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whocaresstillthelouvre · 3 months ago

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Do You Wanna Touch Me?

Rating: Explicit 18+ (MDNI) Pairing: Marcus Pike x Sex Worker Female Reader Words Count: 4,200 Summary: After getting his heart broken, Marcus Pike takes an assignment in Amsterdam. What started as an exploration of the red light district turns into choosing you, the most beautiful art he's ever seen. Warnings: sex work, erotic dancing, hand job, masturbation, fingering, oral (m receiving), reader wears makeup and a dress, marcus tries to escape his heartbreak, van gogh mentions, reader is college aged, dieter bravo exists in this universe

A/N: This was written for @baronessvonglitter's Fuck-tober birthday celebration. I was assigned Marcus Pike and "Do You Wanna Touch Me" by Joan Jett. Happy birthday Adriana!!! 💕

Here are the songs I refer to in the fic: “Do You Wanna Touch Me” by Joan Jett “Bed Chem” by Sabrina Carpenter “Streets” by Doja Cat “God Is A Woman” by Ariana Grande “Cinema” by Harry Styles “The Night Me and Your Mama Met” by Childish Gambino Masterlist

---

Marcus doesn’t do things like this. He’s a good man, a good son, a good brother, a good friend, and most of all, a good agent. And yet, he still walks down the cobblestone street that’s bathed in red lights.

LIVE SEX SHOW SEX TOYS SEX PALACE HIGH TIMES

What in the world is he doing here? Curiosity, loneliness, being so fucking horny he can’t focus on the case ahead. You’re a good man he tells himself as he ventures deeper into the crimson alleys, the shadow of shame following closely behind him.

“Hey handsome. Today’s your lucky day.” A blonde man winks, handing him a gilded envelope. “You’re invited to Galerij.”

Marcus blinks down at the golden envelope, looking up to find the blonde stranger already gone from his sight. He opens the envelope, revealing a simple invitation with gold embossed text.

Galerij, Amsterdam’s hottest art pieces. €400

He’s a damn FBI agent, and yet he’s too intrigued and desperate for a distraction to say no. He should know better, his badge weighs heavily in his pocket. He plugs the address into his phone with a sigh and makes the quick walk to the address listed, silently atoning for his sins as he passes the Oude Kerk church. He doesn’t dare make eye contact with any of the police officers situated, they might sense his shame.

“You’ve arrived at your destination,” the robotic voice intones. He looks up at the plain brick row home that stands out amongst the surrounding buildings covered in neon lights with windows full of girls in different levels of undress.

A small gold sign hangs above the unassuming black door. GALERIJ

He inhales deeply and pushes the door open. A bell jingles. Inside, an older looking woman with slicked-back blonde hair and a sharp black suit sits behind a desk.

“Nederlands or English?” she asks, her tone clipped.

“English,” he answers, his throat tight. “Please.”

“Invitation?”

“Oh, uh, here,” he hands her the invitation.

Without any more acknowledgment, she gestures to a black leather chair near an intricately carved golden door. “Please take a seat.”

A bit of trepidation blooms within him as he sits down, but when he looks around, he realizes that this isn’t some seedy back-alley brothel. It can’t be that bad if the walls are covered in mahogany and the floor is marble.

The woman makes a quick phone call, speaking in a hushed voice. His palms grow sweaty. What the hell is he doing? This was supposed to be a quick exploration of something that’s always fascinated him… legal vices. Yet now, he's gripping the armrests as the same stern woman brings over a clipboard and card machine.

“Cash or charge?”

“Oh, cash?” he replies quickly, fumbling for his wallet. There’s no way he’s going to use a credit card around here, too many chances of his secret adventure getting revealed on a statement.

“400 euros.”

He opens his wallet and unfolds his money. 100, what are you doing? 200, what are you doing? 300, Marcus, seriously, what are you doing? 350, no seriously what are you doing? 400, damn, you’re really doing it.

Stern woman takes the money and hands him a gold pin with a simple G etched onto it. She hits a small gold bell on her desk, a singular ring sharply echoes across the small room.

He pins the pin to his chest, reminding him of all the times he used to pin the old Met Museum badge to his lapel when he was a young college student in New York. This is so much more different than that, he reminds himself.

The golden door opens after a moment.

A beautiful older woman in a dark burgundy skirt and matching jacket walks out with a smile lifting her dark red lips.

“Welcome to Galerij. I am Maud, the curator.” she greets, offering her hand. “What would you like us to call you here?”

He rises and shakes her hand.

Can’t do Marcus, can’t do Pike, can’t do Agent. He thinks of that one actor everyone tells him he looks like. “Uh–Bravo.”

“Very well, Bravo,” she opens the door, moving aside allowing him to walk through. “Welcome to Galerij.”

He steps into a stark white room. The floor is shiny concrete, a singular white table with two white wishbone chairs sit in the middle of the room, a stark contrast to the entrance room on the other side of the wall. Not exactly what he was expecting. The agent in him can’t help but think this would be a perfect place to kill somebody.

Maud motions for him to sit across from her. “Here you will make your decision on what piece you’d like. Gay or straight?”

He sits down, her question is a reminder as to why he’s really here. “Straight,” he answers, his nerves beginning to creep around him.

She nods. “All of our pieces are tested, clean, and practice safe sex. Your piece will tell you what they will and won’t do once you make your choice. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You will have twenty minutes, your time will start once you enter your gallery. A bell will ring every five minutes, your final bell will ring twice symbolizing your last five minutes. Do not be late. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Of course no photos or recordings. We ask you to not even have your phone out. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Are you ready?” she asks with a smile on her face.

“I am,” he answers. His heart is pounding.

She nods and presses a button, a shrill buzz echoes through the room. A hidden door opens and a large muscle and tattoo clad man with buzzed black hair and a nose ring walks out carrying a red velvet-covered book. He hands it to Maud, before standing behind her like a silent guardian.

His heart races faster than he ever thought it could when she opens the book and pushes it towards him.

GALERIJ with the day's date is stamped on the thick page.

His fingers tremble as he flips to the first page revealing a photo of an olive skinned and brown haired woman clad in dark blue lingerie with delicate yellow stars embroidered all over it lying on top of swirled silky blue sheets. She’s absolutely stunning.

“This is The Starry Night.”

He nods, turning the page.

A pale skinned, petite woman with shockingly white blonde hair wears a light blue bra and lace panties while laying atop white flower petals. She’s just as beautiful as the first woman.

“This is Almond Blossom.”

He turns the page.

A dark skinned, dark haired woman sits against a yellow wall wearing two sunflower blooms over her ample chest. Her smile is wide, just like her eyes lined with bright gold glitter. She’s gorgeous

“This is Sunflowers.”

They all look like they just walked off the runway, all beautiful and alluring. He wonders what–or who–the next piece will be. He smiles to himself when he realizes they’re all named after Van Gogh. Of course he’d find himself in an art themed brothel… he just can’t escape work.

“Before you see my fourth piece, please know she’s a little different. You cannot touch her, only watch. Don’t let that sway your decision, she is our most popular piece.”

He braces himself as he turns the page.

He loses his breath when he sees you. There you are, sitting cross-legged against the same color wall as Sunflowers. He can just see a glimpse of your nipples under your sheer indigo bra. Your green lined eyes leer at the camera. He thanks all the stars in Starry Night for his chance to even get a look at you. He’s lost in time at how your skin glows against the golden wall.

“Wow,” he breathes out.

“I believe you made your decision,” Maud says with a knowing smile. “This is Irises.”

“Yes,” Marcus swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “Irises please.”

She nods and closes the book. “Pieter, let Irises know.”

“Okay Bravo,” Maud says with a smile and stands. “Pieter will come and get you when Irises is ready. Please do enjoy my gallery.”

“Thank you Maud,” he says, wiping his sweaty hands against the fabric of his jeans.

The fading sound of Maud and Pieter’s steps and a door closing leaves him all alone in the sparse room.

He hopes he looks good enough for you. His dark blue jeans are presentable enough, his plain gray v neck is clean, he thanks himself for spritzing himself with a dash of cologne before leaving his hotel. He knows he paid the equivalent of close to $450 for you to like him, but he still wants to impress you.

He checks his watch, five minutes have passed. He’s too afraid to bring his phone out, so he just stares forward, nervously tapping his foot.

This wasn’t his plan at all, he was just going to explore and sightsee, nothing more. No drugs, no sex, just curiosity.

The door opens. Pieter appears.

“Irises is ready,” he announces, his accent thick. “Follow me.”

He tentatively trails Pieter through the door walking down a hallway lined with doors. Ornate golden frames hang with Van Gogh pieces in each one. They reach the door with Irises hung next to it.

