn a lesson of his own. “Listen,” he growled, “she’s three. She meant no harm. I will talk to her and make sure that she understands what she has done and why it was not okay to do so.”

The agnaught huffed, “she should already know.”

That was a mistake on their part.

Out of nowhere, and with concerning ease, ISB Kallus came roaring back to life from where they had been meticulously locked away for years upon years. The darkest side of him took a step forward with fatal intent before rationality preventatively took back control and quickly re-sequestered him. With his volatility under control, he knelt down in front of his very concerned daughter. “Sweetheart,” he began carefully as he pushed a wayward curl behind her ear, “you can’t take other people’s things without asking first, remember how we’ve talked about that?”

“I’m sorry, daddy,” she squeaked out as her bottom lip began to quiver hard. “I just wanted to be a rebel like you,” she nodded as she turned the sleeve of the costume over and showed him a patch with a very familiar orange and purple insignia embroidered onto it.”

It was Kallus’ turn to tear up at the sweet, though illegally acquired, intention of the small girl. “How much is it?” he asked through the small knot that had formed in his throat. A smile crossed her face as she held the fabric closer to her chest and looked up at him with pure adoration.

The vendor snorted, “fifty credits.”

“Fifty!” Kallus exclaimed in shock, instantly killing the sweet moment, as he shot up and turned to face the man that had obviously increased the price dramatically due to the circumstance.

“You heard me,” he retorted with a smug grin.

Still silent, the crowd that had grown and watched the battle of wits before them waited in tense, yet entertaining, anticipation of what would play out next.

Begrudgingly and without breaking eye contact with the alien, Kallus reached into his pocket and a handful of metallic currency was passive aggressively exchanged which settled the matter for good.

A somewhat perturbed father turned to unexpectedly see his very aggravated wife that had been standing behind him for an undetermined amount of time. Her glare shot what felt like literal daggers at him as she crossed her arms and sighed loudly.

His daughter stood between the two silent and frozen with half of her new outfit already pulled up to her waist.

“I told her no.”

[canmom]

Animation Night 139: Hiroyuki Okiura

Hi friends, running late so please accept a brief writeup today - on a subject that deserves a lot more, but probably best done after the film. I'm also planning a followup film night for the rest of the 'Kerberos Saga'.

So remember those 'realists' of the 1990s? I speak about them now and again here, leaning hard on the writing of Matteo Watzky and, now and again, Animation Obsessive. It's the latter who gave me the material for this night, in their article The Anime Realism of Run, Melos!.

'Realism' is a subject that demands endless examination. For there to be a 'realism', you need something that is not real, and then to bring it 'closer to' realism in some respect. I've talked in the past about Matteo Watzky's The Purpose of Realism in Animation, where he looks at the three realisms of Takahata, Kon and Yamada, which each go to different purposes. To these we could add many more takes on the idea in animation: the Disney 'realism' derided by the Zagreb School, the HDR hyperrealism of Shinkai.

And we can tie that to a discussion of 'realism' in literature. Psychological realism, sci-fi/fantasy verisimilitude, magical realism... or in art, socialist realism and all that. It's a term that is polyvalent as fuck.

My mum recently asked me what sort of animation I'd want to create, and oddly enough it turned out the examples that sprang to mind often weren't the realists. Alongside clips from Tokyo Godfathers and Ghost in the Shell, and James Baxter's scenes in The Prince of Egypt, I pulled up much more stylised bits like the transformation sequence from PMMM: Rebellion, the chase from Tekkonkinkreet, a fight scene from Fog Hill of Five Elements... I didn't show her Aeon Flux because lmao but it would have been fitting too. There's many dimensions beyond realism, e.g. the choreographed and theatrical.

So why realism then?

The easy and not very helpful answer is that 'realism' in its many forms is a device that can be used (well or badly) to different purposes. 'Realism' in animation is especially challenging, and thus by default prestigious, or perceived as such - a sentiment that's evident in the recent 'chainsaw man vs bocchi' discourses lol. Yet there's a certain intrinsic, intuitive appeal in realist animation - it's one of the first things people move to praise.

The longer answer, to try to go beyond what Watzky wrote... I'm still thinking about.

All that said, let's go visit Hiroyuki Okiura! Alongside Toshiyuki Inoue, he's among the best known realist animators, with a list of amazing credits including the spotlight chase scene in Akira, the spider tank scene in Ghost in the Shell as well as (nsfw) some astonishingly 3D-like animation in the opening sequence, the 'everyday life on Mars' opening credits of Cowboy Bebop: The Movie, the running scenes at the climax of Your Name, the lotus eater scene in Magnetic Rose, a groundbreaking fight scene in The Hakkenden... I could easily keep going. It's a very traditional sense of realism, reliant on extraordinary solid drawing and carefully observed movement more than fancy compositing effects.

He's worked as a director as such twice, but he's also worked as animation director in a few other cases. One of these is Run, Melos! (1992), a relatively obscure work which I'd never have heard about if not for AniObsessive's article. As such, I'll let them introduce it:

Run, Melos! adapts a short story by Osamu Dazai, a Japanese author from the 20th century. By the time this film premiered, Dazai’s original was already a near-universal reference point in Japan — the kind of thing that everyone had read in school.

The gist: a rural peasant named Melos is sentenced to death by the ruler of Syracuse. Melos begs to be allowed to attend his younger sister’s wedding back home before his execution. As collateral, his friend Selinuntius (shortened to Seline in the film) gets put in his place. If Melos doesn’t return in time to be executed, Seline will die.

It’s a classic. But Masaaki Ōsumi, who wrote the screenplay as well as directed it, took liberties with the original short story. He wondered, “Why did Seline become a hostage so easily?” In Dazai’s version, it’s unexplained. Ōsumi wanted more realism.

And thus he brought in Okiura, who had just previously worked as animation director on Record of Lodoss War (1990) and animated on Roujin Z (Animation Night 118). They took scouting trips to the Mediterranean and made a point of trying to draw their characters looking Greek rather than Japanese. A young Satoshi Kon followed Okiura, and anecdote has it that he would drink until the early morning, ranting about the anime and manga business. Mitsuo Iso, not yet the star he would become after Eva, animated a very carefully grounded horseback fight scene. The result is sometimes animation by figures like Inoue that feels 'more real than live action film'.

We can compare the 'realism' demanded of the animation with the story. Although Ōsumi hoped to expand on and flesh out the characters and motivations, it's adapting quite a brief parable, and this tends to be the sticking point. I want to see what purpose the realism serves though, and regardless, I'm sure we're going to see something beautiful.

At the end of the decade, Okiura got the chance to direct his own film, courtesy of Mamoru Oshii. As well you know, Oshii is well known for his near-future scifi animated films like Ghost in the Shell and the Patlabor series, and of course he's come up on canmom.gov before, e.g. Animation Night 38 (which currently mistakenly credits Jinroh to Oshii) and 39 and 115, and Toku Tuesday 39. Back then I talked briefly about his 'Kerberos Saga', which is as best I can understand, about an alternate future Japan ruled by the Nazis. The first two films in the franchise are The Red Spectacles ('87) and StrayDogs: Kerberos Panzer Cop ('91), both tokusatsu; there's also about a million spinoffs.

Anyway, despite all appearances at first glance, Jin-Roh was directed not by Oshii but Okiura. Oshii had hoped to do a sequel for a while, and the success of GitS made it possible, but conflicts with scheduling his other works forced him to give up directing the film to someone else.

That someone else ended up being 'allergic to computers' Okiura, judged the most promising of the studio's younger generation and eager to direct a serious drama film. Okiura made many decisions that Oshii wouldn't; his take on the story put a bit more emphasis on the romantic relationship, and he ambitiously decided to do a film with no CGI whatsoever at a sprawling 80,000 cels.

By all accounts, he succeeded. His film is heavily in an Oshii idiom: very slow and contemplative, morally ambiguous, set in the near future, about cops. Its story tells of a member of a counter-terrorism unit in the context of widespread protests, who decides not to gun a girl who turns out to be a suicide bomber, and later encounters someone who claims to be her sister. There's infighting among the security arms of the fascist regime and its main character Fuse performs increasingly inhuman acts for the sake of preserving his unit, all framed through a metaphor of Little Red Riding Hood.

It became a well-regarded classic (at least among the small segment of people who have heard of it), and now if you introduce Okiura it's usually as 'director of Jin-roh'.

I've long aspired to watch Jin-Roh in the context of the other two Kerberos films, to finally come up with my own answer on the whole 'what is it doing with all that fashy imagery' question. There certainly isn't time for that tonight, but I think it might be possible over the weekend. So for this reason, we'll save further discussion of Jin-Roh for now...

Okiura returned to key animation - I'm not sure why! maybe he just liked it more - and it would be another 12 years until he'd direct another film. That film is A Letter to Momo (2011), about a grieving girl who encounters three yōkai who have been transformed by divine punishment, who are tasked with protecting her as she comes to accept the death of her dad.

Although the premise is fantastical, visually it has a lot of the feeling of one of Takahata's very grounded films like Only Yesterday, with astonishingly naturalistic movements drawn by the hands you might expect - Okiura himself, Inoue, Shinya Ohira, Takeshi Honda and Masashi Ando. In a way it's kind of the realists reuniting to make a 90-style film once again, but there's also shades of the experiments we'd see the next year in the Animator Expo. It sounds like it's gonna punch me right in the heart in terms of 'anime about grief', but maybe it's going to be exactly the film I need to see.

So here's the plan for this week's Animation Night entertainment: tonight we'll visit Run, Melos and A Letter to Momo. On Tuesday I'll follow that up with a one-off special Toko Tuesday in which we'll watch the two live-action Kerberos films and Jin-Roh. And at some point I'll try and write something a lot more substantial than this brief intro.

It's 10pm now, but at least Run, Melos! is very short, so we won't be too late. Animation Night will be going live now at twitch.tv/canmom, hope to see you there!

[eddiefreakinmunson]

Like Real People Do (Eddie Munson x F!Reader)

Summary: Ever since last summer when Starcourt fell and Hawkins revealed its true colors to you, you've tried to keep a low profile. The other members of the party swear up, down, and sideways that you're all sworn to secrecy. Even if it means keeping your best friend Eddie in the dark, and dodging the eldest Hargrove sibling who's taken an unfortunate interest in you.

Word Count: 1k & in progress

Series Warnings: Billy being a sleaze, language, smoking, alcohol, drug use, smut in later chapters, NSFW (18+ only!! Seriously minors DNI), fluff, angst, slow burn, violence, blood, all the standard stranger things warnings

A/N: This is quite literally my first fanfic in years, so please be gentle with me. I'm simple, and adore nerdy metalheads, and Eddie got me too good to not write something. In this AU Billy is alive for the events of ST4, and definitely an asshole but a (somewhat, very vaguely) redeemable one. He's good as an antagonist. This is just a preview, I'll definitely write more if anyone's interested! Planning on this being a long fic, in multiple parts. Read on, nerds. xx

~~♡~~

If Robin didn't return from the back of the video store soon, you were going to end up giving someone a black eye.

"Was thinkin' we could see Blue Velvet, roll up to that shitty little theater I see the town drooling over. The Hawk? Think it could be a real nice time-"

Billy didn't give a solitary shit about the movie, you knew that much before he was wetting his bottom lip to ask you from his spot leaned against a display of horror b-movies. More than likely, he was looking to ignore the movie entirely for an excuse to hook an arm around your shoulder on the dubiously clean theater seats in the dim lighting and get his hands on your chest.

Or at least see the starring actress naked.

Though the drawling attempt at schmoozing that rolled from Billy's lips was an idle noise you didn't pay much mind to, not when you caught a glimpse of your exasperating friend over his shoulder.

Eddie was pantomiming simultaneously sobbing and dry heaving in disgust in a bought of theatrics over the Family Video counter, the chain on his pants and wrist rattling.

There was an itching throb behind your eye, the grumbling of the beat-up air conditioning in the store was suddenly too loud, the cheap carpet beneath your sneakers uncomfortable as your weight shifted from one foot to another.

Your were weighing the chances of booking it to the doors like a bat out of hell before Billy could catch up versus accidentally stranding your metalhead Gumby with him when a low keen chimed in.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Gotta deliver the rugrats their shit before they start fighting. Each other or us."

Billy's chin tilted towards the source, a muscle in his jaw working in the sort of affronted gaze of someone who didn't often hear the word "no", let alone have the one keeping him from who he had his sights on be the school's rumored drug supplier. It wasn't much of a rumor, however. You knew Eddie had sold to Billy at some of his ragers he dared to call parties last summer, and the two generally had a vague respect for one another.

But Billy wasn't wasted on a keg stand and sliding your friend money for weed. When he scoffed quietly while still keeping half of his lips tucked into a smirk, something cold and pissed flickered in his irises when they leveled with your friend's, just before you blinked and it was already gone. But it was something that made Eddie grin wildly in challenge from his place now at your shoulder.

That muscle in Billy's jaw feathered again. "I'll be damned, Munson. Didn't think you and our darlin' (Y/N) over here knew each other."

"Well considering we've known each other since we were shitting our pants and watching Underdog, I'd say we're pretty decently acquainted."

The bark of Billy's answering laugh was equal parts charming and mocking. "No shit? Well, I-" He ran his tongue over his top teeth while letting out another throaty sort of chuckle. "The thing is, Maxine never said a word about hanging around either of you. Especially you," pointing at Eddie's amused face, "I never see you past that shithole where everyone parks their trailers and calls it a park, The Hideout, or the school. Think you're full of it."

Eddie's hands shot up in mock surrender, the warm metal of his rings clinking in time with the sound of the chain on his wrist jostling again.

"Oh shit, dude, you got me. Red handed, might I add. I'm now much more of a Smurfs man, if I do say so myself."

You flung a hand out across to Eddie's shoulder farthest from you like a mother slamming on the breaks in her minivan too hard when Billy shot up and made to walk towards the pair of you.

"Hey, (Y/N), tell the army of child minions that we got that copy of The Shining back in, but I dunno if they'll love or hate it, especially cause I think Will is on the sensitive side if you catch my drift-"

Robin Buckley's incessant word vomit and terrible timing, both of which were about to save your ass.

~~♡~~

A/N: Thank you thank you thank you if you've read this far! This is just a preview/blurb, not even necessarily chapter one but it will be included, just trying to gage interest in this fic. I'm definitely more than a little rusty, so any comments/feedback are appreciated! xx

[weaverlings]

music like white noise

A/N: hello i still Care Them very much

-

Hornet reached for the mug on the table, to soothe the tickle in her throat before it was too late. Before-

She coughed.

Once. Again.

Then she was wheezing, her breath torn and itself tearing her already-tender throat. Driven by the foul compulsion that such a tickle could become, she caught herself on the coffee table and snatched up the mug instead, drowning it all in gulps of tea.

This time, she kept the mug in her grip as she lowered herself back onto the extra cushions and pillows stacked behind her on the couch. She adjusted the blanket with her free claws, fought back the urge to sigh, and took a slower drink.

Lace leaned out of the kitchen, relying on the doorframe to achieve a dangerous angle. “Did you need more tea, sweet?”

“Mm.” Hornet tilted the mug and considered the remaining liquid. “If you could.”

“Of course.”

Lace twirled upright and spun to join Hornet in the living room. Hornet offered up the mug, and Lace leaned down to kiss Hornet’s forehead.

Lace frowned. She pressed a hand where she had kissed. “My, that’s quite a fever.”

“You say this like it’s some achievement.”

“Oh, yes. Not everyone could have such a fever, nor be so lovely even when laid low.”

Hornet snorted, which became a cough. She threw one arm out; Lace passed the tea back into Hornet’s claws. Hornet drained it. She’d averted the worst this time, at least.

“Oh, dear. Sorry, darling.” Lace kissed her again, the same as before, and reclaimed the mug.

“Give me but a moment.”

“Not your fault,” Hornet said to Lace’s back, and settled into her nest again. Unthinkingly, she closed her eyes, giving in however briefly to the not-quite-ache behind them: the sensation like rotted webbing, throbbing slowly.

She should have been in bed, but that would have had Lace back and forth all day at her own insistence, and Hornet’s restlessness would have driven her forth for her own tea at some point. Once, her self-reliance was an endless wellspring, painfully and necessarily so. Resisting this habit could still be its own battle.

So they had reached a compromise: this nest, the pillows and cushions and blankets. Lace had selected them and fluffed them up. Lace had brought Hornet food, and stayed with her in between these tasks.

Lace returned with the mug now, along with a plate and a damp cloth draped over one arm. She looked Hornet over – her dulled chitin, her sharp limbs burrowed or shrouded in fabric, absent their usual sense of constant, pre-spring tension. Hornet’s eyes opened; she watched as Lace set down the tea and the plate and took the cloth in both hands and leaned over her again. Those eyes were tired. Attentive, but tired. Hornet was tired, and it was bound to show through sometimes.

“Here, darling,” Lace said, plainly, tenderly. She draped the cloth between Hornet’s horns, where it might shift, but wouldn’t fall, even if she moved.

“Thank you.” Hornet did move, tugging the plate closer. Toast, topped with a careful amount of spicy pickled waterbug. In truth, she had little appetite, but she needed whatever food she could manage. And it had been thoughtfully prepared, with just enough of the soft spread to keep the toast from being unpalatable. She wouldn’t waste this.

She tucked up her legs as she ate. Lace sat down beside her and picked up a waiting book. Hornet set the plate back on the table and lay back. Lace said nothing, only resting a hand lightly on Hornet’s leg, over the blanket.

Hornet had no input to offer, and Lace’s theatrics were, if anything, born from an understanding of when not to speak. There was no weight in their silence, nothing wanting, nothing to fill.

Sleep would be best. Hornet closed her eyes.

But everything, everything grated – her breath down her throat, the fever under her shell, her head’s wavering between pressure and pain. Indeed, none of it was pain, precisely. She could manage pain, push through if needed. But this wasn’t pain, just sickness. Normal sickness. She didn’t need to push through, and in fact doing so would be detrimental to her recovery.

Sleep would be best. She had eaten, now she should sleep. She should sleep.

As if thinking about it ever helped. She grunted.

“Go ahead and turn on the radio, love,” Lace suggested.

Hornet rolled onto her side. “It won’t bother you?”

“Not at all.”

The device in the center of the coffee table was modern and graceful, all whorls in wood and shining metal. Lace reached forward to fiddle with the wires before pushing it closer to her wife and leaning back, satisfied.

Hornet twisted one bright knob. The next thing she did was lower the volume, and then she let the program sink in. An announcer’s soft voice, offering information about agricultural statistics. She flicked the dial.

A sporting match. This piqued her interest.

