#how narrow the window was for them to speak to each other. how they never got the opportunity.

[razberrypuck]

staring directly at sonic generations. classic metal sonic had a voice box. for one of the chaos emerald challenges, he demands (classic)sonic face him for the emerald. which means metal was originally created with a voice box, and presumably just. didn't talk much. neo metal sonic didn't give himself a voice, he always had one, and was finally using it -- but when eggman got his hands on him again after heroes, he took it away, alongside the rest of his autonomy.

and it just feels so needlessly cruel, doesn't it? I can at least understand why eggman would make him more obedient after being betrayed (its still a fucked up thing to do, don't get me wrong,) but his voice? that just feels like something eggman did for himself. a punishment, as if being stripped of the ability to act on his own will wasn't punishment enough.

[yeyinde]

waking up after a night out drinking in a foreign country only to realise that the bed you're in is not your own. no one is beside you. you try to leave but the doors are all locked. the windows won't open. you're trapped. a pretty bird in a cage.

nothing is in the dressers except large, old shirts. the clothes you were wearing when you woke up disappear after you take a shower. no panties. no bra. food shows up on schedule. you never see who leaves it.

they don't answer when you scream. when you bang your fists against the door until they're bloodied. passing out on the floor when the drugs finally kick in. but the mess you make in the daytime is cleaned up. your hands bandaged. disapproval heavy in the air along with the stale scent of tobacco. smoke.

when you're good, you get things. books. magazines. treats. your favourite food. a laptop arrives when you sob yourself to sleep after screaming yourself hoarse about loneliness, and how this isn't right. this isn't okay. it's restricted, of course. you log into Facebook but the moment you try and ask for help, the internet is turned off. you're being watched. monitored closely.

you learn your lesson slowly, giving nothing away to your family and pretending you're enjoying your holiday. being good. quiet.

instead of treats, gifts, recipe books arrive—some pages dogeared. you start making the food. leaving a plate in the fridge. it's gone the next morning. more recipes appear. you make them, too. an expensive chain comes next. a pretty gold necklace for a pretty bird in a golden cage.

(each meal gets you a strange rash on your cheek, jaw the next morning. beard burn, you think, and try not to shudder.)

lingerie comes after. silk, lace. all of it fits perfectly. you try to avoid it. the idea, the implication, is a knife between your ribs, but the next morning, your laptop is missing. the books are gone. food, too. your clothes disappear until all that remains is the lingerie set and a little black box. one you pointedly ignore. throw out with the trash. chew on gum to make the ache in your belly go away until that vanishes too.

your world is narrowed down to hunger. loneliness. isolation—

(in the corner of the rooms, a red light glints in the dark. lonely, but not alone.)

it persists until you relent. give in. another lesson you learn. you wear the set to bed, and try to think nothing of it—

you wake up to something heavy around you. a warm, thick body pressed against your bare spine. coarse chair tickling the skin between your shoulder blades. a burly arm under your neck, elbow bent to wrap a rough hand around your neck. the other slung over your hip, shoved between your thighs. something hard presses into your ass. a bruising pressure. it aches. you stifle a gasp, but with his long, thick fingers wrapped tight around your throat, he feels it.

everything goes still. quiet. just the faint rustle of sheets. the scratch of coarse hair on silk. a breath. you tremble. fight back another gasp when lips press into your crown with a sharp inhale. scenting you. nuzzling into your scalp. warm breath that smalls of malt and honey. woodsy. tobacco.

your eyes adjust slowly to the dark, and fall on a black box left on top of your end table. velvet, you know. you've felt the softness between your fingers when you threw it in the trash with a sob. no escaping it, after all.

the hand between your thighs twitches. when he speaks, it shudders through your spine, makes your hair stand on end. it's a growling purr. the low roar of an old engine. more grit than comfort in the midnight dark.

"jus' close your eyes, love," he rasps, pushing his thick body tighter against you. coiling around you like a big, hungry bear. "an' go back to sleep for me."

and you do.

[sapphic-bats]

Warlock asks Nanny about it once.