“Twenty minutes,” Pieter says flatly, opening the door. “Sit in the chair. Do not touch. You watch.”

Marcus nods, his heart slamming against his chest. His knees almost buckle as he steps inside the room.

It’s dark, save for a single spotlight shining down on a small stage, a lone purple velvet high back chair sits waiting for him in the middle of it. His shaky legs take him up the three steps before he lowers into it, hands clenching the wide armrests, trying to control his breathing.

He shouldn't be here–-he knows that. It’s too late for regrets now.

The click-clack of your heels echoes through the room when you step onto the stage. He’s too nervous to turn his head to see you. His body tenses, anticipation coiling all of his muscles tight. When you finally step in front of him, he has to remind himself to breathe.

You’re beautiful, the light catches on the sheer fabric of your dress. He can just make out the curves of your body, naked under light lavender chiffon. Your eyes are lined with deep purple eyeliner, ending into a cat eye at the corners. Your ruby red lips curl up into a knowing smile, almost as if you can see his desire for you.

Four thousand miles away from home and he’s just found the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on. His cock begins to thicken, the shame of his paid for voyeurism adventure dissolving from his mind. You’re finer than any masterpiece he’s ever had to investigate.

“Hi Bravo,” you purr, your voice smooth and teasing, “Do you wanna touch me?”

He nods and coughs nervously. “Y-yes. But, I can’t.”

A slow, knowing smile spreads across your lips. “Good boy.”

His back tightens, a wave of heat flows down his spine and settles in his lap. For too long he’s disallowed himself from feeling this type of pleasure. Too busy, too sad, too heartbroken. What led him here feels like a blur. An exchange of glances, a subtle wink, an invitation. The black door, €400 out of his wallet, a white room, an open red velvet book, the long hallway, Irises. He allows himself to enjoy the experience just as you send him a wink.

You’re like his own little gallery show standing in front of him. A piece of art he doesn’t just want to see–but memorize.

—

You’ve only been doing this for a few months now. It really is the perfect side hustle to support yourself while finishing your art degree. You’ve been enamored with Van Gogh’s art since you were a child, a lifelong dream realized when you were accepted into the student exchange program at the University of Amsterdam. You made it possible, and now, working two nights a week in between coursework, you're making more than most of your friends earn in an entire week. Of course, only a select few know what you really mean when you say you work at a very exclusive gallery.

It’s a good job. Maud takes good care of you, vetting those who enter her establishment with her keen client recruiters on the streets. Pieter is always a buzz away, though you’ve never felt danger. Everyone needs an escape, some just agree to pay a premium for it. They call it the oldest profession for a reason.

Bravo. He’s your last customer tonight, and they sure did save the best for last. You watched him approach on the security camera, a smile formed when you noticed how much he resembled your favorite actor, you had plans for him. His wide shoulders, broad body, thin beard, and perfect head of hair almost made you think it was him, if it wasn’t for his eyes flickering around the room nervously. There’s no way Dieter Bravo would be anxious in this type of situation.

You press play on the stereo. A quick drumbeat starts, your steps keep tempo with it as you come back to stand in front of your client.

Turning around and bending over, your hips dance to the beat of the song as your hands roam along your curves, lifting your dress to give him a peek of your thighs and ass. A low groan rumbles behind you.

“Do you like what you see?” you ask, slowly turning to face him, moving your hands up and down your body.

“Y-yes,” he stammers, his nervous eyes wide and plush lips parted.

Those same nervous eyes watch as you bunch the fabric of your dress up and take it off, tossing it aside. He eyes you, brows furrowed in concentration, eyes exploring all of you like you’re a painting hanging in a gallery.

You cup your breasts, feeling the velvety warmth of your skin beneath your fingers as the purple of your nail polish brushes against your hardened nipples. Slowly you tilt your head down and let a trail of spit fall to one nipple.

“Do you wanna touch me?” you ask, pinching and pulling the sensitive peaks of your nipples. “Mmph–mmhmm,” he groans, nervously shuffling in his seat.

Bending forward and placing your hands on his knees gives him the perfect view of your breasts. A long sigh comes from him, his eyes planted on your tits. You like what you’re doing to him, you never start your dances off this close to a client, but you can’t resist him.

When your hands trail up to his thick thighs, the bulge of his pants makes your mouth water, tempting you to move towards it. Not yet.

Leaning closer, you nuzzle against the warmth of his neck. He smells delicious… like eucalyptus and maple syrup. His quickening breaths puff out against your hair. You taste his skin with your tongue, licking your way up to his ear.

“Do you wanna touch me?” you ask along with the song.

“Y-yeah,” he stutters.

Pulling away, you wink before turning your back to him and delicately sit atop his lap. Sinking down against his broad chest, the heat radiating off him burns hot against your back. The song changes just as you feel the poke of his erection against your ass.

A poppy beat soundtracks your movements as you grind yourself against the heft of him, falling back, placing your head against his wide chest. Reaching back, your hands tangle in his soft hair, humming sweetly along to the sound, letting a few lyrics slip out of your mouth.

“I bet you we’d really have good bed chem”

Your client follows directions very well, staying perfectly still, gripping the armrests so hard the golden skin around his knuckles turn white. You rub yourself against the rough fabric of his jeans, getting off on the quiet whimpers he leaves in your ear.

RING. The fifteen minute bell rings.

“And I bet it’s even better than in my head”

You rise off his lap and bend over clasping your hands around your ankles, giving him the perfect view of your ass and dripping core. The song fades out, a deeper, sultrier drumbeat begins.

“Like you, like you, ooh, I found it hard to find someone like you”

Your body gently sways along to the slow, sultry beat, and when you flip your head back to glance at him, he lets a low groan out. Placing your hands on the floor, you walk them out ahead of you before you’re on all fours, spreading your legs wide to show him even more of your glistening pussy.

“Do you wanna touch me?” you ask, settling on your stomach, snaking a hand between your wide spread legs.

“Y-yes,” he huffs.

“I know you do Bravo,” you tilt your hips up hovering them above the ground, “let me show you how I like it.”

Your middle finger enters your soaked entrance as your thumb gently dusts light circles against your clit. Your hips move in beat to the heavy rhythm of the song.

“Oh god,” he pants, when you stick another finger in, the chair creaking underneath his tensity.

RING. The ten minute bell rings.

Choreography, that’s the business term for what you’re doing. It’s all timed out, you hear these songs at least ten times every work day. Though you never sit on your clients as close as you did with Bravo, you never taste their skin like you did with Bravo. He deserves more than the same memorized steps, something better than the repetition you offer all of the others.

The song changes, signaling you to start your new routine, you ignore the cue, rolling onto your back, arching slightly, your eyes meet his. His hands remain clamped on to the armrests, fingers digging into the velvet. He’s trembling with restraint, beads of sweat glistening on his skin. His erection swells, the tight fabric of his pants tenting.

“Do you wanna touch me Bravo?”

“I do,” he whines, the lines of his neck straining as his head thuds against the back of the chair.

“Okay, okay baby,” you sit up, turning to crawl towards him. Your eyes don’t leave his.

“And I can be all the things you told me not to be

When you try to come for me, I keep on flourishing”

Kneeling on your knees in front of him, you unlock one of his clutched hands, moving it to the soft skin of your breast.

“N-no touching I thought,” he stammers, his hand laying flat against your skin.

“I make my own rules, it’s okay Bravo,” you allow, grabbing his other hand and placing it on you.

He groans when he cups your breasts in his hands. You watch the tendons of his strong hand tense and release as he cups your breasts and massages them in his hold. He’s mesmerized by his movements, like he can’t believe you’re allowing him to touch you.

Your hand teases its way up his leg to the warmth of the apex of his thighs before gripping him, thick and hard underneath the constraints of his jeans.

“Oh fuck,” he growls. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re so beautiful.”

His words of adoration fall out of his mouth, eyes still locked on your tits covered by his hands.

You unbuckle his belt, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans as the choir sings God is a woman.

The song changes.

“You got, you got the cinema”

Your eyes light at the sight of his cock, standing tall and thick, precum leaking from the engorged tip. It’s just as beautiful and wide as the rest of your client.

Bravo lets out a garbled groan when you wrap your hand around his length, slowly pumping him along to the song. Up, down, up, down, the sexy beat soundtracking your movements.

RING. RING. The five minute bell rings. Your client doesn’t seem to heed the warning, only focusing on his thumbs swiping back and forth against the peaks of your nipples and your hand stroking the smooth silk of his cock.

“Touch me Bravo,” you rise, lifting a foot up on the armrest, keeping hold of his pulsing dick in your hand. “Give me two of your fingers.”