She lingered on it. Shots passed and caught, equipment wielded with precision and valor.

It reminded her of all the exercises she’d rather do herself.

Flick.

Two former nobles arguing about something, and ignoring a moderator who tried to bring reason.

Flick.

Instrumental music. Pleasant.

But it left her in the same restless daze that silence had.

Flick.

An audio drama. An angry former guard and a thief, something about a cursed mask.

Trials were performed for the entertainment of others, again rich people behaved poorly.

Though there was some comeuppance.

Hornet listened through to the inevitable betrayal at the end of the episode, in part because she wasn’t absorbing anything at all. She was subject to another coughing fit partway through, requiring more tea and a steadying backrub from her wife.

After that, she realized that this would require more focus than she had to appreciate, and that if she had that focus, she wouldn’t have enjoyed it much. It wasn’t to her taste.

Once again, her claws darted from under the blankets. Flick.

An opera. The singer’s voice was dimmed by the radio, but otherwise high and full in spite of the grainy speaker. Hornet listened long enough to determine that it was a comedy; the singer was dramatically lamenting a ribbon lost in a river as if it were a pet.

“You could do better,” Hornet observed.

Lace sang quietly, without looking up, “Just so, ma petite araignée, just so.”

Still, she left it on. It occupied enough of her attention to let the rest of her drift off. And it seemed that Lace was familiar with the piece, because here and there she sang along: sweetly finishing the lament of the ribbon, falling silent for the next section about a carriage ride, and joining in again for a song about cheesemaking.

Hornet thought it was about cheesemaking. She dozed, deeper and deeper, catching less frequent snatches of music. So perhaps the cheesemaking was a metaphor of some sort.

She couldn’t be sure.

-

Hornet sneezed, uncurled, and was halfway upright on one arm before Lace said, “Where do you think you’re going, darling?

Hornet looked over, and stared at her numbly. Her breath wheezed through her mouth. Finally, she said, “Wherever I please.”

And then she dropped back heavily onto the couch and pressed her face back into a pillow. The cloth rubbed into her shell. It should have been tepid, but it was refreshingly cool. She lifted her head enough to pluck at it, and found that it was a different color than before. Lace must have changed it while she slept. Hornet hadn’t stirred at all, so she supposed she’d needed the rest.

“How long?”

“Long enough for me to make soup.” Lace leaned forward and spun the lid off a thermos that had been waiting on the table. She passed it to Hornet. “About four hours.”

The soup went down almost easily. Her sore throat had been replaced by mere roughness, and the warmth and substance itself would have helped no matter what. She took a long drought, drawing in the salt and strength.

She set it back on the table with a determined plunk. “Much better. My thanks.”

“Good.” Lace sighed fondly. “It’s so boring when you’re not well enough to spar. No one else is half as fun.”

Hornet smiled, a wide twitch of her chelicerae. “Ah, and so you reveal your true purpose.”

Lace pressed a hand to her chest. “Wanting to spend time with my handsome wife, feeling her best?”

“Don’t frame it like that. You’ll make me feel guilty for teasing.”

“You always were soft-hearted,” Lace said, her lilt making it a compliment. She leaned in and stole a quick kiss between Hornet’s parted fangs.

“As you say. But enough,” Hornet croaked the declaration. She cleared her throat and coughed, but got her breath back alone. She took a drink of soup just because she wanted it. She sat up and shoved the pillows towards the back of the couch, and commanded, “Come here.”

“Very well.” Lace obliged, claiming the space Hornet indicated so that Hornet could lie in Lace’s lap. “Comfortable?”

“Finally.” Hornet slid her arm up to reach around Lace’s shoulder from the back. She pulled herself against Lace’s chest. “If you try to move me, you’ll see whether or not I’m truly able to spar.”

Lace hummed. “You are feeling better, aren’t you? Don’t worry. I’d not give up such a luxury as this.”

"Nor would I," Hornet agreed. She nestled into Lace's lap, and closed her eyes again.

Her entire life had become luxurious, it seemed. And there were no requirements to earn it; not suffering, duty, nor any performance. She could have them just by existing, which was well enough, if surreal.

But then there was this, too: here and now, the softness around her aching body, the food warm and ready, and – and, miraculously while yet the most natural thing in the world – her wife with her. None of it was lost, even while she was suffering. She didn’t have to earn them, but nor were they likely be taken away from her. This had been proven, time and again.

That, she supposed, was safety.

[kodzumie-archived]

First kiss headcannons with Nagito, Kokichi, and Keebo (my 3 favorite boys) please?

❝FIRST KISS❞

Synopsis; What their first kiss looks like.

Featuring; Kokichi Oma and Nagito Komaeda x GN! Reader

Warning(s); Kissing, established relationship, and Nagito’s self-degradation, but that’s all, I assume!

Kodzumie’s Note; I apologize, but I don’t accept requests for K1-B0/Keebo/Kiibo(?) yet! (Woah, so many ways to spell his name, haha.) I, hopefully, one day will, but I’ll gladly do the other two characters for you! Thank you for this request, it was adorable. I hope you’ve had a lovely day! Muah! <3

➤ KOKICHI OMA

⤷ Ever the jokester, he’ll likely play off his advances as nothing more than a quip; yet another jest of his. Every brush of his lips against yours, so close yet too far to be considered a proper kiss. He tests the waters, instinctual caution before truly diving within.

⤷ He’s analytical; inspecting your visage in order to determine whether or not he should follow through with the underlying verity of his intentions. Every pinch of your brows; the twitch of your lips in which form spherical as you gasp; the tops of your fingers brushing atop his chest in either an attempt to push him away or draw him in.

⤷ It’s an insatiable desire; a thirst he’s rendered unable to quench. For as long as he’s been with you, he expected the anticipated kiss. Though he’d began to dread the unpredictable ticking of time.

⤷ A timer held above his head, tantalizingly searing through his mind as a reminder of what’s to come; what he must prepare himself for. He questions whether he should leap, plunging forth and subduing his inhibitions.

⤷ But—albeit he’d never vocally admit such—he’s anxious. Even as he snickers, pulling his face away from yours to admire your flustered countenance, his leg bounces in response to the flurry of butterflies encapsulated within his gut.

⤷ If he was being honest with himself, he truly wanted to share this with you; to share his firsts of such sensual innocence. But where he faltered fell upon you; did you want to share something so intimate with him?

⤷ It was a matter of your approval. After all, the last thing he wanted was to royally embarrass himself at the ontological possibility that you simply didn’t want to engage in such a thing with him. Truly, he’d bury himself alive if your rejection were to occur after he’d already committed to the kiss.

⤷ So—with due diligence—he preserves his temptations and treads upon steady waters. His eyes keen on pinpointing your reposte to his jests; he’d always been skilled in the art of reading others. In due time, he’ll deduce your answer.

⤷ Thus was the beginnings of what Kokichi dubbed as The Chamber of Paradox. Well, for such a theatrical title the notion itself was rather burlesque.

⤷ Amidst this time, Kokichi’s tongue was laced in the plaguing of fallacy; a lie of self-contradictory. Poignant brushing of lips against the plush skin of your cheek as he draws away with a cheeky grin, and an all-too-knowing sheen within his violet orbs.

⤷ He’s aware of your perplexion. He’s tauntingly aware of the dissatisfaction veiled within your pout. And, within that very moment, he instilled that the tendrils of bitter reluctance were merely a kind lie. That feeling—the suffocating fear of rejection—was a falsity born from within the clutches of kindness.

⤷ But there’s a glory within masking his intentions. Tugging himself back, he departs his lips from your cheek and sports his infamous, mischevious grin as you raise a brow at his antics. When questioned for hos reasonings behind the fleeting peck, it’s as though he’s rehearsed it all before.

⤷ “Do I have to have a reason to kiss you?” He jabs. To the surface, he’s composed; delighted, even. Though that’s the beauty of masquerade, isn’t it?

⤷ He was poigantly forced to bare the weight of your underlying conviction; an impression he wished to have been blinded of. Your displeasure to his initiation upon your cheek; a destination far from his true intent.

⤷ Underneath the grin and boisterous laughter, his heart ached. A prick of a thorn dipped in venom, gradually spreading to the entirety of his heart and enveloping him in a state of melancholy.

⤷ He shouldn’t be feeling this way; he knows this. After all, a mutual desire was needed for him to begin to culminate the possibilities of initiating such shared moments. If you weren’t willing to engage then he would respect your wishes. Your comfort a priority far above his own impulses.

⤷ He respected your innermost discontentment. Thus, he strayed from initiating anything he deemed to reflect such a negative swirl of emotions within you. Even managing to restrict himself from pressing his lips against your cheeks; what he once considered a secondary form of jesting.

⤷ Yet it unnerved him that—despite his restrictions of physical intimacy—you still seemed dissatisfied. In fact, you seemed further displeased. He began to question whether or not he’d done something entirely unrelated to upset you.

⤷ Abiding by the tactic he’d come to know best, he pesters you. Picking at your patience to pry apart the genuine root of your vexation.

⤷ Through the ever-so playful baritone of his, he prods. “Are you mad at me?” A chuckle following soon after as he meets your eyes, hands poised behind his hands, casually.

⤷ To the ears of bystanders, his words hold no truth; a mere travesty of fallacious hurt. But you were not a bystander, and you were not heedless to his innermost concerns. And thus, with a sigh, you caved.

⤷ Truly, Kokichi wondered if he’d began hallucinating in that instance. He questioned if the words he’d interpreted you to utter were a mere figment of his mind; that you hadn’t rethought such a thing. A resonant question; why don’t you want to kiss me?

⤷ Well this was certainly a turn of events. You—of all people; of the two of you—were inquiring whether or not he was opposed to kissing you. In another instance, he’d have dubbed it comical. But the redundant suppression of his impulsivity induced his jaw to slack open, surprise evident within his visage.

⤷ “Say, what now?” Though the words passed through his lips as a question, you both were fully aware of the rhetoric implication. His eyes trained on yours as he attempts to decipher your thoughts within the encompass of your thoughts. But Kokichi isn’t a mind reader, and neither are you; the two of you needed to communicate verbally, desperately.

⤷ You’re hesitant. Your reluctance seeling into the quiver of your lips as your fists clench ever-so slightly. You needed to talk it out. No matter how abnormally in sync and tune, internally, with one another, you still needed to vocalize your true feelings.

⤷ So you swallow back the last traces of reticence, and utter your concerns. The avoidance of pecking your lips, the gradual decline of the kisses he’d brush up on your cheeks as a playful greeting, and his general reduction of previous normalcy of physical affection. Everything he’d done, you’d noticed. And it—albeit unintentionally—was swallowing you in grief and self-consciousness. How ironic.

⤷ Kokichi nearly allowed a laugh to slip at the irony of it all; the comical contradiction of both your perceptions. He was wallowing in dejection at your interlaced satisfaction of, presumably, his advancements whilst you were despondent of his withdrawal of the aforementioned advancements. Oh, how key communication was to the engagement of intimacy.

⤷ “Ah, man! And here I thought you didn’t want me to kiss you.” He admitted, jovial swirling within his remark. Your eyes widened instantaneously at his admission. Why on Earth would he assume that?

⤷ Though you don’t verbally voice your dumbfounding, finding it far within your mind as you eye Kokichi. He paces towards you, violet orbs masquerading with flickers of zeal as he nears you, craning his neck to leans closer towards you.

⤷ You rapidly discern his intentions as you, too, begin to tilt your head; allowing passage for him to—after long last—press his lips against yours.

⤷ Even as his lips hover over yours, a mere few centimeters away from yous, he falters. His eyes flickering to yours for some sort of confirmation; assurance that you truly wanted this just as much as he did.

⤷ Yet rather than the nodding of your head to ease his worries upon your potential second thoughts, he’s greeted with the weight of another’s lips atop his own. A reciprocated desire; swallowing his gasp as your hand finds its way through his hair, cradling his head to draw him closer.

⤷ Time seemed to slow, yet paradoxically begin to race as your lips overlapped his, suckling on his bottom lip in which quivered ever-so-slightly in stimulated fervor.

⤷ You pulled away far too soon for his liking, but the lingering taste of you kept him at bay. He could still feel your lips; the vivid, dream-like sensation of pure eloquence.

⤷ In that instance, he’s breathless. Cheeks lit aflame with roseate sincerity, he allows his lips to curl into a smile. One that you, yourself, find to be taken aback by as he steadies his breathing. Of all the smiles you’ve seen from your lover, Kokichi, this was his most solemn one.

➤ NAGITO KOMAEDA

⤷ The initial kiss was long anticipated, yet perpetually prolonged. It’s a dream―akin to a mind-fogged daze―to share something so daringly intimate with you. Especially it being his first kiss, of all things.

⤷ He’s aware of how his inexperience will cater towards a sloppy attempt, and it petrified him; the haunting, ontological realization that he’s bound to disappoint you. He’s tantalizingly conscious of the relentless ways his miserable self could potentially offend you with how out of tune he is.

⤷ Thus, he avoids initiating anything in fear of a countenance of disappointment from you. He wouldn’t be able to handle such an expression from you; the one who believed in him, and assured him he had value.

⤷ It’s tormenting; yearning for something yet persisting to push it beyond his own reach. At times, he claims himself to be a masochist. Relinquishing his desires in favor of uncertainty.

⤷ He’s already milked his luck; being in a relationship with you was enough to be considered a lifetime worth of luck. As much as he yearns for the feeling of his lips upon yours, he musn’t. He’s already been selfish enough, claiming you as solely his lover.

⤷ Yet the humanistic temptation seemed to encapsulate him within its clutches, easing his mind into a fantastical realm of the ever-so ontological sentience of how your lips would feel.

⤷ Nagito, much to his dismay, was reluctantly selfish. His desires to bask within the essence and encompass of you, you, you overriding his belittling mindset of his absent worth. He wants to smother himself in shame at the thought of taking more of you, but the urge is increasingly suffocating.

⤷ He wants you. He wants you in your entirety. A selfish yearning that he undeniably loathes himself for and insists that he never act upon. Subduing to a misery of helpless longing in which he’ll never allow himself to be satisfied with relief. Nagito, really and truly, was a masochist.

⤷ Even as the inklings of inclinations plagued his every thought, seeping into his casual behavior, he resisted.

⤷ For every moment in which he’s seated beside you, his eyes flickering downwards to admire what he truly craved to graze his own lips upon, he resisted. Biting back his urges and swallowing the remnants of greed.

⤷ He knows it’s become unfair to you. A cage of degrading thoughts compiling over him and staining his heart with the perpetual ink of self-loathing has managed to poison your hope amongst him. With every time you steer your face to meet his, gazing into his eyes for any hintings of unwanted touches, he reels himself away; your lips meeting the skin of his cheek instead.

⤷ It devastates him to be poignantly aware of the doubt he’s inflicting upon you; the despair he has induced within you.

⤷ He’s riddled his professions into a mangled cobweb of mutual desire. Each seam a confession of his absolute, undeniable yearning for you; for the entirety of you. A selfish feat, but one you’ve astonished him with how complying you seemed. Would you truly want someone like him to take this much of you?

⤷ Truthfully, he attempted to gauge himself into believing you wouldn’t want him to. That every instance you attempt to initiate a kiss, it was merely a coincidence; a mistake.

⤷ But he knows better. Nagito is as self-loathing as he was clever. He knew how to read people and decipher situations expertly. He was aware of your genuine intentions, and yet he continued to bury himself beneath fallacy; excuses.

⤷ It’s selfish, selfish, selfish! He knows better than to continuously withdraw from you, when he swore his mere purpose was to provide for you. He’s your devoted lover; the one who gives you all that you ask under no condition nor reciprocal.

⤷ And yet you’ve provided him with much more than he could have ever imagined; much more than he was aware he could be seen as worthy of.

⤷ Time and time again, you’ve wagered yourself in order to reel in his temptations; allowing him to succumb to the piercing tendrils of greed. Hook, line, and sinker.

⤷ One can only dwindle in denial for so long before they’re subdued. The ontological realization that you, in fact, share his desire. That the yearning to press his lips atop yours, smothering you in a newfound world of intimacy, was mutual.

⤷ It’s gradual; a build up of overwhelming tempation as well as the underlying guilt of daring to reject your request. Yet, as ticks of time pass on, he finds himself surrendering to the pith of his long-lastingly suppressed infatuation.

⤷ Fingers curling beneath your chin, he secures a hold your face, cradling it to tilt ever-so gently. His grip just barely burrowing itself into the supple skin of your plush cheeks, inducing a slight pucker of your lips.

⤷ Nagito—with hesitancy painting the canvas of his visage—smiles upon your startled yet covetous expression. A glimmer within your eyes that rivals even the stars as you begin to flutter them to a delicate close; anticipation seeping through your lidded eyes.

⤷ He falters momentarily, pondering of what scum like him has the audacity to hold you this way. He knew he had no right to be cradling your face, pulling you in to just barely graze his lips atop your own pair. Your breaths fanning in synchronized gasps.

⤷ But he pushed forth, leaning in to close the prolonged gap between you two, sinking into the kiss.

⤷ A moan is muffled admist your joint lips as he parts his lips to envelope yours once more. He savored the sensation; the warmth of your lips atop his, the brush of your lashes against his cheek, and the engulfed mewls that you’d unintentionally released.

⤷ He treasured the entirety of that moment, smothering himself in the aftershock as each breath he took that melted with yours was electrifying.

⤷ Even as the two of you pulled away—taking the opportunity to relieve yourselves of the tension and regain steady breathing—he realized the true intensity of his passions; his craving that seemed to be perpetual.

⤷ He realized that he, Nagito Komaeda, was a selfish man. Claiming your lips under the engulfing of his virgin pair. He realized his greed as he took a deep breath, and leaned in for another taste.

[oh-for-merlins-sake]

BUTTERFLIES | fw | golden

summary: after an explosive prank, fred lands himself in detention, being forced to care for a mountain of strange plants. luckily, y/n is there to guide him the way, teaching him about the wonders of herbology and about himself, too.

pairing: fred weasley x fem!hufflepuff!reader

word count: 2.4k

warnings: pining but that’s about it!

a/n: the second installment of the golden collection is finally here!! this was lots and lots of fun to write! researching herbology and plants was hella fun. also spoiler but i think it’s ironic that the game that fred is going to play in is actually a bad one and doesn’t seem lucky at all lmfao.

taglist: @iliveiloveiwrite @andromedaa-tonks @pansydaisy @a-little-too-much @slytherinsunrise @marvelettesassemble @msmarklee1213 @letsgotothehop @finnishslytherin @starlightweasley @witch-and-a-half @darthwheezely @vogueweasley @gcdric @breadqueen95 @inglourious-imagines @amourtentiaa | george taglist: @hufflepuff5972​ (message/ask to be added/removed, loves!)