She’s cutting apples for him, just the way he likes, and he’s gazing out of the window at the lush, green gardens that his mother so proudly upholds. Among the waxy leaves and spindly saplings, Brother Francis tends to the flora carefully, though Warlock’s quite sure he’s just taking certain leaves between his finger and his thumb, and studying them closely. But what did Warlock know about gardening?

He notices Nanny looking out those windows, too. Though she always gazes and stares with a deep intent, as if she only cares when she does, and it so happens that she never looks upon the garden empty.

What was that funny thing Nanny and Brother Francis had taught him? The thing that Nanny discouraged, to which Brother Francis promoted quite devoutly?

“Nanny, have you ever been married?”

Warlock knows what marriage is. After all, his parents are married, if you can call it that. They married, once, out of love. But it’s since faded. It’s more traditional, now. Out of convenience and a general apathy to trying again.

Nanny’s quick hand stills, blade edge flat against the cutting board. With her back turned to the young boy, he cannot make out her expression. He never can, what with her poised shades she wears pointedly upon her nose. But she speaks soon again.

“No,” she replies, simply.

Warlock considers this. “Do you ever want to be?”

Nanny, who had taken up the cutting again, pauses once more. She sets the knife against the board and tilts her chin towards Warlock. “Wherever have you learned such personal questions, dear?”

She’s not refusing to answer him. She never has. She just asks in true curiosity, and perhaps a slight avoidance. But Warlock’s eight, now, and he knows how to navigate her tricks.

“Where do you think?”

At that, she pauses, lips pursed with their consistent purple tint. The lipstick she wears, that faintly stains Warlock’s forehead when she kisses him goodnight and tucks him in after a bedtime story: often about a garden, or a bird that chirped too loudly, and was cast down to the ground by the other birds. One who became the kind bird of the grounds, and took in other reject birds that had fallen similarly.

She considers his answer a moment more, satisfied with the obvious influence she’s had on him. She turns back to the apple slices.

“Perhaps,” she answers.

There is quiet for a moment. He doesn’t mind, he’s grown up with Nanny at his side, and has become quite fond of the silence. It is where thoughts are made, she said once.

She finishes cutting the apples, and plates the sweet snack to serve to the boy. “What troubles you, dear? You seem awfully curious, all of the sudden.”

Not that she minds. Nanny never rejects curiosity.

“Nothing’s wrong, Nanny, it’s just—” he pauses, considers his next words and how to place them. “You look at Brother Francis a lot, and—”

Nanny interrupts him after an audible, suspicious gulp. “Who?”

He frowns, eyes boring into the back of her head. “You know Brother Francis.”

She seems quite comically nervous, like she’s pressed a wax-seal act over her true thoughts. “Oh, yes,” she decides, too much breath coming with her words. “The gardener.”

“You like him, Nanny.”

She turns, abruptly. “I most certainly do not!” Her voice comes out a tad shrill, though perhaps it’s just outrage and scandal.

Warlock narrows his eyes, perplexed. “But you look at him all of the time.”

“When has that ever had anything to do with- with love?” She struggles with the word.

The boy shrugs. “Mum and Dad don’t look at each other,” Warlock observes. “But Brother Francis looks for you, too.”

Nanny’s mouth, ready with a retort, or perhaps a counter-argument, flicks towards a different shape. One that might be, he does? Or perhaps Warlock is mistaken. She pauses, lips pursed again, and sets her teeth.

“I’m sure he does, love.”

The plate is set before him, and Warlock soon forgets his questions. He never asks Nanny again.

But he’s reminded of it when her eyes, barely visible in the light, flick towards the window into the dazzling garden.

Years later, Warlock is nearly sixteen, and has since let the thoughts from half his lifetime ago fade. They never die, just sort of… wait. Wait to be plucked again, notes of memory leaping from their tinny strings. Like a harp.

His mother takes him into town. Soho, where he has no interest in seeing, but his mother so desperately needs a new vinyl, a coffee, and though she never says it: a moment to get away from the house, or more specifically, her husband within it.

She agrees to let him wander. She trusts him, for all she hasn’t before. And perhaps, she says, the fresh, un-televised air could do him some good.