His eyes gaze down to your dripping cunt, watching himself as his hand sweeps down your body before parting your folds.

You got, you got the cinema

Your hips undulate to the tempo of the song as he sticks two of his long, thick fingers into your heat.

“God damn,” he mutters incredulously, “you’re so wet.”

The song changes.

A steady and slow funky guitar plays along with a soulful choir. It’s soft and romantic, exactly what you like to close down your shows with. You’ve never ended a show like this, your hand wrapped around your client’s wide cock, and your pussy clenching around two of his thick fingers. His thumb begins sweeping back and forth against your clit, he may have found himself at a brothel in Amsterdam, but your client has done this before. Perfect movements, perfect angle, you stare down in reverie at the focus he holds, watching himself touch you. His adoration of your body heats your core, lighting an orgasm just as beautiful as the song that plays.

“Fuck baby,” you pant, “I’m gonna cum.”

He blinks up to you, brown eyes staring intensely into yours when you bite your lip and send a gush of wet against his fingers. Your legs turn shaky, as your clit pulses against his thumb that blesses your sensitive bub with just the right amount of pressure. Moving his hand from between your thighs, he holds it up, marveling at the sight of your juices shining against his skin. You send him a smile as your leg drops to the floor, the rest of your body following, kneeling in front of him. He still stares at his hand, watching the strings of your orgasm stretch across his widely spread fingers.

“Smear it on your cock for me,” you say, planting both hands on his thighs.

He groans and nods before rubbing the remnants of your orgasm on his shaft. He shouts an indistinguishable sound when you lick a line up to his tip, tasting yourself and the salty tang of his precum. Your lips envelop the fat tip of him, sucking and slobbering your way down the thick length of him.

The song ends, the playlist repeats. The same quick drumbeat of the first song plays loudly.

You suck him to the beat, flicking your tongue against his tip with each “YEAH!” of the song.

RING. RING. RING. The final bells ring, signaling that your client should have left by now.

Bravo locks up. Your mouth unclasps from his cock.

“It’s okay,” you assure, “we have a word for–”

A heavy knock lands against the door.

“Driehoek (triangle) Pieter! I’m good in here, thanks!”

Three rapid knocks–softer now–signal Pieter’s departure.

“You guys really have it all fig–oh god,” he moans, when you take his cock back into your mouth.

His strong legs shake against your body as your cheeks hollow, taking him into your mouth faster and harder, his hips thrusting up to meet your mouth. Drool leaks out of the sides of your mouth, your eyes stare up at him blinking back tears as he reaches the back of your throat. You don’t know if he’s ever allowed himself this much freedom, it feels like you’ve unlocked something deep within him with the way he’s snarling and grunting “Irises” over and over.

“G-gonna–yeah–yeah–cum,” he gasps, hips stuttering and chair creaking as he spills into your accepting mouth.

Bravo, client. Bravo.

—

He can’t believe he just did that. He just–he–he just– came in the mouth of a complete stranger–nay–a prostitute. You told him you’ve never done something like that with a client as you tossed him a towel… and the funny thing is he actually believes you.

You shuffle back into the see through lilac dress as he zips his jeans back up. You really are the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, even if your purple eyeliner is now streaked from the tears that sprung in your eyes from gagging on his cock. Wow, that did just happen.

You leave a kiss against his cheek and open the door for him. Pieter escorts him out the back entrance with a knowing smile.

He walks back to his hotel, a new man with a clearer mind. Marcus really doesn’t feel the shame he expected he would. He knows a fine piece of art, and you just might be the finest he’s ever seen.

#marcus pike #pedro pascal #marcus pike smut #marcus pike fan fic #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #fucktober #birthdaybaroness #pedro pascal fanfic

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heavenlyraindrops · 9 months ago

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♱ Father Forgive Me (For I have Sinned) ~Chapter One ♱

Lucifer Morningstar x Angel!Reader Fandom: Hazbin Hotel Chapter One Warnings: Slight mention of blood, profanity, mild violence How to find the other chapters in my pinned post

♱Where the purest soul in Heaven falls for the Devil♱

[Chapter One]

♱♱♱

“What?”

You stared at Adam incredulously, wings almost stuttering to a stop mid-air. He stared back, unfazed at your reaction as you backed away and up from him, mind reeling. You were both suspended in the air, held up by your moving wings, but you felt like you were going to plummet to the ground any second.

The recently opened Pentagram in the sky flickered at the edges around the gaping hole that had allowed the angels to enter Hell. To be fair, you weren’t supposed to be there- you weren’t an exterminator, but Adam had managed to get you permission to join him, arming you with a spear and calling it protection. Plus, if you wanted to go, it wasn’t like the Seraphim would object. It wasn’t a secret, the soft spot they had for you- although, unlike Adam, you did your best to abstain from exploiting it for your every whim.

“What’s the big deal?” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t wanna marry me? I’m the First-“

“First Man, I know,” you frowned, voice strained, at his blatant arrogance. “But Hell in the middle of an extermination isn’t exactly the place to propose to someone, Adam.”

“I was gonna say First Dick,” he grumbled. “Why the fuck you gotta be so complicated? Just fuckin’ say yes. I’m the First Di- Man, you’re the purest soul in Heaven, it only makes sense-“

You balled your fists, forcing yourself to keep a level head. “Have you considered that maybe I don’t want to marry you?”

Adam almost seem to freeze in mid-air. His still beating wings gave it away. “Why the fuck not?” He snarled. You flinched, and his face softened slightly.

“You know I won’t stop trying until you say yes,” he declared. You rolled your eyes, raising up and away into the red sky.

“Just stop trying,” you snapped, and with a powerful beat of your wings you set off into the distance, ignoring Adam’s calls, voice chasing after you, commanding you to stay back.

Your eyes streamed against the wind. You knew Adam liked you, he hadn’t exactly been quiet about it, but there was a lot of stuff he wasn’t quiet about- a lot of stuff which, ultimately, was a turn off for you. You were definitely never going to marry him, and the sheer audacity for him to propose to you so casually, in the middle of Hell, just pissed you off in a way you couldn’t describe.

You sighed. There was no point dwelling on it now. A large silhouette in the distance began to form more clearly. A large- manor? Palace? You glanced down at the streets swooping away beneath you. They were deserted.

Weird. You mentally shrugged. People probably just didn’t want to get caught out in the middle of an extermi-

BANG!

Angelic bullets? Your mind barely registered the thought.

A searing pain stabbed into your wing, which went stiff. For a horrifying moment you were suspended in mid-air, your wings flapping frantically as you tried to stay up, a terrified cloud of feathers and limbs, before another BANG! tore through your remaining functional wing.

You screamed as you flapped your wings a few more pathetic times, careening straight towards the manor-palace. You crashed through a window, taking the curtains down with you, the glass showering you unceremoniously, cutting into your skin as you lay sprawled across the floor in a cloud of feathers. Your spear clattered onto the floor next to you, your wing twitching painfully.

You barely even managed to notice your own blood until you focused your vision. The light from the broken window filtered across your body, a slit cutting across the dark, shadowy room. Your gilded blood glinted in it, seeping into the carpet and the curtains which were buried beneath your weak form, staining the pure white of your splayed out wings.

A single white feather drifted down from the air and landed on your arm. You coughed. Gold sputtered from your lips and trickled down the side of your mouth.

Charming, you thought dryly.

The door of the room opened. You could just barely hear the creak above the blood pounding in your ears. You gulped, hearing footsteps get closer and closer to you-

“Well well well. What do we have here?”

I’m royally screwed, you thought, closing your eyes and waiting for the killing blow.

Instead, gentle, gentle hands touched your face, turning it towards the light and scraping hair away from your eyes. You flinched at the touch, then relaxed as the voice whispered something. You couldn’t make it what it was saying, but it was soothing. And calm. Your breathing evened out. You just barely managed to lift your heavy eyelids.

“Who are you?” Your mouth formed the words but your voice couldn’t get them past your throat without them coming out cracked and gravelly. The voice hushed you. You couldn’t make out the person's face. They were just a pale, blurry silhouette, leaning over your body.

“Close your eyes,” the voice said. “You’re safe now.”

You obeyed.

♱♱♱

You jolted, feeling a presence next to you. The warmth radiated off of them. You could sense their being there.

It was a struggle to unglue each eye open, and when you did, everything was blurry- it took you a few seconds to even realize you were in a bed. The soft covers rustled against your cheek, until you sat up. You blinked slowly and looked around, taking in your surroundings.

“Awake that quickly?”

You flinched, wings bursting out in alarm, unfurled over your head. The man sitting next to the bed you lay on raised an eyebrow, smirking. You gulped. “Who are you?”