“But Professor Sprout, I can’t miss this match!”

“I will not hear another peep out of you, Mr. Weasley,” she snapped, her voice muffled by the greenhouse walls that separated you.

Professor Sprout barreled through the door; Fred in tow, who was rolling his eyes rather dramatically. You peered at him through the leaves of the lavish wolfsbane that you were watering before casually approaching the pair.

You smiled warmly at each of them, knowing all too well what this particular guest entailed. Sprout looked back at you with contrition, announcing, “Mr. Weasley, this is Ms. Y/L/N — she’ll be showing you how to tend to the greenhouse on this lovely Saturday morning.”

However, the morning was anything but lovely. Dreary clouds covered the sky, and brittle leaves danced in the crisp wind. Conversely, a sticky humidity hung inside of the greenhouse, making it especially pleasant to let the cool air creep in for just a moment.

Fred flashed you a lopsided grin as he snuck out of Sprout’s grasp. She leaned towards you and whispered, “good luck,” before scurrying out of the greenhouse.

It was no mystery how little Fred Weasley cared about Herbology. Half of the time, he’d snooze to the sound of Sprout’s voice, and the other half, he’d turn her plants into playthings. It was fairly common by now to spot one of the twins shrinking the tentaculas or extracting foul odors from the wormwoods, but no such prank had been as outrageous as the one Fred pulled the morning prior: he transformed Sprout’s prized umbrella flower into a pyrotechnic display by enchanting it to blast miniature fireworks from its vibrant petals.

This would surely be a challenge.

You turned to Fred, who was closely inspecting some puffapods. You pondered the likelihood of transforming him into someone who cared even an iota about plants. And you were determined to bring it to fruition.

Contrary to him, you’d been exposed to the magic of Herbology quite early in life: your mother kept a lush garden of daffodils and dahlias, all whilst bouncing you on her hip in the summer heat. And as birthdays passed, your growing collection of Herbology books began to burst from your cluttered shelves. Most of those books traveled with you to Hogwarts, where you were often spotted in the Hufflepuff common room tending to the whimsical plants. During your fourth year, Professor Sprout, admiring your natural affinity for plants, promoted you from Soil Supervisor to Head of the Herbology Society, an accomplishment you were especially proud of.

You raised a brow at Fred, “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be, darling,” he replied.

You rolled your eyes before collecting a list of duties from a nearby table. “These are the tasks that Professor Sprout would like us to complete before sundown.” Fred hovered over your shoulder as you trailed your fingers down the parchment, “Clean the plant beds, prune the wiggentrees, trim the sugar shrubs, and re-pot the puffapods.”

Fred groaned, “We’ll be here ‘til next Saturday with all this busywork! Listen, Y/N, I’ve got to be down to the pitch by three. We’re playing Slytherin! I can’t miss it!”

“Not to worry, you won’t miss your precious little Quidditch match. In fact, it could be much worse,” you insisted, “I once had to re-pot the fanged geranium, and suffice to say, they are not a fan of re-potting!”

“And you do this for fun?” Fred shook his head, “Bloody hell, woman...”

You pivoted on your foot and started for the edge of the greenhouse, smirking to yourself before uttering, “I could ask the same of Quidditch.” You could practically hear his eyes rolling in his skull. “Most of the game’s spent beating and bruising each other, which doesn’t sound very fun at all. Honestly, it sounds quite boorish.”

He laughed humorlessly, “Is this why Hufflepuff is so bloody bad at Quidditch every year? Everyone’s too busy picking flowers when they should be practicing?”

“Which is exactly what you’re doing now,” you quipped, tossing him a pair of gloves, which he scoffed at before dejectedly throwing them on. You glanced at the clock: 9:00. You had approximately seven hours to tackle the greenhouse with Fred.

“Now, it’s very important that you follow my instructions carefully,” you began, kneeling to inspect the bed of bouncing bulbs that were tethered in place, “Every plant you see in this room is extremely delicate and must be handled with great care.”

Fred raised his brows, as if to question the gravity of the task.

You sighed, “Will you at least try to care?”

“I’ll make you a deal,” he grinned, kneeling beside you, “I’ll do as you ask, exactly how you ask, if you come to our ‘precious little Quidditch game’ later.”

You laughed, “All right, it’s a deal.”

Fred firmly shook your hand, and for the first time, you felt as though he was your friend.

————-————-

“Am I doing this right?” Fred asked as he haphazardly trimmed the sugar shrubs with a pair of dull hedge shears.

You chuckled, “Not the prettiest, but good enough.”

He laughed as he tried to assess his progress. He caught sight of the clock, which read 11:00, before spotting that fateful umbrella flower — except it wasn’t the same as before. Its vibrant pink and yellow flowers had severely paled; its stature slightly wilted.

“It’s not good for the plants, you know...” you said suddenly.

Fred’s eyes met yours.

“Transforming their size, changing their chemistry... literally lighting them up...” Fred looked down, “It places enormous stress on their fragile bodies. Most are drained of essential nutrients in the process, and too often their growth becomes permanently stunted.”

Fred couldn’t muster a single word. Instead, he stared at you with a newfound emptiness behind his eyes.

“I’m sure you hadn’t realized,” you said sadly, “Most people don’t.”

Fred tried to string together some sort of response, but nothing was coming to the surface.

You cleared your throat, “C’mon, we’ve only got a few more.”

It wasn’t long before you reached the last of the shrubs. Most of your time was spent trimming in silence; the occasional snip ringing through the humid air. But when it was time to show Fred how to prune the wiggentrees, he spoke at last.

“I genuinely had no idea,” he admitted sheepishly, “But I am so sorry, Y/N.”

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to,” you contended, “But I forgive you on their behalf.”

You intricately reviewed how to prune a wiggentree, and Fred clung to every word that fell from your lips. Every word spoken rattled his bones. While it was true that Fred enjoyed getting into mischief, it was never his intention to hurt anyone — or anything, for that matter.

And he certainly never wanted to hear the deep-rooted pain that laced your words ever again.

After a couple of hours, Fred managed to prune a decent number of wiggentrees with only a few minor scrapes to prove it. You jovially applauded him as he bowed theatrically.

“You’re not coming for my position as Head of the Herbology Society, are you?” you teased, swapping your shears for a trowel.

“Can’t get anything past this one — just too smart and pretty,” he winked.

Your face flushed with a burning heat, a bundle of butterflies bursting inside of you. Eager to avoid eye contact, you swiftly turned to lead him to your final task: re-potting the puffapods. You tried your best to focus on what Professor Sprout asked of you, but hearing Fred compliment you sent you into a complete and utter tizzy.

Fred cheekily chuckled at your sudden silence as you reached the middle of the greenhouse. You quickly composed yourself, struggling to tame the butterflies ricocheting in your stomach.

“Re-potting the puffapods is a lot easier than it sounds. Honestly, I find that using my bare hands gives me a much better understanding of where their roots lie. You don’t want to disturb those, you see.”

You tossed your gloves to the side, and Fred followed suit. You rolled your sleeves to your elbows before gently digging your fingers into the soft soil of the pot closest to you. “Here,” you nodded for Fred to come closer, “Come see what they feel like.”

His stomach flipped as your delicate fingers clasped around his large, rough hand. You guided his hand under the soil until you could both feel the roots that intertwined below. You suddenly realized how close you stood to Fred. Every breath that escaped from his lungs practically shot into your own. The same warmth that had flooded your face earlier returned once more.

“Scoop around those to move it to its new home,” you explained softly, carefully maneuvering his hand to scoop the purple puffapod.

You smiled at him, wondering if he was thinking the same things you were: how the morning had been surprisingly delightful; how bolts of electricity zipped through your body when your hands met; and how the autumnal sun was occasionally peeking through pockets of clouds. It beared down just enough warmth through the sheer greenhouse windows to comfort you.

You shook your thoughts and asked Fred, “Think you got it?”

“Think so,” he nodded, an encouraging smile plastered to his lips.

He demonstrated his competency with the task on his first attempt, so you trusted him to the smaller puffapods as you began tackling the bigger ones.

You sighed, “Perhaps we’ll see some Painted Ladies today.”

Fred furrowed his brows, “Rest assured, there are plenty of those hanging in this ancient castle.”

“No!” you laughed, “Not literal painted ladies — the butterflies!”

Fred laughed with you, “The butterflies? Who in the bloody hell decided ‘Painted Lady’ would be a proper name for a butterfly?”

“I don’t know that, but I do know that hundreds of them migrate in around this time of year,” you explained, “It’s a sight to see! Trelawney always says, ‘Good fortune will be brought unto those who witness it!’”

Fred laughed at your spot-on impression, “Is that so?”

“‘Course! And if the rain holds out a little longer, they might just make an appearance,” you said, peering outside.

You perused the landscape in silence. Without turning back to Fred, you muttered, “Seven years here, and I still haven’t seen it.”

He instantly sensed the deep disappointment that colored your words. And he realized that this actually mattered to you. He recognized that this was something you believed was truly absent from your time here — time that was quickly running down the hourglass.

Mollifying your melancholy, Fred changed the subject, and before you knew it, you were both animatedly chatting as you slaved over Sprout’s tedious task. He told you all about how his mum made him de-gnome the gardens growing up, and how everything “just tasted better” with fresh ingredients he and his siblings harvested from their backyard. Meanwhile you taught him to identify various trees by the pattern of their leaves and identified the part of the year each flower flourished.

He admired your commitment to such seemingly insignificant creatures. Though he’d only known you shortly, he knew you loved these plants; the way your eyes lit up at the sight of a fresh bud blooming in the bushes; or the way you rattled off the perfect way to keep a flutterby bush alive in the dead of winter. You had him longing to find beauty in even the darkest corners of the world.

And part of that beauty he had found in you.

Once you finished the last of the puffapods, you dusted your hands and turned to Fred. A sudden sadness bloomed in your chest as you watched him wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead.

Fred felt a similar sorrow burrowing inside of him.

“Well, we did it… And with,” you glanced at the clock, “about an hour to spare.”

He nodded, “It was nice working with you today, Y/N.”

You nodded, “Yeah, you as well!”

“It’s surprising how much beauty lies in even the tiniest of plants.”

Your eyes sparkled up at him in response; as if he were a beautiful rosebud basking in the sun with its petals swaying in the gentle wind. He didn’t want to let the moment go.

“I was thinking maybe you and me could — bloody hell!”

Fred’s eyes widened, a grin exploding onto his face. Before you could ask, he swiveled you to face the long anticipated miracle.

Your hand flew to your mouth, “Merlin!”

You bolted out of the greenhouse as Fred trailed closely behind. Hundreds of butterflies soared overhead; their bright orange wings sonorously fanning your skin. The steady breeze that flitted through the air could’ve soothed a thousand scorching summers.

You slowly reached upwards, allowing the dainty creatures to dance around your fingertips. You laughed at the sensation, and at the fact that you couldn’t help but cry.

You were levitating at the hands of one of Mother Nature’s finest masterpieces.

Fred was dazed and delighted standing there amidst the storm of butterflies. Despite this, he was careful not to encroach on a moment so destined for you that it felt wrong to impose himself on the memory.

You shook your head with laughter as you turned to face him, “Can you believe it?!”

He shook his head in disbelief, “This is wicked!”

“To think I might have missed it if it would have just been me in the greenhouse! I would’ve been finished hours ago!” you exclaimed, abruptly hugging Fred in the process, “Thank you, Fred! Thank you!”

And as if he’d done it a million times before, Fred wrapped his arms around you. The sweet scent of your perfume nearly intoxicated him, and the thunderous flight of Painted Ladies became his new favorite melody. The familiar sensation of butterflies fluttering inside of him consumed him yet again.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

You pulled away, your hands lingering on his arms. “Guess you better get going. Don’t want to miss the big match!”

“But I’ll see you in the stands, yeah? You promised,” he playfully reminded you.

“Definitely,” you replied, a warm blush flooding your face.

You waved goodbye as Fred started over the hill. He practically skipped towards the Quidditch pitch and recalled Trelawney’s famous claim: good fortune will be brought unto those who witness the great migration.

He hoped that was true.

And not because of the Quidditch match.

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Everything, Everywhere | The Mikaelson Boys

Hello Lovelies! I circled back to my element and wrote a more traditional Mikaelson Boys fic. Did I reuse the theme of a ball? Yes, I am a weak and lazy woman. Did I make the fic completely implausible and touchy? You know I did, they’re vampires and I will let them touch whoever they want (with consent of course). Anyway, it’s honestly just a cute, kinda steamy romance. I altered some of the points from the universe but you have to squint to see where. You know, my entire gambit. You could use this as a prologue for my other fic, Big Decisions, but this is more than fine as a standalone. Anyways, I hope you are all doing well and that this story brings you joy! Until next time <3 

Description: Y/n is part of a founding family and gets invited to a Mikaelson ball. Somehow she manages to enamour three of the brothers. They soon discover she has a few secrets that they’re more than willing to indulge.

Pairing: Fem!Reader x The Mikaelson Boys

Warnings: Kudos to me I think there are none

Word count: 10k (oops)

Tags: Fluff, smut if you squint (more like nudity)

“Are you heading home this weekend?” Lily twirls a strand of blonde hair between her fingers, “Mama told me there’s an event.”

Your best friend lays on your bed as opposed to her own, her legs dangling over the edge. Her eyes are closed, probably halfway to being asleep. It’s been this way since the two of you left for college three years ago, always more in your space than her own. You’re lucky that way, you have a best friend who would follow you across the country if you wanted her to. Honestly, you would do the same. Luckily, though, you decided on only two hours away away from home. Just far enough to find your footing. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. 

You smile softly at her, swiveling in your chair, “what event? My parents haven’t said anything to me.”

Your family is a founding family, just like Lily’s is. That’s how the two of you became best friends, it was practically destined. You were babies at the same time and your parents brought you to every meeting together. You were inseparable long before you can remember.

Lilly yawns, curling her legs to her chest, “I think it’s some sort of ball. I’m not too sure, I think we got invitations,” Lily rolls her eyes as if the concept of a hand written letter offends her very being, “and they probably just forgot or assumed I would tell you. Isn’t your mom, like, the head of the committee now?”

You nod at her, closing your own eyes for a second, “yeah she’s always got something going on. I swear she forgets she even has a daughter half the time.” You let your mind drift to the other half of the conversation, “Invitations? That’s exciting.”

You don’t have to look at her to know that she’s rolling her eyes again. You crack an eye open anyway just in time to glimpse her do that very thing. You giggle lightly, shaking your head. 

Always one for theatrics, “careful, Lil, your tomboy is showing. What would your mother think if she could see you up in arms over a silly, little note, hmm?”

She scowls at you before letting the grin crack through, flipping her middle finger up at you and mouthing bite me. 

You lean your head back against your chair, “I’m not even sure if mama wants me to come. She hasn’t said anything about this to me. She called me yesterday and it didn’t come up once. Maybe I should just stay here.”

“Not true,” Lily curls her fingers at you, beckoning you to join her on the bed, “she’s just busy these days. Remember how she was when we were little?”

You move to the bed, curling next to your best friend, “you mean how she was always around? She went from helicopter parent to too busy to text me back.”

You yawn, closing your eyes and letting the lullaby of sleep on your limbs sing a little louder. Lily cuddles closer to you, almost gone herself. You wish you could hold onto these moments. These fleeting minutes of comfort in your best friend’s arms. It’ll be gone all too soon. You almost don’t want to fall asleep. Laying next to her feels like the calm before the storm and you want to soak up as much of it as you can. Your heavy eyelids, however, have other plans.

“You’re coming. If I have to go then so do you. I’m sure this weekend will be different,” her voice is the last thing you hear before you drift off, “I can feel it.”

                                 *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Sure enough, when you pull into your parent’s driveway after dropping Lily off at her own house, your mother bursts through the door, a wide smile on her face. You let your own smile drown the nerves you’ve been fighting for the last three hours, practically falling out of the car to get to her. She wraps you in a hug, her familiar honeysuckle and lilac scent trickling around you.

“I missed you, mama,” you whisper against her shoulder and she squeezes you tighter for a second before letting go.

“Oh honey,” she crinkles her nose at you, her face the picture of serene joy, “what’s to miss? I’m always right here. I, however, missed you so much.” She leads you into the house, her arm around your shoulders tight, “Tell me all about everything!”

You suck in a breath as you enter your house, letting your shoulders sag as you pass over the door frame. You’re home, finally. You glance around quickly at everything you’ve missed for the last few months. You glance at family photos, most of which include Lily, and the random trinkets your parents have collected over the years. There are a few new ones and you make a mental note to look at them later. 

You settle on a stool at the kitchen counter, leaning your head in your hand, “you first, mama. What’s this about a ball? And an invitation, hmm? You’ve been holding out on me.”

Her eyes widen, telling you everything you need to know. She forgot. You really aren’t that surprised. It makes you feel better, at least the reason she didn’t tell you wasn’t because she didn’t want you to attend. Lily was right, you’ll have to let her say I told you so when you see her next.

“Oh shoot,” she snaps her fingers, rushing to the foyer, her voice floating to you as she turns the corner, “I’m so sorry honey, it completely slipped my mind. I barely had a chance to glance at my own invitation,” she comes back into view, now with two envelopes in her hand, “here you go!”

She hands you the envelope and you almost gasp at how luxurious the paper feels in your fingers. The cardstock is definitely of the more expensive selection and you blanche. Who on earth could be sending this? You read your name on the card drawn in an elegant script. Handwritten. You had been joking with Lily when you thought that but now, looking at it first hand, it almost offends you as well. You could never write like that.

You open it carefully, making sure to not taint the red seal. You’re pretty sure your heart would collapse if that happened. This has to be one of the most beautiful things you have ever touched. You pull the equally luxurious note from the envelope, your eyes dancing over the paper. 

Please join the Mikaelson Family this coming Saturday at seven o’clock for dancing, cocktails, and celebration. 

Your heart stops. This coming Saturday. Saturday. As in today Saturday. You whip your head up to stare at your mother, your mouth falling open. 

“Mama,” this time your eyes widen, “this is tonight!” you hiss, your brows shooting up, “I can’t attend this! There’s no time, it’s two in the afternoon already!”

She rolls her eyes and for a moment you picture Lily and how she would call you dramatic. You can practically hear her voice. Just wear jeans you princess. You scoff at imaginary Lily. You can’t attend a ball in jeans, not that that would stop her at all.