He’s only taken two steps out of the coffee shop, where his mother remains to await her tea, before he almost runs smack into two pedestrians, arm in arm. He takes a surprised jump back, tongue set with an angry scolding, when he gets a good look at them from behind.

“Nanny?”

They both freeze in unison, as if they both know the name, and the voice that has conjured it forth once more for the first time in five years. Warlock notices something else.

“Brother Francis?” He prods, shocked. “Izzat you?”

Both of the two now turn, and everything around the three fades into blurring colors and churning noises.

Warlock would be a rotten liar if he had said he hadn’t missed them dearly. He would also be a lousy boy if he didn’t recognize them by the backs of their heads alone, he thinks. Because he would know them anywhere. They’d always done a much better job at raising him than his own parents.

They both look different now. Brother Francis seems to have had dental work done, and has cleaned up quite nicely. Nanny, though, appears to have changed her style completely. Her- his? Their? Who knows. But she still sports a fine pair of shades upon the bridge of her nose.

The pair seem to stutter, splutter with a little awestruck surprise. It’s as if they’d never expected to see him again.

“Oh- Warlock,” Nanny Ashtoreth begins, feigning a cool-headed surprise. “How good to see you.”

She sounds different too. Less of a high strain on her voice, more natural.

But Warlock seems to finally feel a gear shift, and a puzzle piece clicks into place. He glances down to the space between the two, where their arms are linked.

In his dumbfounded state, he feels a smile split the trance.

They both see it at the same time, chins tilting to follow his gaze. When they catch where his eyes are, their stares mingle together in concern. It’s a look that wonders aloud whether or not they should be worried, or blatant.

Warlock looks back up to their faces. “I see now why you two left,” he adds, grinning wider.

He can’t help it. He was right all along.

Warlock remembers something, then. It takes all of his power not to burst out into a triumphant laugh.

“I’m sure he does,” he says, slyly.

Nanny’s eyes, illuminated from behind with daylight, widen. She remembers, too. Of course she does.

And she bites back a twinning smile.

[blackdollette]

"riding the ride." | spencer reid

get free. - lana del rey

⊹₊⋆ synopsis: it was a win-win for you. you could finally shut spencer up, and managed to get a good orgasm too.

fill out the taglist form!

female!reader x spencer

word count: 1.6k

contents: cunnilingus, cum-eating, snowballing (inverted), not proofread

date night. the one night a week where neither of you were working late and finally had the chance unfold in each other’s arms.

as cool breeze blew through the living room window as you flipped through tv channels, spencer’s arm wrapped around your torso as you rested your head on his chest. “what do you feel like watching tonight?” you asked, his thumbs rubbing slow circles onto your flesh. “i don’t mind, baby. i’m not picky.” you nodded, clicking the down button on the remote and landing on a reality show.

spencer hissed and you looked back at him. “what’s the matter?” you asked. “i don’t mind it, but i’m just worried about you. you know i found a really intresting article about reality tv. statistics show that around 47% of people use them as guilty pleasures and 92% of that is the female population who admit that they feel pressure to conform to the unrealistic beauty and relationship standards portrayed in the shows. besides, everything is one-hundred percent staged anyway.”

with each word he spoke, you felt braincells getting killed off in your brain. you nodded, consdiering what he said. “alright then. no reality tv, got it.” you scrolled further down the tv guide, landing on a horror film this time. but he spoke again. “are you sure you wanna choose that, babe? horror movies have been proven to desensitize viewers to violence, major disturbances and other dangers, which may all end up messing up your perception of risks.”

you felt your eye twitching as he droned on. you decided to find something that he couldn’t nitpick and analyze. you click on a weather forecast. boring, monotonous, but no dangers in sight. or so you thought. “did you know tha-” you rolled your eyes, snapping at last. “god, don’t you ever get tired of working that mouth of yours?” 

you squirmed at how provocative the statement came out. surprised at your outburst, spencer smiled proudly. “i have yet to, darling.” his arm tightened around your waist, pulling you in even closer to him. you rose an eyebrow, eyes narrowing at him ever so slightly. “is that a challenge, spence?” he caught a glimpse of the cheeky grin on your face in the corner of his eye. 