“Never mind that.” He stood up, shaking down his rolled up sleeves. “How are your wings?”

You realized that they were still arched out from your back. You furled them back into your back, mortified. You also realized that they were painless.

“They’re healed,” you said breathlessly. The man flashed a prideful grin, revealing his sharp teeth. You narrowed your eyes suspiciously.

“How?”

“Simple. I healed them.”

You frowned, pressing your back against the wall to get as far away from him as possible. He simply stood there, crossing his arms. You blinked, slowly.

“Thank…you?”

“You’re welcome,” he said smugly. You tilted your head as he beckoned for you to stand up, which you did slowly. You glanced out the window. This one wasn’t shattered, and the curtains hung proudly. You were in a different room than the first. The red sky beyond glared at you tauntingly.

“How long was I out?”

“Oh, not long. Don’t worry. The extermination’s still on.” He winked at you. “Your pretty self won’t be stuck here until the next one.”

You remained silent, staring at him, begging to God that your blush wasn’t showing on your face.

It must have been, because his grin only widened.

“Why did you save me?”

“My own selfish desires, of course.” He flicked his hand at a pair of chairs. “Sit down.”

Not knowing what to say, you complied. He sat opposite you. You leaned forward slightly, scanning his face for a single expression that might betray what was going to come next. You found nothing.

He sat back, completely relaxed, which unnerved you more than you could admit. The light hit off of his blond hair and pale skin that made him seem almost… angelic. You knotted your fingers together in your lap, biting your lip and waiting for him to speak.

“So. An angel, huh? You don’t look like an exterminator. How’d you find yourself down here?” His voice seemed to darken a little with his next words. “Did you… fall?”

Your eyes widened in shock. “Of course I didn’t fall,” you spat. You weren’t usually hostile, but the anxiety of the situation was pressing down on you far too hard. “I got special permission to come down by the Seraphim.”

The sinner raised an amused eyebrow at your outburst.

“And who are you to ask me anything?” You continued, frazzled. “A mere sinner-“

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you.”

You clamped your lips shut at his tone. He smiled, satisfied, and continued.

“So, the Seraphim. Why’d they let you down here? They’re not the type to bend rules like that.”

“How would you know?” You said. “I said I wanted to go, they let me.”

“They must have a soft spot for you, then.” His eyes narrowed. “Or, you’re important.”

“I’m nowhere near important,” you snapped, crossing your arms. He nodded slowly. You couldn’t tell if he believed you or not.

For what seemed like another hour he continued to shoot questions at you, mostly about Heaven, and you hesitantly answered. You didn’t know why you stuck around as long as you did- refusing to acknowledge to yourself the sort of charm that beheld, the fact that he was so undeniably attractive, which you would never admit to yourself.

You relaxed when you heard him speak next: “You can go now. The Pentagram will close soon.” Pause. “Can you fly?

You stood up, dusting yourself off, and nodded before turning towards the window, which had magically pushed itself open.

“Wait,” he called out. You turned. “You should take this.” Your angelic spear materialised in front of you, dropping down into your hands.

You clambered out the window and jumped off, before hovering before it and turning to face him. The beat of your wings made the curtains sway. He leaned out, staring at you expectantly, as if he could sense what you were going to say.

“Now will you tell me your name?” You asked irritably. He smirked again, showing his sharp teeth this time. Your heart thumped in your chest.

“‘Course I can, angel. The name’s Lucifer. Lucifer Morningstar.” His grin widened as he winked again. “Pleasure to meet you.”

The words knocked the breath out of you almost immediately. For a minute you froze, standing there like a deer in headlights before turning and swooping away into the red sky, towards the closing Pentagram.

The name’s Lucifer. Lucifer Morningstar. The words echoed around your head relentlessly.

“Fuck.”

♱♱♱

A/N: Stay Tuned!

Taglist: @ica1, @boredlime, @tremendoushearttaco, @sweetadonisbutbetter

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elryuse · 6 months ago

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Yandere Sister’s friend ahn yujin x male reader please?

ANSWER ME

Yandere Ahn Yujin X Male Reader

Genre : Sister's Friend Yujin, Younger Male Reader, Yandere, Manipulative, Horror

The first time Yujin swept into our living room, a whirlwind of designer bags and cascading raven hair, I was a scrawny teenager glued to the TV. My sister, ever the social butterfly, had snagged her famous model friend for a weekend visit. Yujin, with her sculpted cheekbones and pouty lips that seemed permanently painted in a bored indifference, regarded me with the disdain of a queen surveying a particularly dull palace jester. Me, in turn, was utterly smitten. Here, sprawled on our worn-out couch, was a creature who seemed to belong on a runway, not amidst the chaos of teenage life.

Days bled into weeks, and Yujin became a constant presence. She'd return from shoots, her aura a potent mix of exhaustion and untouchable glamour. I, a gangly mess of elbows and acne, worshipped the ground she walked on. Yet, there was a surprising tenderness beneath the aloof facade. She'd ruffle my hair, a fleeting touch that sent sparks flying, then spend hours patiently guiding me through a particularly challenging level in my game. A warmth bloomed in my chest, a confusing mix of hero worship and something more, something entirely foreign and exhilarating.

One stolen summer evening, I was lost in a clumsy kiss, the taste of cherry lip gloss and teenage rebellion sweet on my tongue. Pulling away, I breathlessly met the gaze of the girl I was tangled with. But then I saw her. Yujin stood frozen in the doorway, the ever-present smirk on her face replaced by a mask of such chilling fury that it stole the air from the room. The playful glint in her eyes, once the source of my nervous exhilaration, was now a smoldering ember, promising a terrible inferno.

The Yujin who emerged from that moment was a metamorphosis I never could have anticipated. The playful teasing morphed into a calculated seduction, her laughter laced with a dangerous edge that sent shivers down my spine. She started dropping by unannounced, lingering long after my sister retreated to her room. Her touch, always fleeting before, now lingered, a brand that burned even after she was gone.

"You deserve better, sweetheart," she'd murmur, her voice a husky caress against my ear as she ran a finger down my cheek. "Someone who can cherish you, who can protect you from all the nasty things in the world." Her words, laced with a possessiveness that sent a tremor of fear through me, chipped away at the lingering hope for a normal teenage life.

She became a master manipulator, crafting elaborate scenarios. A staged "break-in" where she'd "heroically" save me, a spiked drink that left me disoriented and utterly dependent on her "care." My world shrunk with each passing day, the lines between concern and control blurring into a terrifying haze.

One by one, my friends drifted away, subtly discouraged by Yujin's pointed comments and icy stares. My sister, oblivious to the undercurrent of danger, simply assumed Yujin's possessiveness stemmed from overprotective fondness. I was trapped in a gilded cage, the bars formed by Yujin's suffocating affection.

The night the storm hit, it mirrored the tempest raging within her. The power flickered, plunging the house into darkness. Yujin emerged from the shadows, her smile, illuminated by a flash of lightning, sent a jolt of terror through me. Blood stained the crimson silk nightgown clinging to her curves, a gruesome contrast to the way her lips, still painted a sinful red, curved into a predatory smile.

"We don't need anyone else, do we darling?" she whispered, her voice a chilling melody in the storm's fury. "They all just want to hurt you. But I... I will keep you safe. We'll be perfect together. Forever."

The metallic tang of blood filled the air, a sickening counterpoint to the frantic hammering of my heart. I glimpsed a glint of manic devotion in her eyes, a terrifying adoration that promised forever, but a forever defined by her twisted desires.

Over the following weeks, the house became my prison. Yujin cut off all contact with the outside world, my phone "lost," the internet connection mysteriously "down." I was adrift in a sea of her making, filled with whispered promises and a suffocating dependence.

She'd tend to my every need, her touch a constant reminder of the price of her affection. The forced intimacy was a twisted mockery of love, leaving me raw and yearning for a normalcy I wasn't sure even existed anymore.

The blood drained from my face, the stark reality of the clippings a sickening counterpoint to Yujin's crimson smile. I wasn't her only conquest; I was just the latest object of her affection in a collection marred by disturbing disappearances. Panic coiled in my gut, the weight of my situation threatening to suffocate me.

Confrontation was a terrifying prospect. Yujin could switch from seductive charm to chilling rage in a heartbeat. Escape seemed impossible. The windows were bolted shut, the doors secured with complex locks I didn't have keys for. I was a fly caught in a web, the silken threads deceptively beautiful but strong enough to steal my breath.

Sleep became a battleground. Nightmares, fueled by the horrifying discovery, plagued me. I'd wake up in a cold sweat, the image of the bloodstain on Yujin's nightgown seared into my memory. Each morning, she'd greet me with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, the cloying sweetness of her perfume a constant reminder of my captivity.