“You can and you should attend,” she places a finger under your chin, drawing your eyes to meet hers, “the Mikaelson’s are new to town and have invited us. It’s only polite that we attend. Besides,” she winks at you and your cheeks flood with heat, “they are quite the handsome bunch. Perhaps you can end this dry spell? Give me some grandbabies?” 

You choke at her words, pulling your face from her fingers with burning skin, “oh my god, mama! I’m almost certain you should not be condoning grandbabies! Besides, I have nothing to wear so I highly doubt I’ll be the one pulled from the crowd. Reproduction rates are looking slim, I am sorry to say!”

She laughs, her eyes crinkling, and you can’t stop yourself from joining her, “alright, alright. No grandbabies. Yet. However, I’m not so sure how you can be so certain when you haven’t even looked at what I picked up for you. I quite think you’re going to change your mind, honey bunch.”

Your laughter stops abruptly as she leaves the room for the second time. You hear her jog up the stairs and your interest is officially peaked. She never jogs. What on earth has she done? You rack your brain, trying to picture what she’s going to show you now. You don’t have much time to sit on your thoughts, however, because soon you can hear her feet on the stairs again, still jogging, now humming a tune you can’t place. 

When she comes back into view, your mouth falls open. In her hands is a gown. No, not just a gown. In her hands is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. It’s a black, sequined number with a full skirt and a slit that looks like it will rest a touch lower than your hip. The straps keeping it on the hanger are thin, almost nonexistent, and the bodice has a deep but modest dip. When she moves it sparkles like a diamond, catching the sun rays pouring in through the kitchen window. She holds it up, letting it flow to its full effect in front of you, and you gasp, your hands flying to your mouth. 

You can feel the tears prickling at the edge of your vision and you silently scold yourself for being so emotional, “mama, where did you get this? It’s too much!”

Her smile falters, minutely, but you still see it and curse silently, “you don’t like it?”

You stand quickly, your eyes wide, “no! That’s not it,” you take the dress from her, afraid it’ll disappear if you don’t touch it, “this must have cost a fortune is all! How can we afford this?”

It’s true, the dress looks like a million bucks and probably costs as much. You’re a founding family, sure, but that doesn’t instantly equate to old money. It doesn’t even mean new money. Your family has never struggled to get by but you also know that something this extravagant would have definitely set your father back a pretty penny. You don’t want your family to waste their hard earned money on something this frivolous, even if it is the most stunning thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on.

Your mother’s smile returns to its full brilliance and she shakes her head, “it didn’t cost me a thing, honey, don’t worry. Mrs. Jackson down the street owed me a favor and I asked if she had anything particularly pretty laying around. She pulled this from her closet. She also told me to let you know that it’s yours if you would like.”

You hug the dress tiger to your chest, your mouth gaping further, “I can keep this?”

Your mother giggles, bobbing her head up and down quickly. She looks like she’s ready to start jumping. You don’t blame her, you’re half a second away from doing the same thing. You could scream from how ecstatic you are.

“Come, honey,” your mom grabs your hand, dragging you up the stairs with her, “I think it’s high time we start getting ready for tonight, don’t you think? You have some Mikaelson’s to wow!”

                            *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

When seven o’clock rolls around you’re standing outside the biggest mansion you’ve ever laid your eyes on. Its white pillars taunt you, each one large enough to hide your body. Twice. You’re alone, spare the people around you milling in and out of the large doors. Your mother had dropped you in front while her and your father went to park the car. Never before in your life has a house made you feel this small. This alone. You pull your shawl, a sheer black number, around your shoulders and shrink slightly.

A hand lands on your shoulder and you jump, spinning around quickly only to be greeted with Lily, whose face is twisted from the laughter pouring out of her. She clutches her stomach from the force, wrinkling the red satin dress she’s wearing. You take a moment to admire how much it suits her. It’s a little bold for your tastes but she wears it like no one else could. Her hair is twisted on the top of her head, a few curls falling to frame her face. She looks amazing, not that you had any doubts.

You lightly smack her shoulder, finally letting a few giggles loose, “you scared me you idiot!” You turn your eyes back to the mansion, swallowing the lump of nerves growing in your throat, “take a look at this place, will you. It’s huge! Have you ever seen a house this big? What could someone possibly need a house this big for?”

“Yeah it’s something alright,” her eyes drag down the hulking facade before meeting yours once more, a naughty smirk now on her red lips, “and I’m sure the inside is even nicer! Let’s go!”

She grabs your hand, all but dragging you over the threshold. Light pours over you, catching the sequins on your dress and making it sparkle delicately, something that would usually make you squeal however your attention is currently elsewhere. That elsewhere is the dual grand staircase in the center of the room. It’s encased in pillars, the feature leaking in from the exterior of the mansion. It’s bronze railings are strung up with thousands of twinkling lights. The staircase is easily the focal point of the foyer. 

But not because of the lights. 

Lily digs her nails into your hand, pulling you to a screeching halt, “are you seeing what I’m seeing right now?”

Her eyes are glued to the same place that yours are, dragging up and down the staircase with little care to whoever might be watching her little show. You choose a less outright form of gawking, opting to look all around the room while still making little glances at your main focus.

“Yeah, Lil, I think I am,” you gulp, your eyes training on three sinfully gorgeous men, “mama said they were handsome but this,” you let the end of your sentence drop, not having nearly the vocabulary to explain the Mikaelsons.

In total, there are five people on the staircase. Four men and a woman. Each one is gorgeous in their own right. You mull over the woman first. If you thought that you looked nice before you left, that’s pretty much gone now. She’s absolutely stunning. Her blonde hair lays in a sheet over her shoulders, winding almost to her base of her spine. She wears an emerald gown, one fitted to every dip and curve of her body like it was spun by Aphrodite herself. You have to look away, she’s the kind of pretty that makes you feel like you’re not worthy of seeing it.

Your eyes travel to the man next to her and your mouth goes dry. He’s tall. That’s the first thing you notice. If you were next to him he would easily tower over you. Not just because of his height, though. You shift your focus to his arms and the way the sleeves of his tux hug them tightly. You have no doubts this man could rip you in two if he wanted to. He stands at ease, his eyes wandering the faces of those closest to him as he lifts a hand to smooth over his brown hair. At least he doesn’t look to be in the killing mood.

Behind him is a man with blonde hair. Even from across the room it looks softer than silk and your palms itch to run through it. He leans against the railing, a glass of champagne loose in his fingers. His eyes are on the others but he has the appearance of a man who is a thousand miles away. Your heart hurts at the thought but you brush past it. You don’t know him and you’re most likely wrong. Still you give him another brush over, wishing slightly that he would crack even a hint of a smile.

You shake your head, moving to the man at the top of the stairs. He’s alive with something fiery, speaking to the others with animated hands and laughing hard. You can’t hear him over the crowd around you but, gods, you wish you could. It’s probably nothing important but, by the looks of him, he could make anything sound special. He throws his head back laughing, his brown hair flopping wildly. You can’t look at him for long either but not for the same reason you couldn’t look at the woman. No, you can’t look at him because you’re afraid if you look any longer than you’ll be sucked in forever.

When you look at the last man you shiver. It’s not the kind of shiver that makes you feel exhilarated though, it’s the opposite. Your blood runs cold when you look at him and, when his eyes meet yours, you look away instantly. You can feel his eyes burning into your back for a few moments after and you hate it. Unlike the rest of them, this man makes you feel ice cold.

You tug on your best friend’s hand, desperate to get away from the man, “come on, Lil, let’s go find the champagne.” 

Lily’s eyes light up at the thought, instantly taking the lead on this new expedition, “girl you read my mind!” 

You take one last glance towards the staircase as she pulls you into another room, momentarily catching three pairs of brown eyes before scampering around the corner. Your cheeks are hot when you’re finally out of their vicinity. You hadn’t realized how heavy the air around them had been. Now that you can’t see them your bones feel marginally lighter. Something nags at you though, a loss of sorts. You rub a hand over your chest, massaging the ache away.

Lily pushes a cool glass into your hand, lifting her own to her lips. You follow suit, breathing in the sugary scent before letting the sweet bubbles flow down your throat. They pop, soothing your flaming chest.

“Shit,” Lily breathes, “everything about this screams money. The invitations, the house, this damn champagne. What’s next? A pool of synchronised swimmers?” Her eyes wander the room, her fingers tight around the glass, “I’m not used to this Great Gatsby level of wealth. It’s making my head spin a little. This is my parent’s scene, not mine.”

You nod lightly, her words everything you’ve been dying to say. It’s magnificent but you’ve never felt more out of place. Not even the founders day balls are like this. At least Mrs. Lockwood has the good sense to cater to the modesty of the town. Before you can answer, however, a voice joins your conversation.

“My apologies, my brothers like to go overboard when throwing parties. It’s not quite my taste either, a little too stuffy if you ask me.” 

You spin around to the sight of the woman from the stairs and your heart pounds hard in your chest. She’s even more beautiful up close, like a Van Gogh masterpiece. Her voice is accented and smooth, impossibly so. You feel like a peasant in her presence but her smile is light and it helps to soothe your nerves a touch. When you look at Lily, though, her cheeks are beet red and her eyes are wide. 

“Oh my, I am so sorry! I didn’t think anyone would hear me besides,” she nudges you lightly, the smile she’s plastered on her face sheepish, “this one here. It really is gorgeous. Perhaps university has lowered my standards.”

You watch Lily fumble her words and you don’t blame her. This girl seems like she was made to insite insecurity and you mean that in the very best of ways. Despite her slight enthusiasm, though, Lily’s eyes flow over the woman slowly. You can tell she’s interested. By the way her stares are being reciprocated, you would say she isn’t the only one. You smile at that.

The woman laughs, her eyes filled with mirth, “your standards aren’t low, this party is just a nightmare. I’m Rebekah, one of the many Mikaelsons you will surely encounter tonight,” she looks over her shoulder, her eyebrows furrowing slightly, “and it looks as though you’re going to get the immersive experience.”

You, too, look over her shoulder and your heart stops. The three men from the staircase, the ones who didn’t make your blood run cold, walk towards you slowly, stopping here and there to welcome guests. The tall one catches your eye and you freeze, a deer caught in the headlights. He says something to the other men and they join in looking at you. You swallow hard, your insides doing somersaults at the sight of them. A deer caught in three headlights, it would seem. 

You look back at Rebekah, your eyes blown wide from the panic rising in your chest. She isn’t looking at you, her eyes still locked on your best friend. They’re in the middle of a conversation that you haven't been paying attention to. You tune back in just in time to hear Lily ask about the gardens behind the house. You scrunch your nose. What gardens?

“Yes, they’re marvelous,” Rebekah leans towards Lily, a glint in her eyes, “and much less crowded. I could show you around them if you’d like?” 

Oh no. No no no. You can see the gears turning in your best friend’s head and the smile that blossoms on her face. You know what’s about to happen and for a moment time stands still. She’s really going to do it, isn’t she? 

She looks over at you, tossing you and apologetic squint before meeting Rebekah’s wondering eyes, “I would love that! Lead the way.”

You watch in slow motion as your best friend wanders away, once more looking over her shoulder to mouth a quick I’m sorry. You roll your eyes at her, murmuring a silent you owe me. You close your eyes briefly, tipping the remainder of your champagne into your mouth. You set your glass down as the alcohol swirls in your stomach, adding a kind of weightlessness to your movements. You embrace it, your eyes scanning the ornate walls. What the hell are you going to do now?

A breeze swirls around you, a myriad of spices hitting your nose just as a honeyed voice breaks your daze, “this house was built in the seventeenth century. As a matter of fact, those are the same walls. I do apologize, we’re a little slow when it comes to modernization. I know it can be a lot to take in, if you need another moment to confront them I do understand.”

You turn quickly, your cheeks hot to the touch, and you find yourself inches away from one of the men from the staircase. You bite your cheek, you really need to figure out their names. Up close you see that you were right about him, he does indeed tower over you. You have to bend your neck significantly to make comfortable eye contact. You almost wish you hadn't, though, his dark eyes flooding your chest with butterflies.

“I think I’ve had my fill of the walls but thank you for your consideration,” you pull your wrap tighter around you, clutching it like it's the source of magic that is helping you keep your composure, “and for the history lesson. This house is beautiful.”

He smiles widely, an action so doused in beauty that your head spins, “thank you, it was my father’s. I am Elijah, I don’t believe we’ve met before,” his eyes flit across your face and you can feel the blush begin to creep down your chest, “something which I’m beginning to understand is a terrible misfortune on my part.”

Your heart pounds painfully, your throat dry. This man clearly has a deep grasp on words and knows exactly how to use them. You wonder for a moment to what extent. What would he sound like in a more intimate setting? What words would he use when no one else could hear him? 

Your eyes widen, your chest burning at the thought, “I’m y/n. Perhaps you’ve met my mother, Mary-Anne?” you glance around, trying and failing to locate your mother, “She’s around here somewhere, she has a hand in most of the happenings around town so it wouldn’t surprise me if you do know her.”

Elijah’s carmel eyes fill with recognition, “ah, yes, I believe I’ve seen her in town. Never you, though.”

Though he doesn’t ask, the question is clear in his tone. 

“I attend university out of town,” you clutch your chest lightly, your fingers curling around the top of your dress, “I’m actually only home for the weekend. My mother was adamant I attend this evening.”

Elijah tilts his head, his eyes flitting quickly to where your fingers slip down your dress. When he looks back at you his eyes are a touch darker than before. Your heart pounds harder as well and you bite your lip slightly, thankful your mother didn’t make you wear lipstick.

“I see. I suppose that means we must give you a night to remember,” his eyes linger on your mouth for a moment and the heat that was swirling in your chest sinks lower.

“Indeed we shall, brother,” a voice from your left pulls your attention.

You’re greeted with the blonde from earlier, the one who looked like he was on another planet. Standing in front of you now he looks much more aware. His eyes, a touch lighter than Elijah’s, skim down your dress, lingering on the high slit on your hip before meeting yours again. You suck in a breath but there is no oxygen to be found.

“I do hope my brother is giving you a proper welcome,” his eyes flash, a cheeky smile tugging at his lips, “I wouldn’t want you leaving here tonight without a proper taste of the Mikaelson charm.”

The way he says the word taste, the way it rolls of his tongue, is positively sinful. It hits you straight in the stomach, spreading like poison through your already airy body. It anchors you to the ground, to him. You glance at Elijah who’s already watching you like a hawk. You feel naked under his gaze but, for some reason, it isn’t a wholly unwelcome feeling. You actually kind of like it. 

You smile lightly at him before turning back to his brother, “I think he’s doing a marvelous job. His introduction skills, however, need a little bit of a touch up.” You giggle at the glimpse of his furrowed eyebrows from the corner of your eye, “Too much talking about walls for my liking.”

“Ah, there you two are,” a third voice joins your arsenal of men, standing on your right and piercing you with a voice accented enough to make the gods fall to their knees, “hogging all the pretty girls tonight, are we Klaus?”

You meet the eyes of the third man, the one who made laughter look like a gift, and your heart sings. He grins at you, his eyes, much like his brothers’, a warm brown. Having all three of them this close to you is more intense than you could have imagined. They make the room feel smaller. Intimate. You’re not sure if you want to run away screaming or move closer to them. They’re magnetic, you’re just not sure if being pulled in or pushed away.

He takes your hand, an action that sends your heart into overdrive. His eyes light up, as if he can hear every rapid beat of your pulse. You scold yourself inwardly. Don’t be stupid, y/n, that would be impossible. 

“I’m Kol,” he brings your hand to his lips, laying a kiss that renders your knees weak against your knuckles, “it’s a pleasure.”

Your heart thunders at the feeling of his lips against your skin. You feel like a schoolgirl, dizzy from the slightest touch from your playground crush. His lips are warm and soft. Is this how princesses feel? God, you need another drink. 

“So,” Klaus steps towards you, his eyes swirling with something barely contained, “what’s this I heard about us giving you a night to remember?”

Your heart stops on the spot and you almost choke, not missing any of the implications behind his tone, “I have to head back to school tomorrow is all,” you breathe, trying to play off some of the heat swirling under the surface of your skin, “please, don’t let me keep you from the rest of your guests. I’m sure there are quite a few more important people than me here tonight.”

Elijah chuckles, the sound piling on top of the many other ones you’re already holding tight to, “the guest list is merely a formality, it would really be my pleasure to show you around.”

He holds his hand out to you, his eyes warm but challenging. You swallow thickly, a string of indecipherable emotions rushing through your chest, circling your lungs. You know it’s just a gesture so why does it feel like something more? Why does the thought of taking his hand feel like stepping into the rest of your life? You take a breath, squaring your shoulders and slipping your hand into his. Bring it on, destiny.

“Wait just a moment brother,” Kol’s fingers slip around your wrist, dragging down your palm until your fingers are locked together, “stealing her away from me so soon? I’m not sure I can let you do that.”

Elijah and Kol stare at each other, something wild brewing in their increasingly dark eyes. You tense, feeling like the rope in a game of tug of war. This doesn’t feel like a game, though, this feels real. You’re not a rope to be fought over, you get to decide what and who you want. Even if that’s all of them.

You squeeze both of their hands, drawing their attention back to you, “I’m sure this house is big enough for us to all comfortably go for a tour.”

Elijah’s eyes widen, dragging over you once more as if seeing you properly for the first time all night. He, like his brothers, lingers on the most delicate parts of you for just a few moments longer than he should. It’s a hole in his armor, a hint past the gentleman front. You want to leap at it and pull until all that’s left is the darkness swirling beneath his surface.

You glance at Kol who meets your eyes head on, a toothy grin already on his face, “marvelous, darling. What a great idea.”

He begins pulling you, and by default Elijah, out of the room but you halt, feeling a tad off. You look behind you at Klaus and sigh, your heart heavy. He stands tall but you catch his eyes and the way they glance at your hands, both of which are still being occupied. He squeezes his hands into fists, shoving them in his pockets. You tilt your head, pouting slightly at him. 

“Mr. Mikaelson, are you coming? Time is of the essence,” you nod your head toward the foyer, a coy smile on your lips, “we can’t can’t afford to waste any now.”

His face lights up instantly, walking towards you with flames dancing behind his eyes, “time isn’t real, love. Tonight we have as much of it as we want. As much of it as you want.”

You swallow hard. You want it all. 

Kol pulls you towards him, twirling you slowly, making your dress spin around your legs like a ribbon, “where to first, darling? What do you want to see?”

Your hands land on his chest, your cheeks flushed and legs wobbly from the spinning. His other hand goes around your waist, his fingers squeezing gently, his thumb pressing into your side in a way that makes you want to draw his body closer to your own. Your thoughts from before ring through your head. He makes everything sound special. More than that; he makes everything feel special.