as the weather man blabbed on in the background, your face lit up as an idea popped into your head. you clicked the off button on the remote, making the tv screen turn black. you crawled so that you were fully sat on his lap, your hands starting to play with his hair as you whispered in his ear. “i’ve got a better idea for date night…”

spencer reid, the human computer who could sense even the slightest change in atmopshere seemed to be having a malfunction as you gently pressed his face into your chest. his breath heat up, the warmth seeping throug the thin fabric of your tank top. you moved your hips against his lap, taking the air from his lungs. “how about i put that tongue of yours to good use..?”

it was at this moment that he knew he was powerless. his hands were at your waist, clinging to them like he was afraid to let you go. his eyes trailed down to where your two body connected, taking in the sight of your legs in those little pajama shorts. he brought his hand down and began twirling the drawstring between his fingers, gazing up at you with those deep brown eyes. he tugged at the waistband, silently begging for the shorts to come off. you grinned, seeing that he was finally lost for words. “use your words, spence…” you never thought you’d have to tell spencer to speak, but here you were, watching as he struggled to formulate basic english.

he pressed his chin into your soft chest, muttering under his breath. “can you take ‘em off, hon..?” his biceps flxed slightly under his t-shirts as his grip tightened. you dug your thumbs under the waistband of your shorts, giving him a teasing glance of your bare hips and listening to his breath hitch.

you grinned as his eyes widened like saucers at the sight of your panties. “why don’t you lie down for me, spence.” he nodded, following your command in an instant like an obedient puppy. you stood up from the couch, his eyes glued to your body as you finally took off your shorts, letting them fall to the ground before kicking them off your feet.

the tension in the room grew thick enough to cut through as you lowered yourself onto his chest, not wanting to move too fast. spencer was panting like a dog, eyes triling down to where you cunt with covered by that pesky little strip of fabric. he longed to tear it with his teeth, to finally have access to the honey between your legs.

you slowly rose up once again, crawling slowly until you were hovering over his face. spencer’s mouth watered at the area of saturated fabric that was the perfect telltale of your arousal. your hips swayed slightly, hypnotizing him and making that familiar sizzle burn in this grey sweatpants.

a taste of heaven was just a touch away, and he didn’t know how much longer he could wait. you took a deep breath. “a-alright, just lemme know when you’re rea-” he couldn’t bear the torture any longer. he grabbed your ass, tearing off your panties and connecting his lips with your dripping cunt. 

completely taken by surprise, you yelped, gripping the couch cushion as your whole body tensed. he was going at it like a starved dog, his tongue greedily lapping up all your juuices as he tossed the leftover fabric of your panties to the side, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your ass as he flicked his tongue over your puffy clit.

he groaned deeply as he finally tasted you, desperate to have you. his pulsating cock twitched in his pants, begging to be let free. he bucked his hips into the air, moving against anything he could. “you taste so good, baby…” he muttered into your pussy, moving a hand down to rub quiet circles on your clit.

you tossed your head back in pleasure, grinding against his face as he found the perfect rhythm between his tongue and his fingers. he jutted his tongue in and out of your hole, hasilty bringing a hand down to his sweatpants and needily palming himself through the plush fabric. the contact made his vision go starry, the abundance of pleasure doing wonderful things to his head.

he snaked his hand into his pants, whipping out his precum-glazed cock. the tip was red and swollen from being neglected for so long. he gave himself a few lazy strokes, more focused on your right then than anything else. 

his tongue ventured deep inside of your hole, desperate to taste every fold and crevice. you were sure that he wasn’t even breathing at this point. he was completely drunk off the taste of your body. he pumped his cock at a more rapid pace, feeding his moans into your core and sending powerful vibrations through you.

the base of his hand slapped against his balls each time he went back down, his thumb ghosting against his tip when he came back up again. the living room filled with the succulent noises of him devouring you like your were his last meal.