Days blurred into a monotonous routine. Yujin spent her mornings glued to the phone, arranging shoots and interviews with practiced ease. While she was gone, I'd scour the house for an escape route, a hidden key, anything. But the house, once a familiar haven, had transformed into a gilded cage designed to keep me prisoner.

The idea of escape started to lose its luster. The world outside seemed distant and unwelcoming, while Yujin, with her unwavering devotion (however twisted it may be) began to feel strangely comforting. She'd tend to my every need, whispering reassurances and promises of a future together. The isolation chipped away at my sanity, blurring the lines between affection and Stockholm syndrome.

One rainy afternoon, Yujin presented me with a bouquet of lilies, their cloying sweetness mirroring her perfume. "They symbolize devotion," she murmured, her voice a seductive caress. "Just like mine, for you."

The sincerity in her eyes, a flicker I hadn't seen before, snagged at my heart. Was it truly possible that her obsession stemmed from a warped sense of love? In the suffocating silence of the house, with the world a distant memory, the idea began to take root.

Weeks turned into months, the lines between captor and companion blurring further. Yujin's touch, once laced with possessiveness, now felt tender, almost apologetic. I found myself craving her presence, a horrifying realization that twisted my gut.

Then, one starlit night, as we sat by the fireplace, Yujin confessed everything – the staged break-in, the drugged drink, the "eliminated" women. But her voice, devoid of its usual chilling edge, trembled with a vulnerability I hadn't expected.

"They didn't understand you," she whispered, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "They didn't deserve you. Only I can love you the way you need to be loved."

In that moment, a horrifying truth dawned on me. I wasn't a prisoner anymore. I was a captive of my own twisted affection, a Stockholm pawn in Yujin's deadly game of love. The world outside had faded into insignificance, replaced by the terrifying comfort of her obsessive devotion.

As she leaned in, the scent of lilies filling my senses, I closed my eyes, a traitorous tear slipping down my cheek. I was hers, not by force, but by a love as twisted and dark as the storm raging outside. The cage, I realized with a chilling certainty, had become my home.

#an yujin #ahn yujin #ive yujin #yujin #kpop #kpop x reader #kpop x y/n #x male reader #beautiful #update #yandere #yandere roleplay #yandere blog #yandere girl #yandere stories #blood

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pursuitseternal · 4 months ago

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Smut Ask! 🥵🔥

14 with Ascended Astarion x f!Durge 🩸

🎨 by @comfortyart

“Where are your manners?”

Cross-posted as “Reprimand Me:” for “The Rogue You Were”

Ascended Astarion x Reader (f!Durge)

Smut Ask Prompts | Masterlist

CW: Blood, murder, hot Bhaalspawn shit, mouth play, sucking licking oral fixation, Dom Astarion, table sex, a lesson in manners

They had come quickly, a small force cloaked in shadow. Zealous remnants of the cults you had fought so hard to break. Bhaalists and Banites, cloaked in their auras of murder and reeking of death, snuck into your home, into the Palace.

You were preparing for dinner… overseeing the final touches to the latest gala your hallowed halls would host. Thankfully your silver was polished to a shine, the vases so bright, you could see every movement behind you as they crept in from the sewers, from the bowels of the city.

The biggest mistake about ambushing a Bhaalspawn in the dining room is that there are knives… everywhere. You grin, eyeing yourself in the reflection of the large vase, cool fingers curling around a dinner knife as you feel the metal heat and come to life in your hands.

Child of Murder. Bride of the Ascendant. Who would dare come to kill you? Who would dare attempt to threaten you in the seat of your power?

These idiots.

But then again, you enjoy your massacres like you enjoy fucking your Vampire mate.

Feral.

Quick

And bloody.

It's a torrent of blood, a shower of weapons you unleash on the assassins. Their death cries reverberate off the rafters. Their wild attempts to stab you, to take you down miss so magnificently, you smile. But you drink their hostility, bathe in their ire. They all fall preciously at your feet, a meal fit for a king—for the Ascendant and his Consort. By the time you’re through, there is only silence and the faint dripping of your enemies’s gore from the cream walls and gilded chandeliers. The floor is so covered with crimson, your dainty slippers squelch through it as you pull the dinner knives from their lifeless bodies and lick them clean.

The silver is cool on your tongue, the blood so deliciously warm yet. A hungry hum in your throat and you pick up another knife from a corpse and begin to clean that one in the same manner.

A smile turns your face as that warm, deep chuckle that sends shivers to your belly sounds from the door. Astarion leans against the doorpost, arms folded, eyes glinting with hunger. “Well… I was going to say you clean up nicely for dinner, my darling….” He tuts his tongue, chiding you, wagging a long and elegant finger even. “Naughty, naughty, my sweet. Someone needs a reprimand. You’ve made quite the filthy little mess, haven’t you?”

His darkened eyes scan the corpse pile, “And you didn’t even save any of the fun for me, pet. Where are your manners?” Gods, his tone is petulant and pouting, as if the massacre at his feet displeases him. You chuckle, for that growing bulge between his legs tells a decidedly different story.

Fingers lock like a vice around your wrist, pulling your knife-bearing hand to his eager pink tongue. One long, sinuous swipe licks the bloodied blade clean. “Mmm, delicious,” he purrs as he presses on the small of your back, drawing you close until your hips jut together. “When you’re all sullied and destroyed from your rampage, my darling, you know what that does to me…. You know I adore you, terribly.”

You give a low, blood-slicked laugh in your own sated throat. His hungry tongue laps down the hilt of the knife, brushing its warm, wet width over your fingers. He takes the knife from your hand and tosses it, its silver clattering somewhere in the distance. One by one, your filthy fingers are sucked in the warm wet of his mouth. That sinful tongue wriggles as he licks your hand clean, until he presses a smudging kiss on your knuckles, bending low before you in a mocking and elegant bow.

“I'll have to forgive you for being terribly rude, killing them all before I returned, at least you saved us plenty to eat.” Dexterous as ever, he makes quick work of your bodice, freeing your blood-spattered breasts. Warmer than the stick of your enemies on your skin, he turns his skilled tongue to lave your bosom, tracing the remnant spatters of your fight. “Ugh, I have to say, Bhaalist blood is one of my least favorite… acidic and muddy, polluted from bleeding so many others.”

You begin to throw him a pout, your hand gripping in his soft, silver curls as your yank him up, his tongue still hanging, lolling like a dog mid-lick.

“You seem to like my Bhaalist blood well enough… my lord…”

“That is completely different, my sweet,” he flashes you that rakish smirk that instantly floods your belly with searing need. “Yours is a vintage unlike any other… my first, my blood of choice,” he cranes against the hold you have on him to nip the skin of your throat, his breath washing down the hollow of it. “You see, I have manners, my dear. Since you’ve deprived me of the spurting blood of our enemies fresh from the kill, may I sup on all you have to offer?”

His voice is velvet command, a saccharine order that you are more than happy to obey. That murder-denched hand of yours, coated in the crimson spray drags its sticky fingers down the soft column of your neck. “You didn’t even say please…” you tut your tongue, coloring your lips crimson with a brush of fingers over your frown. “What a liar about manners…”

A growl, a bit playful with an edge of irritation, he narrows those ardent eyes at you. His breath down your throat, his lips crushing yours in a consuming kiss, and you are melting in his arms. Deep and husky, his voice rasps in your ear, that single sweet move tickles you: “Please.”

“Of course, my love,” you consent, angling your head for him to feast.

As he bites into your flesh and sucks your essence, you can’t help but ride the wave of bloodlust and victory that burns in your veins. You suck your fingers; messy, lewd pops between your lips make your love chuckle as he feeds. He can hear your tongue lapping on your own flesh, he can sense the satisfaction of the hunt as you consume from the remnants of your enemies.

Nothing could be more arousing than blood on your tongue, feasting on your spoils of battle as his lips suckle your neck. Well, perhaps one thing could enhance the taste of victory.

You draw yourself closer, his arms wrapping tightly around you, crushing you against the hard planes of his body. His breeches are softest buckskin, supple and tight, and your hand wanders up his thigh. Every line and cord of muscle presses into your palm, your touch tracking higher and higher… until you feel his cock jerk into your fingers. Astarion growls approval between his deafening swallows of your blood, and you can think of no better paradise.

It makes you burn… burn for more blood and lust. Urges overwhelm you, drives now incited by being so close to him… to smell his fragrance with every breath and savor the heat of his body through your dress. Your blinding urge is now very different than before; it is a debilitating craving for your Sire, lust for his chiseled, undulating, undead body. Your drive to dream in red with him, to pave your path in the blood of your foes and lick yourselves clean in the aftermath.