“Everything,” you can’t tear your eyes away from his, you don’t want to, “show me everything please.”

He leans down, his forehead inches from your own. You can feel the heat rolling off his body even through his tux. It’s luxurious and mingles with the last dregs of the champagne. When combined with his scent, a nutty blend of cloves and cinnamon, you feel lightheaded. 

“Very well, darling,” his eyes flit to your lips, “everything it is.”

An arm snakes around your waist, pulling you away from whatever mischief is brewing beneath Kol’s honey eyes. He tilts his head at the person who grabbed you, his aura turning from playful to down right frosty. 

You turn away, breaking the hold of one Tyler Lockwood. Your ex. You squint your eyes. If you were a cat, your hackles would be raised. You wouldn’t claw his eyes out but you would be damn close. Memories from your senior year pour through your mind, twisting your gut painfully. You blink them away. Contrary to Klaus, you don’t have time for this.

“Tyler,” your voice courteous but cold, “what is it?”

He doesn’t catch your tone or, if he does, he doesn’t act like it. He reaches towards you again, no doubt to pull you into a hug, but you back away. Unlike with Kol, you don’t want to touch him. You definitely don't want him touching you. That part of your life is over.

“Y/n,” his voice is light, happy, “I didn’t know you were back! Mom didn’t say anything. How have you been?”

The atmosphere around you thickens. You don’t have to look at the Mikaelsons to see that their shoulders are tense. You feel them take a step closer to you, surrounding you with some much needed warmth.

You clench your jaw, forcing a smile on your face, “yes, well, I didn’t know if I was going to be home this weekend or not. University and all, I’m sure you understand. I’m fine, thank you.”

He nods enthusiastically and you grind your teeth slightly, wishing the floor would just swallow you whole. You dart your eyes to the side, briefly skimming Klaus as he rolls his eyes. Lily would be proud. Kol and Elijah don’t look amused either. You’re not sure how you know but you have to get them away from Tyler as fast as possible. The air drops another few degrees and you shiver.

“Oh well, no harm done!” Tyler steps closer to you, “say, how long are you in town? We should grab a bite at the grill.”

You drop your fake smile, your heart stinging slightly, “sorry, Lily and I are heading back tomorrow morning.”

You feel the boys once again tense, as if they don’t like the information you just shared. You don’t have time to think too hard about it though before Tyler closes even more space between you, grabbing your hand. You flinch back, hitting something hard and warm. The smell of pine trees, a whole forest of them, swirls around you as a hand circles your waist.

Tyler scrunches his brows, his smile slightly faltering, “tonight, then? I would really love a chance to talk. Catch up a little.”

You almost laugh. He just isn’t giving up. He can never make it easy for you, can he? The hand on your waist squeezes and you look over your shoulder, your heart stuttering. Elijah is staring at Tyler, something swirling under his irises. Whatever it is looks untamed. Not in the good way, like how he was looking at you earlier. No, whatever he’s feeling right now is dangerous. Time to go. 

“I really can’t, my night has been spoken for. Maybe next time, Tyler,” you turn to Elijah, “Elijah, did you say that you saw my mother looking for me? Would you mind showing me to her?”

Elijah’s eyes sparkle, clearly taking your hint, “indeed, she was right this way.”

He pushes you gently, blocking you from Tyler as he leads you out of the room. You can hear Tyler call out to you but you keep walking. Two other sets of footsteps join you, Kol grabbing your hand and twining your fingers together once more. When you break into the foyer you let the anxiety that had been building drain. That was more exhausting than you would like to admit. 

Elijah leads the four of you silently to a room off to the side of the foyer. He pushes the large mahogany door open, ushering you in before shutting it again. The smell of ink and old pages hits your nose and your mouth drops open at the sight. You’re in the biggest library you’ve ever seen. It’s like something out of The Beauty and The Beast, the ceilings high and the walls lined from top to bottom with shelves upon shelves of books. You break away from the boys, your fingers itching to touch what is no doubt an impressive collection of history. 

You hear a chuckle behind you but you don’t turn, your fingers skimming an older looking manuscript. Upon closer inspection the handwritten inscription on the cover reads Vonya i mir. Your heart stops and you quickly pull it from the shelf throwing all common courtesy out the window. This can’t be what you think it is. You flip it over in your hands, taking care not to crack the spine too much. Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy. 

You whip your head up, meeting three curious glances with wide eyes, “this is War and Peace! Like, the original manuscript. This is,” your heart pounds, your eyes glued to the yellowed pages in your hands, “this is history. I can’t believe I’m holding this.” Your heart stops, “Oh my, I should not be holding this! This belongs in a museum! What am I even doing, holding it like it’s nothing.”

You set it carefully on a desk behind you, looking apologetically back at them. Your cheeks heat rapidly. It’s very much not like you to go into a stranger’s home and start groping their collectables. You pull your lip between your teeth, lowering your head.

A hand gently grabs your chin, “you didn’t mention you’re a classic literature major, love.”

A small smile toys on Klaus’ lips, his thumb skimming over your jaw. Your heart stutters when he says love, warmth spreading through your chest. You reluctantly move your head from his hand, turning to motion at the manuscript.

“That’s because I’m not. I am a history major, with a focus on Russian culture. I’ve read War and Peace more times than I care to admit,” you smile lightly at the book, thinking about the hours you’ve spent pouring over it, “never in Russian, though.”

You glance back at Klaus, your hand flying once more to your bodice. He studies you carefully, his head tilted to the side. 

“And what do you think of it? Do you prefer the war or the peace?” He steps towards you, his words filling the almost nonexistent gap between your body and his.

Your breath catches. He’s close enough to touch and, gods, do you ever want to just reach out and pull him against you. First Elijah, then Kol, now him. You’re really gunning to end that dry spell in one night and three ways aren’t you? Heat creeps up your neck, your ears flaming at the thought.

“You can’t have one without the other,” you glance over his shoulder at Elijah and Kol, both of whom are hanging on to your every word, “war is inevitable but peace,” you look back at Klaus, “peace is fundamental.”

Klaus brushes a strand of hair from your cheekbone, sending shivers racing up your spine, “fundamental to what, love?”

His voice is low, his accent wearing down any reservations that you had at the beginning of the night. Your mother’s voice rings through your ears. Give me some grandbabies. She had clearly been joking but your body clearly has no concept of satire, heat pooling between your legs at the thought of making those babies. You close your eyes, sucking in a deep breath. It does nothing to quench the heat. You’re in the thick of it now and there is no escaping the white hot fire growing inside of you.

You sink your head into his hand, “happiness.”

An arm hooks around your waist, spinning you into a pair of spiced arms. Kol. You crack your eyes open and, sure enough, you’re correct. You shouldn’t have been able to guess that already. You’ve known them for no longer than an hour. This is insane. He lowers his face towards yours and your heart slams against your ribcage, his lips inches from yours. You swallow hard, your hands finding the lapels of his jacket. Instead of kissing you, however, he rubs his nose against yours. Oh. That feels nice. 

“What makes you happy, darling?”

You laugh softly, his question catching you off guard, “I’m not sure, to be honest. I haven’t had many opportunities to find out.”

“Well then, If you could do one thing that you think would make you happy what would you do?” Kol lifts a hand to your face, his thumb, like his brother’s, skimming your jaw. 

You don’t have to think about it, the answer is on your tongue as soon as he asks the question, “I would leave this town,” you glance down, the truth of your statement making you feel all too guilty, “and I’m not sure that I would ever come back.”

His thumb stills and you hold your breath. Perhaps you should have answered with something a little less full on. You haven’t even told Lily that you want to leave and never look back so you honestly have no idea why you just divulged one of your greatest kept secrets to three men you just met. Maybe because it doesn’t matter. Who are they going to tell, right? But no, that doesn’t feel right. You didn’t just tell them because. You had a reason, you just can’t put a name to it.

“I see,” he draws his thumb over your lips, an action that both surprises you and steals the air from your lungs, “and where would you go?”

Again, your answer is effortless, “everywhere, Kol. I would go everywhere.”

Kol smiles, his eyes lighting up with his grin. Your heart skyrockets, fireworks shooting through your chest from the slightest tilt of his perfectly red lips. They look soft; perfectly kissable. If only you had half of his self-assurance. What you wouldn’t give to run the tips of your fingers over his lips. 

His hands draw back down your sides, “what was going on back there? You didn’t seem pleased to be speaking to that,” Kol clicks his tongue distastefully, his accent thickening, “boy. Is he the reason you want to leave?”

You pull back slightly, your hands tightening on his coat. How are you even supposed to answer that? The story is a long one and there are very few enjoyable moments to lighten it. Tyler is not the reason you want to leave but you surely wouldn’t be doing yourself any favors by staying for him either. He’s part of a long past, one you’re not going to tell them about. Not today, anyway.

“It’s a long story,” you gently remove yourself from his hold, “one that I assure you none of you would care to hear. But to answer your question, no. Tyler has nothing to do with me wanting to leave. That’s entirely my own, for better or worse.”

He nods, the understanding clear in his honeyed eyes, “in that case, darling, tell me something else.” He pulls you back to his chest, “Do you like the stars?”

                                 *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

They left the party. Their party. They just up and left the party that they were hosting. You’re shocked. You were shocked when they dragged you out of the mansion and you’re still shocked now, laying on a blanket a few miles away with your mouth hanging open. You hadn’t thought anything of it when Kol asked you about the stars. You thought he was continuing with his little game of twenty one questions. You didn’t think he was serious! Who the hell just leaves the party they’re hosting?

Elijah shuffles his hands through your hair, pulling pins from it left and right and letting the hardwork your mother put into it fall. Yes, indeed you’re laying across the lap of one of the most eligible bachelors you have ever come in contact with, your face pressed against his warm thigh. Your fingers are wrapped around a bottle of the sweet champagne from earlier.

“You know,” you murmur quietly, your eyes locked on the spray of stars above your head, “when you host a party, it’s usually expected that you attend. Running away is frowned upon.”

He laughs and you can feel it through your entire body. It awakens the butterflies sleeping in your chest, sending them fluttering to your guts where the beating of their tiny wings create an inferno so large it sets you on fire from the inside out. You always wondered what it would feel like to be burned alive. You would have never guessed that it would make your toes curl.

“I thought that was what you wanted,” he drags his fingers through your scalp, the final blow to your once styled hair, “to run away. Here’s a start.”

You rub your cheek against his thigh, your face heating when he tenses at your action, “we’re pretty terrible at this running away thing then,” you hum, pulling yourself to your knees, “we only made it five miles. If I focus I think I can still hear the music. We’re lousy escape artists.”

A breeze blows over your shoulders and you shiver, your thin shawl doing nothing to veil you from the night. You’re just thankful it’s still warm enough to be outside at this time of night. Soon the nights will be getting colder and you won’t be able to do this. It’s one of the many reasons you long to move away. A pair of hands draws over your shoulders and you shiver again, this time from something entirely unrelated to the elements. You smile lightly. Maybe not. The Mikealson’s have more than proven that they are a force of nature.

Klaus’ voice is like ocean waves in your ear, cresting your skin with every low syllable, “well this is just the beginning, love. How far we go is up to you.”

He’s joking, of course. He has to be joking, right? You turn to look at him, seeking out his eyes in the darkness. They burn into yours, no hint of humor anywhere on his face. His gaze pierces through the night and your breath catches, your heart pounding at all the possibilities of what he meant. You bring the bottle to your lips, using the cool liquid to stall while you gather your feelings.

Kol takes your hand, bringing it to his mouth, “So, darling,” he kisses one of your knuckles, his lips like heavenly fire, “how far are we going?” Another knuckle, another kiss, “what is it you want?” He nips lightly at your fingertips and you gasp, the feeling akin to tiny zaps of lightning against your skin, “where do you want to go?”

Your head is spinning, the champagne settling once more over your bones, “I wouldn’t know where to start. There are too many places,” you swallow hard, “too many things.”

Klaus’ fingers toy at the straps of your dress, skimming down your arms with them in tow, “the first place that comes to mind, love. What is it?”

Elijah pulls you towards him, his hand sliding up the slit on your thigh and curling around your hip. His fingers whisper over your bare skin and you tighten your hand on the bottle. Not out of fear, though. No, you use the bottle to keep your hands busy. If your hands were empty you can’t be sure where exactly they would be. On who they would be.

Elijah squeezes your hip and you gasp again, this time louder, “New Orleans,” it’s the first place that comes to your mind, “I want to go to New Orleans.”

Time stills when you finally answer the question. You can hear the wind rustle through the trees and crickets chirping in the distance. Three smells, each of their own element, wrap around you. Klaus’, like water, pouring over your back. Kol’s, like fire, burning up your arm. Elijah’s, like earth, sliding down your hips. You, the air, curl around each of them, pulling them close with your very essence. 

And then, with a far off howl, time unfreezes and Klaus rips the straps down your arms, “New Orleans, hmm,” He sweeps your hair back, his nose skimming down the side of your neck, “a woman after my own heart. When shall we go?”

You laugh, the sound breaking through the almost reverent atmosphere, “we can’t just leave, Klaus. You have to plan things. I can’t just drop everything and run to New Orleans.”

Kol pulls your arm through the strap, furthering the tantalizingly slow  process of peeling the dress from your body, “but you want to, darling. Am I right?”

His lips find the crook of your elbow and you almost moan, “of course you are but it’s not practical.”

Elijah tugs at your hips again, pulling you onto his lap. Kol and Klaus move with you, clinging to you like shadows. Kol’s hair tickles your arm, the soft strands brushing against you as his blazes a trail of open mouthed kisses up your arm. Klaus nips the back of your neck, his fingers wrapped in your hair and pulling lightly. It should feel wrong, you know it should, but by god how could something this ethereal possibly be wrong. Your body feels like it’s made out air and for the first time you’re free to breeze wherever you choose.

“Neither are we. It’s simple,” Elijah leans down, grabbing your jaw and steering you to meet his eyes, “would you like to go, y/n?”

Your heart stops when it hits you that they’re dead serious, “to New Orleans?”

It’s dark but you can still make out the smile on his face. It says it all, his words only reaffirming what your brain has been screaming at you.

“Not just New Orleans, darling, everywhere,” Elijah murmurs, his lips just in front of yours, his peppermint breath fanning your face delicately, “do you want to go everywhere?”

Just like that, your heart restarts, a rush of adrenaline spreading over your bones. Very rarely in life are you presented with the opportunity to go everywhere. You can’t even fathom what everywhere means. Surely there isn’t time to go everywhere, right? You suck in a breath, one that makes it feel like before this moment you were never truly breathing at all. Who cares if there isn’t enough time, you think to yourself.

You slide your arms around Elijah’s neck fast, nodding your head furiously in lieu of all the words that refuse to form a coherent sentence. You tangle your fingers in his hair, the strands like silk against your skin. You don’t take your time to admire it, though, you just yank his mouth to yours, smashing your lips against his and hoping it says everything that you can’t. 

His hands squeeze your hips again and this time you don’t hold back, moaning into his mouth with the force of the tropical storm building under your skin. Your dress feels much too tight all of a sudden, the sequined material biting into your flesh. You shuffle, pulling your other arm from the strap before wrapping it back around Elijah’s shoulder, your fingers digging into his back through his tux jacket. That needs to go too. Now.

“Darling,” Kol’s husky voice whispers against your skin, his face buried in the other side of your neck, “as beautiful as you look right now I’m about half a second away from ripping this dress off your body.”

His words barely register but you catch the important parts, peeling your lips from Elijah’s just far enough to utter, “please don’t rip it, it’s the prettiest thing I own.”

His hands, which are curled around the back of your bodice, stall momentarily, “well that won’t do, now will it?” He muses, his mouth skimming your shoulder with each word, “New Orleans is fine, you won’t need many clothes at all I’m sure. But Paris will demand more of us, darling. We’ll have to fix this.”

Your heart shudders, along with your body. Paris. Surely now he’s joking.

He opts instead to use the zipper rather than tearing it apart, his knuckles softly skimming your bare back as it becomes exposed to him. Inch by inch, cool air wraps around your skin. When he gets to halfway, his mouth begins following his hands. He nips at the bumps of your spine, biting down harder when he gets to the base. Your hands, which are still on Elijah’s shoulder, tighten as flames roll through your body. 

Klaus’ hands slip around you, tugging this time at the front of your bodice and pulling it down to reveal your bare chest. He pushes the fabric down your stomach, trailing his fingertips over your ribs as you arch into his chest, a string of incoherent praises falling from your lips. You’re pretty sure you murmur his name somewhere in there though, because his chest rumbles against your back and, before you know it, he pulls you up to your feet. 

“Klaus, what are you-” your words are cut short from the night, swallowed instead by lips which taste too much like oranges and rum for you to even consider trying to repeat yourself .

His tongue slips into your mouth, his hands flying into your hair, pushing it away from your face and using it to tilt your head to an angle that makes you see stars. The cold air sweeps over your breasts and you shiver again. It doesn’t last long before a pair of hands are sliding up your exposed sternum and over your chest, cupping your breasts. Kol’s cinnamon musk furls in your lungs as he pulls you into his now bare chest. His skin is hot against yours but you wouldn’t expect anything less from the flame made man. 

Klaus detaches from your lips, pressing them once more against your swollen mouth before moving down your neck. He pulls your skin into his mouth, his tongue swirling over the dip in your throat. He courses a river down your front with his mouth, stopping to leave little love bites all over your collarbones and shoulders before heading south. He falls to his knees, shrugging his jacket off before pressing his lips to the valley between your breasts. 

You moan, loudly, and thread your fingers through his hair, tugging him harder against you, “god, you’re too good at that,” you roll your head against Kol’s shoulder as Klaus lips flow over your skin, finding your nipple between Kol’s fingers, “we should not be doing this.”

Another pair of hands, the last pair, pulls your face to a pair of lips, the last pair of lips, “Is that what you think, darling? Do you want us to stop?”

Elijah’s lips skim over yours as he speaks, sparks igniting with each touch. You don’t have to think about his question.

“No,” you press your mouth against his assertively, “please don’t stop. Never stop.”

With that Klaus pushes the rest of your dress off your body and, well, the rest of the details of that night remain between you, Kol, Klaus, Elijah, and the stars.

                               *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

You lean your head against the cool leather of the seat, your eyes closed as the wind whips your hair behind you. You’ve never ridden in a convertible before but, much to the trend of Mikaelson fashion, it’s luxurious. Elijah slings his arm around your shoulders and you smile, cracking your eye open to glance at him. His hand is on the wheel, his eyes focused on the road ahead of him. He looks peaceful. Happy. He looks over at you, tossing you a wink before turning back to the road. Butterflies flutter through your chest and you welcome them with open arms.