your back arched as he suckled your hard pearl between his lips. you attempted to rise up from his face to let him have a breath of air, but he gripped you even tighter. “c’mon baby, i’m not done yet…” he had your cum pouring down his neck, grool bubbling from his lips and nostrils. he was making an absolute mess of you, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

his hips violently thrusted into his fist as the sounds of your moans and whimpers fueled his desire even more. he growled into you, eating you up like a starved predator who had finally caught its prey. your legs clenched aorund his head, nearly suffocating him. you rode his face rapidly, tits bouncing through your tank top.

the sight from above made him run wild. he moved his hand from your hip, sneaking it under your shirt and starting to knead your breasts, toying with your hard nipples.

you were so close to reaching such a satisfying climax. every nerve in your body was responding to his intimate touch, never wanting him to stop. your hands grabbed his hair as the band in your stomach snapped, utnring you into a screamed mess as thick white liquid cascaded out of your pussy.

he hungrily lapped up every last drop, not wanting to let a single drop go to waste. his cock had ejaculated hot strings of cum so far that they had hit your back, painting you like a piece of art. he took his time finished you off like the last scoop of a sweet dessert before finally letting you off his face. as you got back to your feet, he sat up and pulled you into a sloppy kiss, feeding your cum into your mouth and groaning softly. “...see how good you taste, my love..?”

your lips began to swell at how deeply he took you in, the heat in your body reaching an all time high. after several long minutes, he pulled away from you, a string of saliva connecting you two before breaking. he looked down, seeing the cummy mess on his t-shirt. but it was nothing compared to what streamed down his neck. you giggled softly, patting him on the cheek. “such a messy boy…”

he stood up from the couch, picking up your shorts for you. “how about we take this date night to the shower? would you like that, baby?” you smiled, nodding as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder. he walked away with you, a smle on his face and a sticky mess flowing down your inner thighs.

author's note: thank you everyone for 1,000 followers! never thought i'd live to see the daythat i reach my longest goaal

[voxslays]

FOR A FORTNIGHT

Featuring >>> Alastor x Reader; In which, Alastor and reader have been friends for a year, having built a strong connection. One day, Alastor asks Reader to accompany him on one of his errands, where he spills his darkest secret…and some blood.

You and Alastor were neighbors, having lived next to each other for almost a year. He was a popular radio host in the area, who always said goodmorning and goodnight to you when coming home from work. You had invited eachother over for dinner countless times. He knew your home almost as well as you did by how much time you spent together. It wasn’t long before you had noticed that you had grown to care for Alastor. How could you not? He was charming and charismatic. He was gorgeous, with his dark hazel eyes, olive skin, and dark curly hair. He spoke french; one of your favorite languages, and had even started to teach you some! You cared for Alastor. Deeply.

It was a friday afternoon. You and Alastor were sitting on his porch, discussing the recent murders and disappearances of men in New Orleans. Alastor leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving yours as he listens to your concerns. He takes a slow sip of his own tea, his gaze never leaving yours. “Ah, the state of our New Orleans, you say?” He sets his teacup down, his expression turning thoughtful. “I mean…the bayou butcher is still running loose.” You say, taking a sip from one of the beautifully painted china teacups. Alastor's immutable grin darkens slightly at the mention of the famed serial killer. He steeples his fingers beneath his chin, his eyes glinting with a cold intensity. "A problem that has persisted far too long, wouldn't you say, dear?"

And for a fortnight there, we were forever~

“How have the police not caught the perpetrator?” You ask. Alastor's smile grows wider, his eyes gleaming with a sinister light as he reveals his true identity. "Ah, the police? They are blind to the truth, chéri. They think they're hunting a monster, but they have no idea the true nature of the beast they seek." You look at him in disbelief. “What do you mean?” He takes a sip of his black tea, before putting it back down onto the plate. Leaning forward, Alastor's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "The bayou butcher is not some mindless killer, my dear. Every person he has killed had it coming. They were all terrible people."