And so you both shall…

The bloom of his arousal bursts into your consciousness, your bond quivering with the taste of your own blood on his tongue. You see it as you feel it, the nails of his hands scraping their points up your thighs, the blood-sticky silk of your skirts rucking around your waist… “Precious little Bhaalspawn, hungry for blood,” his voice croons in your ear and floods your mind all at once. Your vision is clouded in red, the crimson of his eyes and the spatters of blood that cover your palace. “Or are you just… hungry?” He bends down to place a kiss on your neck, so gentle and adoring.

A gentle kiss before a rough fuck, you grin.

In a flash, he picks you up and slams your ass down on the dining table. China clatters and whatever elegant appointments had remained untouched from the invasion tumble down. Your body melts into his hard planes as he slots himself between your spreading, welcoming thighs. Hips grind, fingers yank you flush, dug deep into the curve of your ass. Gods, you can feel his cock, fully hard and throbbing with his heartbeat, nudging against your cunt. Swivel after tantalizing swivel, he humps you, dragging the sweet soft press of buckskin and his arousal back and forth over your mound.

“My my,” he croons, “you’re such a mess, all wet and dripping. Why, it’s positively everywhere.” Nails skate over flesh and fabric to where your sexes press together. He rends your small clothes, the silken gusset disintegrating with one forceful tear. And you in your impolite hunger return the favor. You find the latches of his breeches, pulling with all your might as the little brass buttons give way. Little metallic pings bounce on wood and porcelain as they land unseen.

His cock sings free, hard and flushed and demanding. Pre cum drips down your fingers as you stroke him, warm and sticky and almost as satisfying as blood. He bares his fangs in a blissed out smile, your touch eliciting a growl so deep and desirous, you’re sure the china sprawled on the table clatters again. With a roar from his throat, he sheathes himself to the hilt, mouth at your neck and hands clawed in your skin as he fucks you.

“Such improper manners, eating before everyone is served,” he chides you tauntingly as he slams into you again and again. “And look, you’ve got far worse than your elbows on the table,” a nice slap on your ass accompanies that jibe, hard enough to raise your soft flesh in the angry red shape of his hand. “Such unruly behavior for my consort… show me you know better,” he slows his pace, making you feel every inch of his length stretching you out, dragging inside you from leaking tip to deep rooted base. A hand grips at the back of your head, tangled in the blood-caked mess of your hair.

“Want me to fuck you? To seal your victory in blood? To reprimand you for such impolite behavior?” Crimson eyes roam your blushing face, glinting with hunger and alight with approval. Warm, smacking lips brush your ear. “Say please…”

It’s his turn to play the same games, and it makes your lips pout, your hips buck harder to try and coax him deeper. One of your hands splays back behind you, fisting into the table linens, bracing you as you try to grind desperately on anything you can get between your legs

“Ah, ah,” Astarion chides again, yanking back on your hair to make your gaze meet his. “Don’t be rude, pet. I won’t ask you again. Remember your manners…” his mouth travels to that sensitive spot near your ear, shivers and tingles racing down your spine as he rasps, “and say please…”

Moans tumble from your lips, the only sounds louder in the dining room are the clatters of china and silver on the table that shakes beneath you and the slap of his hips against your thighs as he fucks. It takes but a moment for him to drive you right to the edge, to the precipice of pleasure before he thrusts and stills inside you. “I haven’t heard the magic word yet, my darling,” he pants, his voice thick and sticky with blood and hunger.

Your walls flutter on his achingly hard cock, every muscle of your belly clenches with desperate need. Clenching your fangs, you curl your lips in a snarling smile. “Pleassssse.”

“Good girl,” he purrs, the praise instantly washes over you, balm to your bloodlust as he snaps his hips with abandon. The ferocity overwhelms you, your back now splayed on the table, porcelain and silver poke into your spine as he grabs your waist to keep you on the edge. Heat bursts, sticky sweet from inside your belly, a wash of arousal and pleasure as you scream for him.

Hard… deliberate… gasping… he fills you, warmth flooding our insides, painting them white as he pulses against your vice-gripping walls. His silver locks fall into his face with how zealously he’s worked to satisfy his hunger. A shaken breath from his smirking lips is your sweet reward.

And you are his reward, his prize for his exertions, his efforts to teach you your lesson in manners.

His ruinously handsome face twists into that smirk, the one that makes your walls flutter around his cock one more time as he still sits deep inside you. “And now, a polite Consort would say….” he taunts you, voice lilting and playful, a flourish of his wrist as he speaks to coax the words from your throat.

“Th-thank you…”

He gives you that grin—confident, powerful, and oh so full of shit—as he cups your blood-splattered cheek. “You’re quite welcome, my dear.”

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jt1674 · 11 months ago

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#the flying burrito brothers #the gilded palace of sin #hot burrito number 1 #gram parsons #chris ethridge #chris hillman #sneaky pete kleinow

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shadowland · 2 years ago

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THE FLYING BURRITO BROTHERS Gram Parsons touring on the train (1969)

#the flying burrito brothers #gram parsons #the gilded palace of sin #60s

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slowd1ving · 4 months ago

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✦ II. COME HITHER, CURSE WHERE HE LIES

"This was the tale of the seventh prince; an elegy hidden from the footnotes of history. Within the game Lament of Ouroboros, his sorrows were summarised thusly: A strangely warm vein of ore. Hero, come here when dusk kisses the edge of the Borderlands. As your palm brushes against the rock, you may be able to feel the pulse of a slumbering prince. Three sentences were all that was afforded to the disgraced prince, forgotten to all but the Moirai." • . * cursed prince ratio + alchemist m reader rough design for minoan fashion ratio here warnings: video game violence, death? kind of? tyranny (are we surprised), male-coded reader (or at least the in-game avatar is), depictions of gore, turning into stone wc: 4.2k

LAMENT OF OUROBOROS MASTERLIST

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

It took all of one year for the warning to become prophecy. One year, approximately four hundred and eight days—give or take—for the two Suns to align themselves in the exact arrangement they had on the Day of Silence. And in that single year, the schemes of Veritas Ratio would germinate, blossom, and finally wither away irrelevantly.

He was born quietly, and thus his end would, too, be quiet.

The month of Hekatombaion had the seventh prince leave his tower: like a bird set free from its gilded cage. Though he was never caged, per se, the youth knew it was safest to stay in its stone walls: away from the all-consuming, bloody struggle for the throne, away from the greedy claws of his siblings and their power-hungry gazes. Yes, it was far easier being a shunned seventh prince than getting swept up in the tides of fatal politics.

Fatal, indeed—the internal strife had already claimed the lives of two of his siblings. He was the fifth prince, if one regarded the situation objectively—but it was better to lurk in the oblivion. Seven was a less significant number than five, after all.

Hekatombaion was the month of venture. The Day of Silence had occurred in its beginning; the day to mark the new year, where the blank canvas of muteness would sluggishly accumulate the sins and sorrows of the populace in the coming days and weeks. Like honey trickling over sweet basyniai, the seventh prince would begin to spread his own influence to achieve his saccharine conclusion.

So, the youth ventured forth—though not into the bloody palace, but the summer-worn streets and the agora. Past the stands selling their wares, and the philosophers sermonising on the achromatic cobblestones, were those conducting business and students of the various schools in Metis. The work and school day had shortly ended—the evening of debates and discourse had just begun.

Without the gilt laurels which suggested his status as one of Elation’s blood, he was no more prince than he was peasant. The drape of his clothes and their exceptional craftsmanship did, however, mark him as a wealthy man—perfect for infiltrating the symposium of a guileless young master.

Thus, the prince incognito began frequenting these conferences and gleaning precious information and gossip from the drunken fools who sought to boast of their knowledge and logos. Their fallacies were awful for entertainment, but Veritas was very grateful for how witless their lips were. All the news, rumours, and information passed around students and teachers alike were his for the taking: the rudimentary designs from which he would craft his weapon. From these anserine gatherings with peers a few years older than him he crafted a network of the politics of the kingdom: who sat behind and whispered to the magistrates; who supported the polemarch and just who was responsible for the military advancements of the archon in charge of armed forces; and finally, the influence of Aha and his siblings on the spread of the kingdom.

These were the preliminary preparations for investigating the ruling class of Metis.

Metageitnion was the month for thanksgiving. The seventh prince’s presence at the mess hall was nothing out of the ordinary, then, for the arid weather heralded festivities and games where his attendance was expected—if not mandated. As opportunistic as he was for information, he naturally assumed his place below his siblings: slightly sycophantic, yet assuredly not a threat.