You glance in the rearview mirror, your grin growing when you see two sleeping men. Kol is leaning back, his mouth half open as soft snores fall from his mouth. You giggle quietly. Last night must have exhausted him. He wears his slacks still but now, instead of his jacket, he wears a wine colored hoodie. His hair is mussed and you swallow thickly, thinking back to how it felt between your hands.

You move to Klaus, shaking your head slightly to defuse your slowly heating skin. He, too, no longer wears his jacket  but, unlike Kol, he only has a t-shirt on. His arms are folded under his head as he leans against the seat. His body is relaxed, his legs spread in front of him. You yawn looking at him, fighting the urge to crawl over your own seat and into his lap.

“Are you tired, love?” Elijah’s voice mixes with the wind, floating over you like music.

You meet his glance for a moment, smiling sheepishly, “yes but it’s nothing.”

“You should try to sleep,” his voice is slightly concerned, his eyes slipping over your bruised skin before turning back to the highway, “we still have about seven hours before we’re even in Louisiana.” 

You stifle another yawn, pulling the sunglasses on your head over your eyes as the sun breaks over the trees blurring past you, “not yet, Eli. I don’t want to miss anything. I’ll sleep when we get there.”

You hear your phone beep from the bag at your feet but you ignore it. That’s another thing that you’ll wait until the Louisiana state line for. Instead you lift the book on your lap, your fingers skimming delicately over the words on the cover. Vonya i mir. Your heart warms as you open it to the first page, settling into the leather seat. Elijah looks over at you and chuckles, the sound even more musical than last night. This is going to be the easiest seven hours of your life.

[heavenbarnes]

I’m a rude bitch, what are you made of?

Naomi Lapaglia (Wolf of Wall Street) x Female Reader

Warnings/Contains: swearing, canon-typical arguing, unhealthy husband-wife relationship, cheating, top!naomi and bottom!reader, oral sex (female receiving), fingering, dirty talk, inappropriate relationship with employers, unsolicited flirting, flashing, implied exhibitionism

Word Count: 3,225

so what if you were the belfort’s house keeper? and what if you had this nasty crush on naomi? and what if she knew?

“Find what you’re looking for up her skirt, Jordan?” The sharp cut of that Brooklyn accent was quick to hit you.

It was quick to hit her husband too, judging by the deep sigh he let out from behind you. You straightened up, grabbing the remaining dishes from the table with one hand, the other tugging the hem of your dress down.

“Don’t fix yourself like it’s your fault, darling,” There was an almost melody to her voice. “Seems someone never learnt his fucking lesson.”

With that, it all kicked off. You walked towards the kitchen with your stack of dishes and cheeks burning hot, as your employers quite literally screamed at one another. Another morning in paradise.

Working for the Belfort’s, for the most part was a dream, you cleaned an exquisite house and looked after one very low maintenance baby. For that, they paid you generously and even took you on their family vacations. 

All you had to put up with was the incessant screaming and Mr. Belfort trying to sneak a look and a feel, all worth it for the luxury you got to be a part of.

You zoned back into the fight as you walked back over to wipe down the table, still without uttering a word during all the commotion. This was like a morning ritual, as normal as a coffee and codeine, they weren’t awake till they’d screamed bloody-murderer at one another.

“For the last time, my love! I wasn’t looking up her fucking skirt!” Jordan gestured towards you frantically, stepping around behind you.

He was about to make another point, and as he opened his mouth to do so, his hands also came to grip your upper arms. You saw something change within Mrs. Belfort’s eyes and you even braced for impact.

“You get your hands off of her or I swear to God, Jordan!” She slammed her coffee cup down, the dark liquid rising up the side of the cup like an impending tsunami.

Mr. Belfort was quick to drop his hands, stepping back from you and watching his wife round the table until she was in front of you both. You felt caught in the middle, figuratively and literally thanks to the way they’d sandwiched you between them.

“You better watch yourself, motherfucker,” Her accent seemed to thicken as her voiced dropped an octave. “Before I bend this one over the table and make you watch the things I can do to her.”

You felt your body run red hot, the image of her living up to her threat moving clear through your mind. Without being able to stop yourself, your knees buckled slightly, most certainly not going unnoticed by Naomi. Her gaze drifted to you, where you were staring straight ahead and doing your best to seem unaffected by her words.

She saw right through you.

In kindness on her part, she didn’t mention it. Rather she dismissed you to carry on with your other morning duties, but didn’t ignore the way you shuffled off with your legs nearly clamped together. You hurried from room to room, collecting the hampers of dirty laundry so you could hide in the wash-house and out of trouble.

Shutting the door and leaning your back against the tiles, you were thankful it was able to cool you down a bit. It was in that moment you realized just how fucked you were, like a Duchess should, she had you royally fucked.

From the moment you started working for them, you knew you were going to have the hardest time keeping your thoughts about Naomi contained. Just the way that she walked with that air of importance was enough to have your thighs tensing.

It was obvious she knew what she was doing to you, that smirk that would prick up at the corner of her mouth every time she saw your eyes widen or your head drop. She took great delight at watching you squirm for her.

You’d nearly lost at all one night at dinner when you felt the patent leather toe of a stiletto dragging up the inside of your leg. The grip around your fork got so tight, you had little marks along your fingers for hours.

Naomi, on the other hand, dropped her fork right up the table and shook her head in faux-annoyance.

“I’m such a klutz, would you mind being a good girl and grabbing that for me?”

You swallowed harshly but nodded your head nonetheless, pushing back your chair and climbing under the table to retrieve the fork. Finding it quickly, you lifted your head to come back up but were stopped in your tracks by a single sight.

Naomi slowly parted her thighs, revealing to you that she had forgone underwear for her evening meal, and was most certainly baring her most intimate parts to you.

You thought you’d choke on your tongue, scrambling back towards your seat as you came up for air. She had a knowing smirk painted across her face as you extended it towards her with a shaking hand.

“You alright?” Jordan asked, giving you a worried glance. “You’ve barely said a word and now you look like you’ve had a fright?”

Mrs. Belfort hummed in agreement with her husband, bringing her napkin up to dab at her mouth.

“Yeah, what’s the matter?” She cooed, eyes holding yours still. “Pussy got your tongue?”

Rifling through the washing baskets, you sorted them out for laundering, anything to take your mind away from what you knew you shouldn’t be doing. Not only was she your boss, she was married, and married to an incredibly powerful man at that. 

You knew in your heart that if you’d let him, he’d be just as unfaithful to her with you, as she would with roles reversed. But you just knew it’d create more trouble than good, even if that good was a long-legged blonde with a mouth on her that drove you doggone wild.

Just as the act of loading a washing machine was doing it’s trick, your fingers hooked around one garment that you really didn’t need to stumble across. You drew your hand back to find a red lacy pair of panties draped over the tip of your finger. It nearly had you light headed at the start.

Drawing them closer towards you, gingerly you looked over your shoulder just to confirm that you were alone in the laundry. Your heart was nearly beating out of your chest in fear of being caught, but this was just something you couldn’t stop.

Bringing the seat of her knickers to your face, you took in a deep breath and were immediately overwhelmed with the scent of her cunt. She smelt just as heavenly as you’d imagined she would, those nights after her husband drove you home and you’d raced inside to finger yourself to the thought of his wife.

It was all so bad, so wrong and so impure, nothing of what you were doing was close to being right. But when it came to Naomi, you were about ready to risk it all just for the sake of having one little chance with her. All it took was that one change, after that all bets were off. That change came in the form of her calling your name.

To say it startled you was an understatement, you were lucky you didn’t scream. Dropping the panties immediately back into the basket, you followed the sound right up the stairs and into Mr. and Mrs. Belfort’s bedroom, where Naomi sat waiting for you.

She was still in her robe, the one she wore to breakfast and the one you knew hid from your view the very skimpy lingerie she was wearing beneath it. Just knowing it was so close but still out of your reach had your mouth beginning to salavate.

Extended one finger towards you, she began to beckon you over. “Can you come here please?”

Never wanting to disappoint, you moved your feet towards her and subsequently towards her bed. Nothing sweet and right could come from being alone in her bedroom, with her wearing the bare minimum in front of you. You knew you had self control, but that much? That was asking for a miracle.

As you got closer, she stood up slowly, fingers moving to the tie on her robe. Suddenly it seemed as if time had slowed down for a moment, you could see her undoing the ribbon on her hip but there was nothing you could, or wanted, to do to stop her.

The silk of her robe slid off her shoulders and pooled on the carpet before you, leaving her in nothing more than a very thin set of bra and panties. You could see the way her nipples poked against the fabric, where the underwear had began to draw up on her hips. 

You wouldn’t be leaving this room with pride.

Reaching out, her fingers wrapped around your elbow and pulled you in until you were flush against her. The heat radiating off of her was intoxicating, you were enveloped in the very essence of her, it was soaking into your clothes and staying on the air.

“You need to tell me, baby,” Her voice wrapped you up, binding you to her. “Are you going to let me have my fun with you?”

Quick to please, your doe eyes rose to her gaze and silently apologized for something you’d never done.

“B-before with Mr. Belfort, I’m sorry but I assure you there is nothing there.”

Naomi cut off your stuttering attempts at explaining yourself with a curt laugh, free hand coming and stroking at the edge of your face. Soft skin and long fingers leaving shivers in their wake.

“Honey, forget about making my husband pay for before,” The soothing lilt to her voice was once again doing its best to weaken you at the knees. “This is just my own little treat.”

Your mouth dried up, tongue suddenly too big for the space and your lips dropped open in a pathetic whimper. As much as the embarrassment was hot on your heels, you could tell from her expression that this was doing nothing but pleasing Mrs. Belfort.

“Let me hear you say it.” She cooed, lips coming up to the shell of your ear.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, you can fuck me, Mrs. Belfort.”

She released a theatrical gasp before closing her the edge of her teeth around your earlobe, pulling down gently. Her lips trailed down the length of your neck, the softest kisses being left behind in her wake.

“You’ve got a dirty mouth on you, girl,” She sighed into your skin. “We better put it to good use.”

Bringing her hands to the bottom of your dress, she was taking full control as she drew it up and over your head. Her fingers immediately went for your undergarments, stripping you down to you were completely exposed in front of her.

Stepping behind you, her hands ran across your body and left no inch of you untouched by her. You had an idea of what she was intending, it wasn’t an accident that this felt entirely like she was claiming you.

“You’re so beautiful, I don’t blame my husband for the way he looks at you.” 

Her nose nudged against the back of your neck, hands running up to roll your breasts around her palms. Fingers tweaking at your nipples, you relaxed back against her and allowed the feeling of pleasure to take over.

“If only he knew that he wasn’t the one you were ready to risk it all for, hmm?”

You choked back a moan that was so desperately clawing its way out of your throat, especially with the way her hands were running down your stomach and getting dangerously close to where you needed her. She hovered above your mound, so close but not quite yet.

“Tell me, who is it that you want to fuck you?”

Along with another moan, you swallowed down your pride, hand shooting back and gripping the soft skin of her thigh.

“You, Naomi, I want you to fuck me and not Jordan.”

A delicious giggle flew around your ears, searing itself into your brain for safe keeping. It didn’t matter what noise she was making, it was set to drive you fucking wild. This moment was no exception to the rule, it wrote the damn rule.

Her hand came down against your mound, fingers slipping between your thighs as she cupped your heat. The feeling of her palm pressed against your aching clit drew an unabashed moan from deep within your chest, only spurring her on to rub it in the smallest circles.

She drew back from you just as quick as she touched you. Too overwhelmed to move, you listened to the sounds of her stripping the rest of her clothes, coming to sit before you on the bed. Naomi shuffled back, hands out behind her to keep her propped up.

“Before I give you what you want, I think you need to earn it.” With her words, she slowly spread her thighs until her cunt was once again on display to you.

Instinctively you dropped to your knees, moving towards the edge of the bed until she was only moments from you. Her hand came out to gently rub across the top of your head, coming around the back and pulling you even further into the meeting of her thighs.

Naomi pressed your face right to her dripping heat, your tongue coming out to catch her clit as she did. She tasted like bliss, like she was laced with gold flakes, this would be a taste you never tired from.

A long groan left her lips, head tipping back as you moved your mouth deftly against her pussy. She held you there, reminding you of the control she had over you as her hips started to roll against your face.

You brought your hands to wrap around her thighs, getting as close as you could. The messy sounds and sight of you must’ve been incredible, the way you hungrily lapped at her cunt and buried your face even further into her.

A symphony of moans serenaded the room, her toes curling against the bed as your lips wrapped around your clit. Had she known her little house-keeper was going to be this fucking good with her mouth, she would’ve had you on these silk sheets months ago.

Naomi’s elbow buckled under the pressure of your mouth, combined with the quiet moans that were reverberating against her. She gripped tighter onto you, pulling you in close as she was essentially riding your face.

Letting her do whatever she wanted, you moved your tongue quicker and fell in love with the way she cried your name in pleasure. It’d never sound the same coming from her, not now you know the way it sounds when you’ve got her pussy on your mouth.

Gripping hard onto you, you felt the rush of wetness as Naomi unraveled on your tongue, one leg coming to wrap around your shoulder as she did so. You remained in that same place, destined to do as you were told whilst you took her through her high.

When the sensitivity became too much, she drew you back before pulling you up towards her. Laying against her, you felt her lips connect with yours as she kissed her taste from your mouth. Moaning against your lips, you snaked your hands around her waist in an attempt to cover any inch of her skin you could.

Feeling one of her hands moving against you, it became very clear to you that she was on a direct path to where you were quite literally dripping for her. Naomi ran her fingers along your slit, dipping in to rub against your clit before coming to rest at your entrance.

With her tongue finding purchase in your mouth, she slipped two fingers inside of you and quickly curled them up. You couldn’t help but squeal into her mouth, gripping onto her sides as her fingers began to move with you.

Clenching around her, it’d never felt nearly this good when all you could do was think of her. You never knew it was going to feel like heaven on earth once she finally got her hands on you. The incoherent cries and moans of her name were flooding the room, sure to drift under the doors and fill the house in short time.

“I’m sure this is better than touching your little pussy and thinking of me, huh?”

Your eyes shot open in fright, looking to her with the complete knowing of being caught, painted across your face. She just grinned at you, that kind of cruel grin that said “you’re in for it now.”

“You think I couldn’t hear you, moaning my name when you’ve locked yourself in the bathroom?”

All the times you’d quickly tried to get yourself off to make your work day more bearable, suddenly flashed past your mind. You would’ve recoiled in shame if Naomi’s fingers hand’t suddenly sped up, instead making your mouth drop open with a cry.

“Go on, show me how pretty you sound when you say my name.”

So you did, pretty whimpers of her first name drifted past your lips some more. She smiled into your neck but you could still tell there was something more she wanted.

“Hmm, try again, and make sure he can hear it.”

It had to be the affect she had on you, because suddenly you were crying out a long moan of Mrs. Belfort, and if her husband couldn’t hear it, he would’ve had to be on the other side of the world.

That hit the spot and sure enough her thumb was coming to rub against your clit in time with the thrust of her fingers. Falling apart in her hands, you felt your whole body tensing against her, stars beginning to rush past your eyes in bliss.

She knew every button to push and exactly what it did, she could tell by the fierce grip you had on her thigh that your high was right around the corner and it was approaching faster than you could manage.

Trailing her lips against your jaw, Naomi sucked the smallest marks into the soft skin there, happy to leaving her brand on you. When she reached your ear, the breathy whisper was the final piece to push you over the edge.

“Come for me, pretty girl.”

And eager to please, you did as you were told. Clamping down hard on her fingers, you felt yourself flood her hand as you cried out for her. Your back arched off the mattress, toes curling and muscles tensing against your will.

As you were coming back down, you knew you’d never come like that before. Looking at Mrs. Belfort’s face, you could tell by that grin that she was eager to see it as often as she could.

She brought her fingers up from between your legs, laying them against her tongue and sucking the wetness off with a filthy moan.

“I don’t think he heard that,” She sighed, shuffling down your body. “Think I’ll just have to give you another.”

[dreamingofaizawa]

Powerful Ch. 2

Yakuza! Shouta Aizawa x Fem! Reader

*Mafia AU*

Warnings: Misogyny (not from Shouta), a dagger, kinda fluffy

Word Count: 3.5 k

Author’s Note: This is turning out pretty good, I think. It’s turning into a kind of slow-burn ish thing, and as much as I can’t stand slow-burn sometimes, I’m liking it so far. If I’m being honest I feel like (hopefully) this is the thing that can help me get over my smut writing block. I haven’t been able to get myself to write smut for a while, and I’m hoping this can help me fix it.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

Also, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I usually put in that little line spacer when there’s a pov change. You know, this one:

____

So yeah. And the three asterisks (except the ones at the beginning):

* * * Usually means a timeskip. If it’s unlabelled it’s only a short skip, anything over 24 hours I’ll label.

Enjoy~

*

*

*

Shouta woke you up, his rough hands rubbing your back and deep voice softly calling your name. When you let your eyes flutter open you realize you’re still on top of him, only your head is further cradled into his neck and your leg had found its way around his waist. The position had your face warming as you lifted your head and met his dark eyes.

“Good morning, little one.” He sounded groggy, like he’d just woken up himself. You pulled away and he released you so you could sit up. Off of him. You couldn’t quite hold his gaze, so you looked down at the bedsheets.

“Good morning, Shouta.” He sits up beside you, a hand grasping your chin and making you look at him.

“Am I too forward? Or are you afraid of me, little one?” You raise your eyebrows, not expecting him to really consider your own comfort.

“Can I speak freely?” He nods, and you take a breath.

“You are being just a little forward, but I think it’s only really enhanced because you’re known for being cold and unwelcoming. And also the fact that we only formally met last night.” His hand drops, and he waits for the second half of your answer. You take a moment to choose your wording, make sure you’re accurately communicating your feelings without offending him.

“While I do feel awkward and, frankly, small around you I don’t necessarily fear you. So far you’ve shown that you aren’t cruel, and though you are capable of some...violent things, I have no reason yet to believe you would be violent toward me.” A small smile tugs at his lips, a foreign thing to see.

“I assure you, I am not a violent lover. Nor will I ever be.” He reaches over and grabs your hand, lifting it to his face and leaving a soft kiss on your knuckles. It’s a simple, sweet gesture that has your face and chest heating. Then he gets up and you follow him out to the living room where three large suitcases are waiting. Your suitcases, you realize, Mother and Father must have packed all your clothing and had them sent here. Shouta picks up two of them and you take the last one, returning to the bedroom.

“The closet has plenty of room, so go ahead and sort everything out. I’ll be in my office. Once you’re done just wait for me, we’ll be going out later.” You nod, and he’s disappearing into his office. For the first time, you take a good look at the room. Your room now, you remind yourself. 

It’s large, enough to fit three more king beds with plenty of spare room. The king-sized mattress sits in a black frame that was built to look like it was hovering inches off the ground, fitted with light gray sheets and a large black comforter. The entire room is illuminated by lights embedded in the ceiling, the floor a dark hardwood that matches the doors to the bathroom and walk-in closet. A table sat on either side of the bed, both painted black to match the bed frame.

The walk-in closet is big as well, though it’s much brighter than the main bedroom. The floor is smooth white tile, a white center island with a glass top looking into the top drawers that held numerous watches and ties. Most of Shouta’s clothing seems to be folded, the suits and more high-end clothing the only pieces hung up. You filled the empty spaces with your own clothing, keeping everything organized like you had back at home. With everything tucked away, you decided it was time to change out of the robe, tugging on undergarments you missed those, a pair of loose sweatpants and a racerback tank top. Then you brought the now empty suitcases back to the living room and dug through the kitchen for some breakfast.

____

Shouta emerged from his office to you humming to yourself as you worked over the stove of bacon and pancakes. He didn’t even know he had bacon, let alone the ingredients for pancakes. It was quite cute, seeing you bounce lightly along with the tune you’re humming, spatula in hand. It’s a domestic sight, completely foreign to him. He leaned on the doorframe, choosing to admire you a while longer.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to come get some food?” He blinked, slightly shocked, you hadn’t even turned around to see if he was there. You must have heard the door open, though he made sure none of the doors in his home creaked. It’s an irritating noise. He made his way over to you, hooking his chin over your shoulder and placing his large hands on your waist.

He knows he’s moving a little fast with the intimacy. He’d asked you earlier, though you said you didn’t mind, you were absolutely right that it’s weird being so close so soon. In all honesty, as long as you’re alright with it he wants to continue being touchy like this. He’s never truly had any interest in naming a partner, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want company. He’s been lonely for a long time, longing for someone to hold, and while he’s absolutely sure any woman would love to court him willingly, he wants someone special.

He can’t stand the women that throw themselves at any man with power and money, most of them only in it for their own gain. If he were to announce before the ball that he was looking to name a wife, he’d probably have had a line of fawning women on their best behavior to butter him up, flirting and smiling those too-big smiles in an attempt to get a rock on their finger and power to wield at their leisure. That’s why he’d decided to watch from afar, and you struck him as different the moment he’d laid eyes on you.

The more time he spent in your company, the more he’s commending himself for picking you. You’re one of the probable few that held a semi-neutral opinion of him, not fearful nor starstruck. You’re intelligent, well-articulated, and while you have your limits you tend to go with the flow, let the wind carry you this way and that. And you’re honest with him, he has no doubt you’ll tell him if there’s a boundary he crosses.

____

You’re grateful he can’t quite tell the state you’re in right now. Shouta’s hands on your waist flustered you, more than you care to admit. Sure, he’s advancing rather quickly, but you meant it when you said you didn’t mind. You’d been forbidden from dating, made to save yourself for the strategic marriage your father had planned. For the longest time you’d wanted to be held, touched and loved by someone. And here Shouta is, fulfilling all your teenage daydreams. He has no reason to be so close behind closed doors, where no one can see you, so he must feel some sort of real attraction toward you right? Otherwise he’d be more closed off, only opting to speak on his own terms and not caring at all about you or your comfort.

You shake yourself from your thoughts and the two of you sit at the dining table, quietly eating your breakfast. It is a little awkward, but you expected as much. Shouta, like you, probably isn’t used to eating with another person. You both finish breakfast soon, and once the dishes are washed Shouta startles you with his next words.

“We’ll be leaving in an hour or two for a lunch meeting with a few other clans.” You have to take a pause and think about what he’d just said.

“We? You want me to join you?” A part of you wants him to confirm it, another hopes he doesn’t.

“Yes, I want you there with me.” Cue your confusion.

“It’s almost unheard of, having a woman in a clan meeting.” As much as you hate the patriarchy and its traditions, they are still traditions that, once challenged, could upset many people.

“Let’s say I’m breaking the status-quo. If I’m going to have a wife, she’ll be wielding my power alongside me, not just existing as a means to further the bloodline.” It becomes apparent to you that Shouta, despite his position, is very much not traditional. You turn to him and lean against the kitchen counter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“So why have you chosen me? I’m the daughter of a very low-ranked oyabun, have almost no experience compared to you and I am most definitely not someone other oyabun would approve to be your wife, let alone leading the entirety of the Yakuza.” He quirks an eyebrow at you, crossing his own arms.

“I don’t care what other oyabun may think of me or my choices, they don’t dictate what I do. As for why I’ve chosen you, it’s quite simple. I’ve known you for less than a day and it’s already obvious to me that you can take most things in stride, without allowing it to affect you emotionally. You’re good at compartmentalizing your own thoughts, can keep a level head under pressure, and that’s exactly what I need.” Your own eyebrows raise, not expecting a read like that.

“And last night as I watched you, it was clear to me that you’re skilled at masking your emotions, especially nervousness or fear. Think about what any other woman would have done, had I walked up to them and asked their name. Before I could get another word out they’d probably drop to their knees and begin begging for their lives. Most would probably faint on the spot, pounce on me, or any other number of unsavory responses after announcing a sudden engagement to me. But you? You did nothing, simply answering my question and taking my hand with no theatrics.” 

You nod slowly, mildly understanding his point. While it’s true you had almost no reaction, you’re almost sure there’d be at least a dozen other women in that hall that would have reacted the way you had. 

“Still, there must have been many others that acted like I did. For me to be so completely unique is…” You trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence.

“Unlikely? Yes. Impossible? No. I trust my own judgement, little one, and you should have a little more faith in yourself. Now, let’s go get ready. I’ve already got a dress for you to wear. It’s only semi-formal, we’ll be going to a restaurant for this meeting.” You give a small sigh as you follow him into the bedroom. 

All you can do now is go along with it, whether you trust his judgement or not. Suddenly being put in a position of so much power is stressing you out a little bit, but Shouta isn’t wrong about your compartmentalization. The stress could be dealt with later, right now you have a meeting to attend.

* * *

On second thought, maybe the stress should have been dealt with earlier. Standing outside the restaurant, wrapped around Shouta’s arm is making your heart pound in your chest. You’re unconsciously squeezing his bicep, and even as he looks down at you, there's nothing on your face to indicate your nerves. You’re completely deadpanned, eyes focused and mind working overtime. Shouta’s calloused hand falls over yours, a mildly comforting gesture.

“Don’t worry, little one. The most you’ll have to do is sit still and look pretty. I’m aware of your inexperience, I don’t expect you to be put on the spot. If you are and feel uncomfortable then all you need to do is tap my leg. You’ll be fine.” You nod. The pep-talk is appreciated, but it isn’t the meeting itself you’re worried about. What kind of backlash will Shouta be getting once you enter? What will be said about his reputation afterward? All you can do is wait and see.

You stride into the venue, and are led to a private room by a hostess. You can hear the casual conversation from the open door, but once you’re inside the immediate silence is unsettling. You don’t need to look directly at the half dozen men to know all their eyes are fixed on you as you both sit at the head of the table. Shouta quickly and smoothly brings the attention off of you.

“It’s good to see you, gentlemen. Let’s get this meeting started, shall we?” The tension in the room is still palpable, the clear discomfort from the men hadn’t vanished, but their main focus now is the subject of the meeting. You sit and listen carefully as they talk about several things, from natural disaster preparations to minor territory disputes. Some of the smaller syndicates under these oyabun had spread operations outside their borders, but that was quickly settled as most was due to small misunderstandings and unclear borders. Soon the meeting was nearly coming to a close, and suddenly Shouta left to use the restroom. 

And now, you’re a lioness in a clan of hyenas.

You keep quiet, listening to their conversation and following along with the political debates to further familiarize yourself with the inner workings of the higher circle. Suddenly the table goes quiet, and you lift your eyes from the table to meet the gaze of six men that value tradition. Unsure what to do, you drop your gaze again, but don’t drop your chin, choosing to look down your nose at the wood grain. Shouta had told you to hold yourself as he does, and you make sure to try, but you know when to keep to yourself.

“Tell me, girl, what are you doing here?” You blink, not expecting to be confronted so blatantly. You look up at the man who had asked the question. He looks to be in his late forties, jet black hair graying at the temples and striking brown eyes aged and tired. He’s not thin, a little heavier-set, but it’s clear there was a point that he was fit and muscular. He’s already irked you. You nod your head, a small bow, before calmly answering.

“My name is (y/n). I would appreciate it if you could please use it, Oyabun. I am here because Shouta wants me to be here.” The man narrows his eyes at you, a small scoff comes from one of the others but you don’t avert your eyes to him.

“Well why does he want you here, girl?” The blatant rejection of your request made your blood boil, but you kept a pleasant face.

“I don’t know. If you wish to know you may need to ask him yourself, Oyabun. And please, call me (y/n).” You’re certain he won’t use your name, and you addressing it again will probably anger him, but you can’t care too much when you know you’re within your right to ask that anyone use your name. Especially when you yourself are using a title for the man.

“I’ll address you how I see fit. Just because you’re the Black Dragon’s fiance does not mean I will acknowledge you as anyone of importance.” Ah, that’s right. You had forgotten Shouta’s nickname. Black Dragon is the name people used for him, whether they were afraid of the man or in awe of him. You take an imperceptible, steadying breath. Misogyny is one of the few things that challenge your composure.

“I do not ask you to acknowledge me as a person who holds power. In fact, I am aware of my previous rank and understand that it was maybe unwise to have me here. All I ask is that you please use my name.” The near growl that escapes the man does nothing to your self-control, doesn’t even strike any kind of emotion other than irritation. At this point, the other five men seem to be siding with you, their gazes fixed on the rather aggressive-reacting oyabun with something akin to confusion. 

“Do not talk back to me, girl! I should remind you of your place here.” The other men sit in shock as he rises from his seat and begins to circle the table. He must have had tunnel vision, because Shouta’s voice cuts through the room so abruptly he freezes, his eyes snapping over to the entrance where Shouta stands, glaring daggers at him.

“Touch her, and I will personally bury you six feet under.” The man is frozen in shock, almost in disbelief. He tries, albeit weakly, to get Shouta on his side.

“O-oyabun! I… This girl, she--” 

“I believe she asked you to use her name. Politely, might I add.” He’d been listening? How long had he stood there?

“In fact, you should address her as Onna-oyabun.” Your breath caught at that, the same as the rest of the room. That title was a myth, a rarity in its own right. There were so few instances where that title was applied to a woman under such specific circumstances that it’s a mere legend today. The most recent was an old woman who had inherited her deceased husband’s clan, which was extremely small, and even that was long ago. 

Shouta’s hand landed on your shoulder, his rough thumb drawing small circles into your skin. He was silent, waiting for the older man, or anyone in the room, to oppose him. You could feel his glare in the faces of the other clans’ oyabun, the intensity of it making even you uneasy. It felt like an eternity before Shouta spoke again, venom laced in every syllable.

“I’ve chosen to let you keep all of your teeth, in favor of keeping her from seeing what violence I’m capable of. Next time, I won’t be so gracious. It’s time to go, little one.” You bow your head quickly before taking Shouta’s extended hand and strolling out of the room.

In the car, it’s silent. You have every intention of apologizing for causing a scene, though you aren’t sure if you should speak here or at home. Shouta doesn’t leave you any options.

“What is it? There’s something bothering you.” How perceptive.

“I’m sorry, Shouta.” He turns his head, his expression questioning your intelligence.

“For what? For asking to be addressed in a way that isn’t demeaning? He had no reason to ask why you were there, let alone attempt to attack you like that. I always hated that man, you’ve just given me a reason to threaten him.” You did a double-take.

“You heard everything? How long were you standing at the door?” 

“Ah. I put a bug in the metal piece on the front of your dress. I knew they might be unsavory toward you, and with me out of the room they were more likely to speak their minds.” You nearly gawked at him. No wonder he’d chosen your dress for you. 

“You never went to use the restroom.” He shook his head.

“No, I didn’t. It is I who should be apologizing, little one. The entire ordeal was intentional, as much as I hoped it wouldn’t actually take such a turn. Though I will say I was serious about that title. I fully intend to marry you, and I intend to have you by my side for every meeting from here on out.” You suck in a sharp breath at that bit of information. Marriage seemed like such an abstract concept until now, having Shouta say it somehow made it all the more solid. And to join him for every meeting? 

“As long as there are no more surprise incidents then I think I can come with you.” A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he squeezed your hand.

“Deal. Though I may need to do that a few more times just to keep some men in line.” You let yourself giggle, he must hate a few of the others as well.

“In that case I’ll help you. I was afraid he’d actually get me for a second there.” 

“Really? You didn’t even react. What if I were a split second too late?” You smirked, a mischievous little tug at your lips.

“Well if you were too late he’d have at least one stab wound and be bleeding out on the floor.” He shoots you a bewildered look before you tug up the hem of your dress, exposing a large dagger strapped to your thigh. He can’t contain his laughter, throwing his head back and wiping away at a few stray tears once he can breathe again. You can’t help but laugh with him, and notice just how handsome he looks when he’s happy, or in this case amused.

“Wouldn’t that be an unpleasant surprise.” He chuckles a bit more, getting it all out of his system before looking over at you. 

“Regardless, I won’t be letting them get that close. I’m sure you’re capable of defending yourself, and as much as I’d love to see you stab an annoying misogynist, the risk to your safety still remains. Not to mention he disregarded my warning last night. You’re untouchable, little one, he knows this and still thought he could touch even a single hair on your head.” 

You let a small smile settle on your lips, lacing your fingers with Shouta’s as a comfortable silence falls between you.

******************************

Tags:

@inumorph

[himbowashington]

Please, Daddy?

NSFW: Smut Loki x Mobius

It begins quite innocuously, things had been tense between them for a while but something was different about this time they could both feel it, settled into their bones.

Mobius dealt with the feeling by knocking his walking pace up a notch or two forcing Loki, despite being the taller of the two, to struggle behind him. He exhaled deeply trying to clear his mind focus on the variant. Don’t get distracted.

“Slow down!” Loki calls forcing Mobius to face him by stopping his stride. Just as Mobius is about to turn to start walking again, Loki pushes him running for the elevator door which is trying to close. Mobius thinks many things, the chief one of them being, that bastard.

Another thing he notices is that Mobius is faster than he looks, and stronger too, Loki thinks as he hears the older man barreling behind him. He throws himself foward in a way that seems almost reckless even to Loki.

And then everything stops.

He feels rather than sees Mobius slam into his trying to restrain his hands behind his back, pressed up against the wall. There is a quiet struggle between them before Mobius gains the upper hand pushing in hard up against the wall, angry with him, Loki realizes. The feeling is exhilarating.

Maybe it was frustration, or rage, or exhaustion or a mixture of three but regardless something in Mobius, made him lean foward his mouth close to Loki’s ear as he stilly firmly presses the other man to the wall. “Gotcha.” He says simply.

“What’re going to do to me?” he asks in a probing voice. Mobius noticed, but brushes it off as Loki trying to be his typical theatrical self.

“What’re you doing to me?” Mobius retorts roughly shaking the younger man a bit to try and shake him out of it.

The door dings closed.

Loki gasps.

Mobius’ mind reels trying to process the two events. Mobius is angry and overwhelmed with the feeling of betrayal, full of rage. He pushes Loki harder, almost too hard, back against the wall. “You like that?” he taunts, voice lower than loki had ever heard it, gruff, strained.

Loki makes a noise deep in his throat, a whine. “Please, Daddy.”

It’s Mobius’s turn to gasp. He leans his forehead against loki’s shoulder blade “What’d you say?” Mobius says in a startling clear voice. Loki panics. He must have miscalculated somewhere.

Loki starts to collapse in on himself, face beet red in embarrassment. Fuck Fuck Fuck, how to get himself out of this one? He goes for the traditional walk back approach. “This is a mindgame isn’t it, leyfeyson? You think you can move me around like your little puppet but i’m not your dog!” he says in a somehow angrier voice than his earlier one. Loki closes his eyes. “S’ not a game.”Loki says quietly. “ I don’t trust you.”

“You don’t have to.” he replies giving the agent pause. “why?” he says, and loki can’t help but smile, mobius’s curiosity was one of loki’s favorite things about him. “Let me turn around, I’ll show you.” “I’ll kill you if you try anything. i mean it.” Mobius threatens. The agent turns slightly before slamming on the red emergency stop button on the elevator, the cart abruptly stopping and a faint red lighting replacing the LEDS turn on. Loki wants to see the older mans face cast in that red light, study it like a dutch oil painting, but instead he waits. “Not having you get away this time. If you try to fuck me over again.” Mobius says in tired explaination, then begins to step back a pace or so to free Loki slightly from his grip. “Alright, show me.”

loki considers all the ways this could go wrong before deciding to as always do it anyway.

He shifts to facing Mobius, and Mobius scans over him quickly, looking for clues like he was trained. His eyes reach Loki’s pants and then he does a slight double take. Loki’s pants look painfully tight and strained on him, tenting up in a way that left nothing to the imagination. Mobius entire jaw goes stiff for a second, the bone perturbing. He is silent for a moment. “This is a trick.” he says finally, because it feels like one in the same way that people don’t leave there brand new cadillacs running with the keys in them because that’s a trick, it’s a set up, plain and easy.

“No tricks, Ive got my collar on, remember?” Loki retorts and Mobius blinks, because it’s true.

Then the world feels like it’s shifting off its axis for the too of them staring back at one another. “Loki-“ Mobius starts in a pleading voice, a desperate one, Loki thinks as a chills runs up his spine.

“You are handsome. You shouldn’t sell yourself short, you know.” Loki adds suddenly making Mobius freeze.

“The grumpy silver fox thing works for you.” he says and the elder scoffs.

He turns back to face Loki, his eyes getting darker and shaded by the moment.

He takes a step closer. There foreheads almost touch.

“Say it again.” Mobius says breathless.

“Say what?” he asks coyly, reaching up to snake his hands through Mobius’s short grey hair.

“You know what!” Mobius replies quietly, equally parts frustrated and embarrassed by his own addition.

Loki reaches out to pull at his tie, yanking the older man forward.

he leans forward and kisses the other in way that could only be described as lewd before pulling away, panting slightly, the god of mischief smiling back at him with swollen lips and a blush on his cheeks.

“Daddy, please.”

The statement stops the other man’s brain for a moment, short circuiting.