Dried figs melted on his tongue—a mellifluous snack he’d consumed plenty of in his tower, but tasted especially cloying as praises flowed from his mouth like honeyed wine. His siblings, vain as they were, dangerous as they were, liked observing how their shunned brother cowed neatly before them. Though, the watered-down liquor they ingested was nowhere near enough to loosen their lips on matters of heresy; another span of days passed without gaining information. In its stead, he established himself as a vapid fool with no interest in scrabbling for the throne: a slippery, cowardly bastard who simply wasn’t worth the effort to kill off.

Had they paid attention to the glowing reports from his tutors, had they cared an iota for anyone but themselves, they might have noticed that his smarts didn’t just extend to backing off from the throne. Perhaps then, they would have surmised that the compliments and agreements uttered with his smiles were strategic more than anything.

But his tower was isolated from the main palace, and he was no more a danger than a caged bird.

A fool, just like the rest of them. Alas, his gormless act perhaps was a bit too convincing—the siblings in the know wouldn’t entrust state secrets to someone who appeared as imbecilic as he did. Nonetheless, they grew accustomed to seeing him, and his presence where they were no longer seemed unusual.

This was how Veritas tactically placed himself onto the petteia board as a piece that could no longer be overlooked.

Boedromion was a month of aid, so the prince decided to extend a hand to those seeking help in the assembly. From behind the scenes, he handpicked those he needed for his investigation: those who had the ear of the archon in charge of the military, those who worked in administrative wings of the palace, those who could be moulded into perfect aides for his siblings. He observed the strata unable to speak up, unable to assert themselves in the agora, unable to hold any sway of their own.

It was no altruism when he pulled them aside. Into their minds he painted himself as the benevolent saviour; the silver tongue who gave them their voice in the assembly back. In return, they turned themselves to pieces on his game board. Hence, he gained valuable information and more reliable rumours to investigate about the imperial family. Who to talk to, who to bribe, who to follow when the twin suns dipped below the horizon and the moon embraced the sky once more.

These were the new connections the seventh prince forged—a net far more sound than the ramshackle collection of drunken scholars and fools from the symposia.

Pyanopsion was the month of harvest, so his Highness watched his efforts fruit into an audience with Aha. The drunkard was shrewd—far too clever for someone rumoured to be an imbecile—therefore the seventh prince bowed before the sovereign and spoke no honeyed platitudes to THEM. When the king asked for his thoughts on the assembly, he answered honestly—and THEY guffawed with THEIR chalice in hand. When the king asked for his opinion of the people, he answered fraudulently—and THEY ruffled his amaranth locks with a hand that felt far too distant for a father.

What are people, if not tools for the Elation?

There is no greater joy for them than serving us on this grand stage.

Do you not agree, your Majesty?

Lie after lie dripped from his composed mouth. Even as he thought of the bright children running through sun-dappled streets, even as he thought of the beaming pedlars and their wares, even as he thought of the joy in the ordinary, mundane families he came across in the synoikiai—all these mentations came to a halt behind his expression. In those three sentences, his heart had hardened against THEM: as THEY smiled, as THEY affectionately broke bread with him, as THEY gestured for sweet wine to be poured into his cup.

The youngest prince was no longer a mere prince but Aha’s son; an acknowledgement that only served to disgust the youth further.

How vile.

And though his goal was reached, this was how the Elation successfully alienated itself to Veritas.

Maimakterion was the month of cold, and so the prince retreated to the stone palace for the first time since childhood. Past nightfall, he breached the lax security of the grand library and accessed its restricted section. All his manoeuvring, all his alliances and mind-numbing conversations—it was worth it to finally enter this place once more.

There, in a forgotten corner that seemed more sepulchral than even the mausoleum, the seventh prince found what he had searched for. Penned in faded ink that he could barely see even with the light enchantment, was proof of collusion between the imperial family and the so-called ‘heretics’.

This was the point in time where his Highness felt the most vindicated towards the venerable Sophos and THEIR mockery.

This was also the point in time where his Highness could no longer step off the path he had chosen.

“Do you think he can feel it?” The maiden idly twined threads past HER fingers, for it was far more entertaining to see a mortal walk towards his doom with a head held high. “Surely there must be some sense of ill portent.”

“The men most arrogant are least prepared for their end, Clotho,” the mother rebuked, but the syllables were about as harsh as spring butterflies—for SHE, too, anticipated the boy’s expression as he stared into the face of his own hamartia.

“Hubris!” the hag cackled, yet the tremble of HER deathly grin belied the ever-present tears that traced the weary lines of HER face. “What a terrible conclusion.”

For the Moirai, this fate was nothing more than a short-lived, tragic play.

And so, the month of Posideon passed quickly for both the three and the prince. The information inked into the yellowed scrolls was his proverbial labyrinthine thread, tugging his body to his salvation. Through the throngs of regular humans, his path was etched towards the harbingers of heresy: alchemists and their ilk.

Throughout these days, he hardly thought of Sophos Nous at all; yet the familiar sensation of exoneration remained. He would prove himself before THEM; he was ready to put Aha to trial in front of the assembly if need be.

The archontes were not infallible.

This fact applied to Aha especially.

When he probed those labelled as heretics, he was bitterly reminded that this wasn’t their fault. They were not the lawmakers, nor were they those with choice. Victims. Shackled to the Elation, their actions were akin to those of a puppet: pushed towards their day of reckoning by a force far superior to their own.

Thus, the seventh prince worked tirelessly. Through the short days, through the long nights—he toiled away in his tower. He compiled sets of arguments, practised endless logos, drafted out the evidence necessary to condemn those at fault within the upper echelons of Metis.

Gamelion came and went. Under the guise of a serving boy and some forbidden enchantments, Veritas walked the long stretches of the palace with nothing but worn sandals on his feet. He traced its ancient mosaics: memorising the old walkways and floor plans gifted by one of his acquaintances. For preparation was the friend of success, and the prince was nothing if not successful in his endeavours.

It all led up to this night—stepping into the room sequestered from any official floor plan.

“Look at him,” the maiden cooed. The spindle in HER cruel hands stilled momentarily—for a brief while, none were born. Though, this was an insignificant deviance in the tapestry of humanity: far too quick for anyone to realise. “Has he realised he’s out of his depth yet?”

“Hardly,” the matron scoffed. “He’s ablaze with self-righteous anger, as it were. Surely he could not have been ignorant of the sins on his own blood-kin’s hands?”

“Lachesis,” the hag warned. “Keep silent and enjoy the act.”

“Don’t tell me you feel sympathetic, Atropos?” the mother sneered, for it was ludicrous that the Moirai felt any sort of attachment to humanity. To fairly allot, the reason for THEIR very existence, was no longer possible if any bias was introduced to any of them.

“Hardly,” the crone muttered. HER sentimentality would not affect HER role in this universe; just as it had been before, and as it would be after, HER shears would continue their severing of life from humans.

The three were rapt as the prince gazed around the hall. Every turbulent beat of his heart, every miniscule grit of his molars, every bitter fist his sinuous hands made—all of his reactions were carefully documented, since a tragic hero like him had not been observed for an age and then some.

It was by no means a modest room. The circumference of the marble spanned the equivalent of the large temple dedicated to the Elation, propped up by frieze-decorated columns. Stone reliefs etched into the walls depicted the rise of his lineage; they were intertwined with a sickening repertoire of mythos that they had no place against. Heroes of the old gleamed bright against his family’s wickedness—so utterly out of place he couldn’t help but gaze foully at the castings.

Turned yonder, and the door through which he came glinted with the tell-tale light of an enchantment: a rippling string of formulae that indicated the space warping which enveloped this place. Yes, although the archon had expressly forbidden use of enchantments, they clearly had no qualms about taking the knowledge for their own gain.

For the Elation is above the law.

Past the vast anteroom was another door; this one, too, distended and undulated under his piercing gaze. Or rather, the silent movement of his mouth as he shattered its illusions and breached its innermost chamber—and this one was the one which struck him still.

The seventh prince could only watch, horrified, as the expanse of terror unfolded before him. There was no escape from the sight, not unless his eyes were plucked out of his skull.

Aeons.

There was no space unblemished by golden cadavers. Cadavers, for statues surely wouldn’t possess faces distorted in crazed screams and bodies contorted in the most despicable of agonies. Cadavers, for surely their pain had ended—he prayed they were dead within their metallic shell, he prayed their souls had departed the material world, he prayed that his presence didn’t disturb their rest any further.

Bile rested bitter in his mouth, and he struggled not to let the acrid film swirl into vomit—for his stomach churned and his palms grew clammy at the sight.

These were the supposed threats to the Elation—innocents whose only crime had been to be against the tyranny of his family.