Mobius knows what he’s doing, where normal human life spans were a hundred years at best, Mobius had been around for thousands, and he really had been around, learned all the tricks of the trade, studying them with the same intensity with which he studying every detail about Loki.

He moves foward quickly shucking off parts of Loki’s jumpsuit easily. Loki reaches foward and starts to clumsily undo the other man’s dress shirt. Mobius laughs, in a breathless, panting sort of way that drives Loki insane before collecting both hands in his own to kiss them softly. Loki spreads his fingers out flexing, before tentatively popping one in the older man’s mouth. He sucks on loki’s finger for moment before letting go with a wet pop, still holding the hand in question. “Mobius.” he moans and the older man turns to him gaze sharpened to watch him squirm.

“What is it, baby?” he asks softly, gently, in his comforting voice like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him. He presses kisses to Loki’s palm and forearm. “what, my kitten?” he absolutely purrs, and Loki stops breathing. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to come standing right here like this.” he says all at once words flowing into to one another. Mobius groans pressing his face into Loki’s neck before dragging his teeth against the soft expanse of skin there.

“Please, Please, No ones coming. There’s no next stop, you pressed the button it’s just us.” he reasons frantically, and that when he hears it for the first time. It takes him a moment to realize what the sound is and even longer to realize it was coming from Mobius, a low growl, deep, vibrating his whole chest cavity in a way that reverberated off Loki’s.

“I shouldn’t.” he says in a voice the sound unconvinced even to himself

Loki shrugs his shoulders rolling his eyes and then drops to his knees.

Mobius takes a pace back, blinking rapidly. “Oh Jesus Christ.” he lets out as he realizes what’s happening. He feels a hand slide up his torso but does nothing to push it away, it settles at his belt buckle, “Fuck,” he lets out as he feels a finger dip between the waistline of his pants to touch skin underneath. “Loki-Loki- you don’t- you don’t have to do this if -“ Mobius pauses, out of breath, his statement strikes him as ridiculous. Without breaking eye contact with him Loki nuzzles forward ever so gently before mouthing wetly over the crotch of the older man’s freshly pressed slacks. Mobius throws his head back so hard, there’s a slight noise made when it connects to the wall behind him. “Jesus christ,” he pants, “Look at me.” Loki commands and Mobius snaps his head back to face Loki, Loki whose mouthing at his dick, Loki, that’s going to blow him. Mobius groans looking away again. It’s too much. “Be a good boy, do what I say. Look at me.” The world now is spinning at even faster dizzying pace, in circles. All Mobius can do is obey. He looks down and Loki does the unthinkable, he looks up at him with green doe eyes, nuzzling the throbbing dick of the man in front of him, and then extends his arm up again dragging it across Mobius’ torso without breaking eye contact. Mobius latches onto the arm like a lifeline. Both breathing hard, the air of the elevator humid and thick. Mobius rests his arms out against the side railing of the elevator. Maybe there is a heaven he thinks for a few moments as he watches a literal god unzip his pants with shaky hands. He must had done something right was the second thought and then he felt Loki reaching down his boxers and begin to jerk him off and he thought nothing but of Loki and blinding hot pleasure. He bucked as he felt the wet mouth accommodate him, licking up the slides, Loki’s mouth was warm, and he instinctively moved a hand to cradle Loki’s face delicately like glass.

“Perhaps another prince” Slvie had said. She was right. Mobius was so gentle and mannerly with him, almost courtly galant, a prince he should be, Loki thought as Mobius very lightly started to shift his hips into the others face, keeping his hand around the jaw that expanded around his cock. Mobius groaned at the thought if it. His cock in loki’s mouth. Loki stared up at him at him in a way that made him feel like he were the only person in the world. “Don’t you need to stop and breathe for a second or something?” he asks ever concerned about loki’s condition at all times.

Loki answers this by speeding up causing Mobius to hiss reaching with both hands to tangle in Loki’s hair. He pulls and scratches at the scalp appreciatively, almost petting him at times. Loki moans around him and suddenly Mobius’ ears were ringing.

Mobius is properly fucking into his mouth now as he’s figured out that the pleasure Loki gets is far worth the danger to him. Loki wants to be loved, to be claimed, Mobius knew that from studying him, the stories of a second best prince and outcast, craving connection. So he had decided to claim him, to let himself fall into the moment. So he did, digging a hand into Loki’s hair with one arm and cradling the face with the other. “Good boy. Good boy.” he repeats thoroughly debatched and desperate. “Fuck, you’re such a fucking good boy aren’t you? Even though you play words games youre thinking about your lips wrapped around my cock, is that what you like? To be my good boy? To suck my cock, baby?“ Mobius’s voiced is more high pitch now, whiney almost. He groans as he feels Loki slow, and eventually let off with another lewd pop. Mobius panted. His eyes never leaving Loki’s as he watches the man kiss the way back up his chest, “Yes, Daddy.” He said in his ear before turning them around to use the pressure of Loki’s back against the wall to ride him. As Mobius turns to realize what he means for them to do two things happen, one Mobius hauls Loki’s tight little doll body up slightly to line himself up with the younger man’s entrance and the thought that there most definitely was a heaven. He pauses a moment looking into the others face, cast in the red light, concerned, careful of him, “Are you sure?” he breathes out and Loki starts to settle him self lower onto Mobius in response. they both gasp when Loki bottoms out, Mobius growls again shaking both of their chest the vibration comforting to Loki. “I’m gonna fuck your brains out, Leyfeyson, think you can handle that?”he asks gruff. “I’m gonna fuck you so good your legs shake for a week and you’ll be sure I introduced myself as daddy and didn’t give you any other names. All you’ll be able to think is Daddy please,” Loki gasps grasping desperately at Mobius’ head. “The fucking mouth on you, christ, I wished have done this sooner.” Loki says, nose to nose with Mobius as he pounding into the other. Mobius takes advantage of the situation by reaching down a giving a heavy stroke to Loki’s leaking dick. Loki moans, head back, where Mobius places kisses and bites, making him squirm even more, pulling at him. “You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful god you’re so fucking tight you’re such a good boy.” He rambles in Loki’s ear. “Daddy please, Daddy please fuck me harder, fuck me harder- yeah like that just- fuck keep going-“ Loki rambled back, reacting to Mobius switching speeds, pumping the others cock deftly driving him wild. Mobius fucks up into Loki as obediently as in any other task, with a tireless dedication and a chase of pleasure, his mouth is slack open, they’re both close, panting bodies slick with sweat. “make me belong to you.” Loki says brokenly and mobius hips stutter he shifts so that he can go deeper into loki getting lost in where one body began and the next ended “Come on fuck me like you mean it.” Loki teases but secretly still hopes for a reaction out out of the older man, which he gets, Mobius starts snapping his hips in a way that must have taken at least a millennia to perfect. “I mean it” he says licking a stripe down Loki’s neck whining. “I fucking love you - I love you.” Loki gripped at the nape of the other man’s neck. “Say it again, please -“ I love you i love- i love you fucking love you - Christ.” Loki came and when he did He kept riding mobius, “i’m yours make me yours, daddy” Mobius came with a cry tensing for a moment.

and so it all really went back to that phrase, the way he’d moan the word out, almost purring like a cat “Please, Daddy?” And how could mobius ever deny him with such a pretty face like loki’s, humans were meant to worship gods, It was natural, Mobius thought as he looked at Loki’s face, peaceful, relaxed.

[openheartthot]

Be Mine

Pairing: Open Heart [Ethan x f!MC (Camille Prescott)]

Word Count: 1,764

Rating: T

Warinings: Brief mentions of sex/sexual content 

Category: Fluff :)

Summary: Ethan and Camille make it official on Valentine’s Day.

***

I know it’s been like 2 months since I last posted a fic but I’ve been feeling a tiny bit more positive about OH3, plus it’s Valentine’s Day and these two idiots are in love. Don’t mind me making Ethan the insecure one as payback for what PB does to us haha

Ethan has been so buried in work that, lately, all the days seem to blend into one another. He can’t remember the last time he took a day off-- he’s been living, eating, and breathing Edenbrook.

And then there’s Camille.  

On the rare occasion that he manages to tear himself away from the hospital… he’s been living, breathing, and eating her, too. 

Ethan tugs slightly at his collar, a sudden flush working up his neck at the reminder of her soft blonde hair and even softer curves. 

The airy sound of her laugh has his head instinctually jerking up and in the direction of the residents’ lounge. 

As Ethan turns on his heel to follow the familiar noise, he can’t help but take note of the pink decorations adorning the walls and hanging from the ceilings. No matter how lost he’s been in his work lately, the universe just won’t let him forget about Valentine’s Day. 

It’s a stupid holiday, really. He’s always thought so. The boxed chocolates are a sad, chalky, affair, and the brightly colored gifts are gimmicky at best. The whole thing is little more than a capitalist cash-grab, and there is nothing Ethan hates more than capitalism. 

He forces himself not to roll his eyes as he spots two nurses exchanging cards in his periphery. 

It’s not that he dislikes love, but he does dislike the showmanship and theatricality that seem to surround February 14th. 

It’s just another day to him. In his thirty-seven years, he hasn’t once deigned to involve himself in such a tacky display of affection, and he sure isn’t going to start now. 

Except…

As he opens the door to the residents’ lounge, Camille is elbow deep in a pile of pink tissue paper. The excitement in her wide smile is nothing short of arresting, and of course, he should’ve known that she’d live for something like this. 

“Aww, look at it!” Camille squeals, her eyes shining as she lifts a stuffed bear from the mountain of gift wrapping. Her eyes dart over to Ethan, noticing him in the doorway, and her smile grows. She wiggles one of its fuzzy arms in an imitation of a wave. “It’s so cute, isn’t it?” 

“It’s something,” Ethan says tactfully, crossing the room to slip an arm around her waist. He catches a whiff of her light floral perfume, and can’t resist leaning down to peck her on the cheek. “Did Sienna buy that for you?” 

He may not be a fan of Valentine’s Day, but neither does he wish to offend Sienna Trinh, especially not after the basket of homemade scones she delivered to his office that morning. 

“Nope, one of Camille’s patients has a crush on her.” Lahela teases from the couch, where he is sorting through a thick stack of cards from his own extensive list of admirers. 

A strange itch works its way up the back of Ethan’s spine at Bryce’s words, and his arm tenses instinctively around Camille’s waist. 

Just because he loathes Valentine’s Day does not mean that he wants another man buying her tacky trinkets and writing sappy notes. 

Camille doesn’t seem to notice his displeasure, her lips pitching into a smile as she holds up the card to show him. 

“Medically speaking, you make my pulse race. Isn’t that adorable?” She laughs, and Ethan narrows his eyes at the obnoxiously pink card. The card that someone else gave to Camille. 

Her green eyes dart over the surface of the card once more, and Ethan feels something tight and uncomfortable building in his chest. 

“I think that’s the most brainless thing I’ve ever heard.” Ethan says sharply. “Which patient sent this?” He needs to know, so he can reassign them to another resident. 

“Relax, Ethan, it’s Jake from the pediatric ward.” Camille says with a breezy laugh. “He’s twelve.” 

“Oh,” Ethan shifts his weight, embarrassed. The sound of his pager is a welcome reprieve, and he glances at it gratefully. “Are you coming over tonight? I can meet you in the atrium.” 

It’s become almost routine for them, on the rare occasion they both have a night off. After the stress of the past few weeks, Ethan can’t wait to get her alone. Even if it’s only to watch a movie and drink that horrible cheap wine she likes, he just wants to spend time with her. Even the thought of a proper Valentine’s Day date, oddly, holds a new appeal when he considers Camille across the table, her smile lighting up the room...

“I think we’re gonna do a Galentine’s Day thing tonight.” Camille says with an apologetic shrug.

“Galentine’s Day?” Ethan asks, unable to keep the disgruntled edge out of his voice. It seems a new term is invented every time he turns his back. It’s deeply perturbing. 

“Yeah!” Sienna chimes in. “Me, Camille, Aurora, and Jackie, since we all managed to get the night off and none of us have significant others-- except Camille, I mean, you and her…” Sienna trails off, looking unsure. 

“It’s okay, he hates Valentine’s Day, anyway.” Camille interjects quickly. “And we’re not official or anything like that.” 

The look she shoots him is equal parts hopeful and nervous, as if she’s waiting for Ethan to correct her. He wants to, God, how he wants to correct her. To say that they are very much a official and serious relationship.

Instead, he freezes on the spot. 

“My pager…” he says pathetically, before turning and abruptly striding out of the room. 

***

All day, Ethan is a black storm cloud drifting sullenly through the rose-colored halls of Edenbrook. 

It’s clear to the rest of the staff that something is wrong, but no one is quite sure what. He hasn’t been in such a bad mood in months, not since he started seeing Camille. The rumor mill churns out a steady stream of speculation, doing nothing to improve Ethan’s mood. 

Finally, Naveen corners him in front of a bulletin board covered in construction paper hearts.

“Do you think I’m enough for her?” Ethan asks, staring pointedly at the board rather than making eye contact with his former mentor. 

“I’m not sure I follow.” Naveen says mildly. 

“She’s so...vibrant. Loving.” Ethan reaches out and touches one of the paper hearts. Camille organized the project, helping every pediatric patient decorate a heart and hanging them up with painstaking care. “I’m the opposite.” 

“Are you?” Naveen asks, “I’ve seen you with her, and you seem happy. You two are good together.” 

“She doesn’t want to spend Valentine’s Day with me,” Ethan admits, feeling foolish even as the words leave his mouth. “Because she thinks I hate it, which I do, of course…” 

“But you wouldn’t hate it with her?” Naveen prompts.

Ethan nods with a rueful smile. He shouldn’t be surprised, the man was considered the best diagnostician in the country for a reason. 

“It’s okay to seek happiness, Ethan. You can let go of the cynicism if you want to.” With that, Naveen turns to leave, but not before pressing a small cardboard box into Ethan’s hand with a wink. 

***

Camille lingers as Baz finishes gathering the last of his papers and shuffles out the door of the diagnostics office. 

Ethan doesn’t look up as he fumbles with the tiny cardboard box in his lap, but he can feel her warmth hovering in front of his desk. He thinks he would know the feel of her even if he was blind, deaf, and dumb. 

Finally, finally, Ethan manages to tear open the little cardboard flap and maneuver his fingers into the narrow opening.

“I’d like to speak with you--” he begins. 

“--Can we talk?” Camille says at the exact same time. 

“I’d like to go first.” Ethan says, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry. For my behavior this morning. I have never liked Valentine’s Day, that’s true, but I do like you.” 

He pauses, and glances up at Camille’s face to gauge her reaction. Her expression is soft, and the fond look in her green eyes makes Ethan’s heart stutter in his chest. 

Emboldened, he reaches into the box and sets a piece of candy on the desk with a decisive nod. 

Camille leans over, a curtain of blonde hair falling over her shoulder as she tries to get a better look at the candy heart. 

“Sweet talk?” Her laugh is bright and clear. “Ethan you actually have to try and sweet talk me, this is a cop out!” 

Ethan can feel a hot blush pricking at his cheeks and he shakes his head. 

“No, dammit, that’s the wrong one.” He stands and pours a few more hearts into his hand, ignoring the dusty residue that is surely being shaken all over his desk. It takes a few moments of searching until he finally finds the correct saying on a yellow heart.

“Here,” he says, brusquely handing her the candy.

“Be mine.” She looks back up at him with glittering eyes, her teeth sinking into the soft pink of her lower lip. 

“I know we haven’t defined our relationship yet, but I want to be with you. Officially.” He clears his throat when Camille doesn’t immediately respond. “I understand if you need some time to--”

“Shut up,” Camille breathes, stepping forward until she can loop her arms around his neck. Her command is unnecessary, considering how Ethan has already been rendered speechless by her proximity.

He can feel her smile against his mouth as she meets his lips with her own. He groans as her fingers anchor in the hair at the base of his neck, tugging softly. 

The kiss deepens as Camille’s lips part beneath his, and Ethan’s hands work underneath her blouse, sliding against the bare skin of her back. 

“Is that a yes?” Ethan asks, his voice gravelly as she plants a trail of kisses along his jaw. 

He is thirty-seven years old, and for the first time he has reduced himself to a lovesick adolescent. It’s strange how willing he is to embarrass himself in front of her, how willing he is to do anything for her. 

“Of course it’s a yes! I’ve been waiting forever for you to commit to me.” Camille says with a radiant smile. Ethan cups her face gently.  

“So, what now? I have a standing reservation at a restaurant downtown. I’d like to take you out on a real date.” 

“That sounds nice,” Camille says, toying with one of the scattered candy hearts. “But first, I found this…” 

Cheekily, she holds out the blue candy. 

Kiss me. 

***

Tagging separately!

[shaywrites-ifs]

Lior | Satyr

Lior doesn’t speak about his past very often, and when he does it’s never anything important. He is quite good over talking about a lot of things and none of them being, at the very least, incriminating. Plenty of what he says isn’t important at all. What is known is that Lior has been all over and dealt with all sorts of people. He has a way of being where its the most beneficial, having access to what you need, or knowing somebody who can help.

He flits acround the country in some sort of mix of having a purpose and simply following his whims. The only truth of Lior is that the is adamently and loudly himself and, he is either deeper than he seems or as simple as he appears.

Personality: Lio is here to cause problems on purpose. He is unabashedly dramatic, completely confdient in himself and who he is, and wants a good time. He is borderline hedonistic and quite independent. His goals are his own, but everybody will know what he likes, what he doesn’t like, and that he is definietly one of the prettiest people in any of the rooms. Friendly, nice, and sometimes even kind, Lior holds himself at a distance from people and enjoys pranks, antics, and general theatrics. Eveyrbody knows when Lior has been mildly inconvienenced.

Appearance: Gold is the best way to describe Lior. He has lush golden hair that falls like silk, gold whiskey eyes, and powerful hooved legs covered in soft wispy golden fur. His tail more like a horses, matching his hair. He wears the finest clothes, carefully and meticiously taking care of his skin, and hair, and appearance. Make up and jewelry accentuates every new look, nails always painted a new color. He leans into his 6'2 | 187 cm height, confident and happy to be so eye catching, though, no doubt has more than a few sharp implements hidden withen the folds of his fancy clothes. 

Likes: Pranks, Jewelry, Dancing, Karaoke, Dramatic Flowy Robes, Reading

Dislikes: SIlver, Olives, Lawful Good People, Roses

Tricks

Sleepless Nights [Boon]: he does not require as much sleep as the rest of the people to be fully rested, and even less to simply function coherently

Secret: Lior has always wanted a pet but absolutely refuses to ever get himself one.