For their dissent, they’d been dipped in molten gold—either dying through the intense heat, or slowly withering away as the alchemy chipped away at their flesh.

Both options were equally horrifying. The seventh prince’s vision swam, and he barely made it back to his tower before his legs finally gave out.

Yes, the prince had gained the knowledge he finally needed to take down his family, but at what cost?

Deep inside, he already knew the heavy feeling in his heart was the price he was beginning to pay.

If only he knew the fate allotted to him at the end of this thorny path.

Anthesterion trickled by slow as a fat bee. Sluggish. Every second was prolonged, every moment was accompanied by his racing pulse and adrenaline-stricken brain. No longer did he need to act the cowed prince—for before his siblings, his mouth grew dry and his pupils constricted into mere pinpricks.

When he glanced at his sister, he saw the golden woman who’d wept with her body curled in on herself: shoulders hunched to her ears, hands sharpened into desperate claws (gouging at her flesh, since everyone knew pain nullified pain—and what greater anguish was there than losing your very body to aureate?). She’d writhed in her last moments; the harrowing movements had sent shockwaves all throughout the security enchantments.

He could taste her tears.

When he stared at his three brothers, he also stared at the man who had ripped off his own arm to escape his inescapable fate. He stared at the blood that had pooled like gilt on the marble floor, for not even his most ardent lifeblood could evade the disgusting talons of his kin. He stared at the expression of horror the man had: eyes bulging out of their sockets, mouth twisted to an excruciating scream, and a wretched gaze afflicting him.

He could feel the oily sanguine dripping from his own hands.

He could no longer escape his siblings either.

They relished in the iron grip they had over the city. They revelled in the generated fear. They savoured their long talks—talks which Veritas was now privy to, talks in which he did his best not to heave up the fruit in his stomach and the bilious film that now perpetually dwelled on his tongue. He was reviled, but they indulged in their craving for petrification with a particular sapidity that broke him down—over and over and over until he could no longer smell anything that didn’t carry the stench of copper.

That was perhaps the month in which the seventh prince grew the most ill.

Elaphebolion trailed its ghostly fingers around his neck like a noose. He grew careless in his haste to put his family before trial: left too many loose ends, made too many connections, and drew the attention of far too many eyes.

It didn’t take long for his tower to truly become the cage of his metaphor.

No, it took less than three days from his last meeting with an informant to find the door to his tower securely locked. Overnight, while the seventh prince restlessly slumbered, wrought bars enclosed his windows in one final trap.

Thus, the prince was prince no longer, but a bird with its wings clipped forevermore.

But that was not the end of it—for if it was, his life-thread would not have been seeped with the bloodiest of carmines.

Mounichion was when Aha finally came to visit THEIR wayward son.

Join me, THEY offered—though Veritas knew THEIR proffered hand was no salvation, but puppet strings that would attach to his own. For the ceaseless entertainment of the Elation, this was perhaps the greatest mercy Aha could extend: to become a dull marionette in this gilded cage until only his bones were strung up for all to ridicule.

And when THEIR son’s incensed gaze did not waver, THEY sighed.

Maddened with grief, boy? THEY mocked the look in his irises—once as bright and sweet as cherries, now dulled to the hue of dried blood.

Kill me, those numbed eyes seemed to respond—but futilely, the youth wanted to live.

“I’ve something much better, son.”

Mounichion was thus the month of confinement, where Aha planted a short-lived weed of hope that sprung up in the cracks of the prince’s heart—and withered just as quickly.

Thar-gelion was when Veritas avoided death, but lost many things in return.

It had started off small. His vision began to blur somewhat, but he chalked it to confinement in his tower. Even when he crafted himself ocular lenses and fitfully forced himself to sleep in the topmost room, there were moments in which the edges of his sight faded and greyed with a frequency that slowly increased.

He browsed anatomical manuscripts. When the light from the twin Suns was particularly dim, he struck the oil-lamps with crude enchantments and perused their words as though they held the key to his answers—yet the lack of solutions was not enough to alarm him.

It should’ve been.

His sense of smell was next to mute, though this was a far more subtle difference than his sight. Being confined to a particular area would obviously force one to grow accustomed to its ins and outs—including the odours and various scents of it. It wasn’t a problem, until one day Veritas Ratio noticed he could no longer quite smell the papery fragrance of his scrolls, nor the rich tang of his ink.

Yet still, he ignored the warning signs. After all, he was preparing for his eventual execution.

Naturally, his taste palate, too, had dulled due to his weakening olfactory sense. Although, this loss was far less profound than one might have anticipated—but it made all too much sense if one took into consideration his status as a prince awaiting judgement. Feed him enough so he survives. A few pieces of flatbread, some cheese, and one or two bruised handfuls of dried fruits were dropped through the bars daily—along with a skin of sour wine—much like feeding a wild bird when it had not yet been tamed enough for the door to open. These various foodstuffs were bland enough that it wouldn’t have made a difference if he could taste either way.

Thus, the prince simply did not notice this sense fading.

The next sense to take leave was his hearing, and this time he did feel the difference. His balance was affected, though he surmised that was due to the lack of nutrients his body received. But when the fragile rustle of paper against his fingers stopped registering; when the tell-tale thump of his heart in the silence of his room grew silent; when he could no longer hear his own neurotic waves of breathing—this was when the seventh prince realised something was dreadfully wrong.

He’d screamed himself hoarse, tearing at his skin with his nails to wake from this forsaken dream—only to no longer feel his crescent nails digging into flesh.

No. No.

Air came shallow to the prince as his fading eyes desperately fixated on the blood welled on his arms. He could not feel the wounds. He could not smell the metallic crimson dripping in rivulets. He could not hear the hasty, panicked breaths and his racing pulse. And finally, when he put his mouth to staunch the flow, he could not taste the acrid tang on his palate either.

And so, the prince spent the month of Thar-gelion slowly losing his mind.

Skirophorion was when it came to a bitter end.

In those days, His Highness barely left his bed. Sleep was now the only respite; he could no longer read his books, he could no longer pore over his beloved tools, and he could no longer support his weakening body. Any meals were now delivered far more sporadically; alas, the prince rarely ever ate.

Death was imminent.

His mind had long since given up, and his body was sure to follow.

Any day now. Veritas could only count the seconds, the minutes and the hours—no longer could the youth cross the days off, not when his joints and limbs had petrified.

Death was a mercy the prince would not receive.

It was when Aha next visited THEIR son at the tower that Veritas truly learnt of the state he was in.

No, he was no longer at his tower. That was a lie—a last comfort afforded to the prince.

Poor child, all of this suffering could have been avoided, Aha’s message burst bright in his dulled mind. He thought he felt his index finger twitch.

Would you like to see what you look like? The golden impression faded, as though Aha was waiting for the prince to answer. Well, I suppose you can’t answer either way.

A sort of horrified fascination lingered in the scholar’s mind. Had his flesh, too, been transmuted to an aureate statue?

Did you think you’d join your people as one of MY sculptures? The question shook sympathetically, or maybe it was a dry laugh as the king looked on at THEIR pitiful son.

No, child, you deserve a tragic end befitting MY line.

And thus, the youth blindly awaited his judgement.

Death shall never end thee, for madness will be thy salvation.

No longer did he sense Aha’s presence.

Rather, one last image was transmitted through the king’s enchantment—a cliffside, in which Veritas could faintly see his own features carved into the rock. Then, nothing.

The stone smoothed out, and his image was struck from history forevermore.

. 　⁺ ✦

When the next Day of Silence came and went, the prince was truly mute. He had no mouth, after all—so not a scream left him.

The only thing he had left were his thoughts: one last, final burden.

Is this the cost YOU foresaw, Nous?

Veritas Ratio’s arrogance was no more. And so, the prince’s story came to a swift, acrimonious end. No, not end, for that implied that he was not shackled to limbo. Bound to neither gold nor a statue, he would spend the rest of time waiting to be purified of his sins—for gold was finality. Gold was the most sacrosanct form of death he had not been afforded.

And as the prince continued to count away the seconds, the minutes, the hours and eventually the years which trickled past in the hourglass, only insanity awaited him.

This was the tale of the seventh prince; an elegy hidden from the footnotes of history.

Within the game Lament of Ouroboros, his sorrows were summarised thusly:

A strangely warm vein of ore.

Hero, come here when dusk kisses the edge of the Borderlands. As your palm brushes against the rock, you may be able to feel the pulse of a slumbering prince.

Three sentences were all that was afforded to the disgraced prince, forgotten to all but the Moirai.

Three sentences were how his tragedy was retold.

Three sentences, a final insult to the most pitiful of princes.

. 　⁺ ✦

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