You go silent for a moment, contemplating his words, before speaking again. “It doesn’t matter. People are still dead.” ​​Alastor's smile returns, but this time it's laced with a hint of sadness. "Ah, but that's where you're wrong, cher. They deserved what they got, and in a way, the city is better off without them, mon coeur.” You look into his gorgeous hazel eyes, trying to search his face, before continuing. “Maybe so, but murder is still murder.” Alastor chuckles darkly, his eyes glinting with a cold, unyielding light. "You're too naive, cher. The world isn't black and white. Sometimes, justice needs a helping hand...or a bloody knife." He leans back, his gaze never leaving yours.

Run into you sometimes, ask about the weather~

“I know that! That’s exactly why murder is never okay! These people could have changed or gone to prison if necessary! But they didn't need to die!” Alastor's face darkens. His smile twitching as a flash of anger passes over his features before he regains his composure. He leans forward, his voice low and menacing. "You think you understand, but you don't. You haven't seen the depths of human cruelty that I have." Alastor's eyes narrow as he studies your face, searching for any hint of understanding or agreement. After a long, tense moment, he leans back, his smile returning but lacking its usual warmth. "You're so pure and righteous."

Alastor chuckles softly, but there's no real amusement in the sound. "It's admirable, truly. But in this world, such naivety can be dangerous." His gaze drifts to the window, his voice taking on a wistful tone. “It’s getting late. You should run home.” You get up, and place your teacup back on its saucer. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Alastor.” You walk home, and get ready for bed. You contemplate Alastor’s words. Why was he on the killer’s side? As you drift off to sleep, you're unaware of the figure watching you from the shadows outside your window. It's Alastor, standing motionless in the darkness, his eyes fixed on your sleeping form. "Such a pure soul.”

Now you’re at my mailbox, turned into good neighbors~

The next morning, after getting dressed and cooking yourself some eggs and bacon, you walk outside to your mailbox. As you reach for your mail, a gloved hand suddenly appears, plucking a letter from the pile. You turn to see Alastor standing beside you, his smile as charming as ever. "Good morning, cher. I hope you slept well." He holds up the letter. You smile up at him. “Morning.” Alastor's eyes flicker to the letter, then back to your face. He tucks the letter into his pocket and extends his hand to you. "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me on a little errand today, dear?"

My husband is cheating, I wanna kill him~

“And what would this errand be, Mr. Heartfelt?” Alastor's smile widens, his eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. "Oh, just a little matter that requires my...particular set of skills. And I thought it would be nice to have some company." He bows slightly, his gloved hand still extended. You take his hand and walk with him. As you stroll through the city, Alastor keeps up a steady stream of charming banter, his accent thick as syrup as he regales you with tales of New Orleans' history. But you can sense that something's off, that he's tenser than usual. 

Eventually, you arrive at an old, dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Alastor's expression darkens as he gazes up at the peeling paint and boarded-up windows. "Here we are, cher," he says softly. “Why are we here?” You ask as a wave of dread washes over you. Alastor turns to you, his eyes glinting with a dangerous light. "Let's just say this place holds some... unpleasant memories for me. Memories tied to the Bayou Butcher." He squeezes your hand almost painfully. "I need to settle an old score, dear." You gasp. “What!?” Alastor releases your hand and strides toward the warehouse doors, beckoning for you to follow. He produces a set of lockpicks from his pocket and gets to work.

I love you, its ruining my life~

As Alastor opens the front door of the old rundown warehouse, you see a man tied to a chair, blindfolded, in the middle of the room. Alastor steps inside, his eyes fixed on the man in the chair. He turns to you with a sickeningly sweet smile. "Well, well. Looks like our friend is already here waiting for us." He saunters over to the man and rips off his blindfold. “Oh my god!” You gasp, horrified. The man in the chair is none other than Detective Jameson, the one who's been investigating the Bayou Butcher's murders. He stares up at Alastor with a mixture of fear and recognition. "Heartfelt...you can't be serious," Jameson stammers.

"You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do this." Alastor paces around Jameson, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching. “Don’t hurt him!” You scream as Alastor punches him in the gut. Alastor pauses, looking back at you with a twisted smile. "Oh, mon amour, you're so precious when you're worried about someone else." He turns back to Jameson and pulls out a knife. "Now, let's talk about the Bayou Butcher, shall we?" Jameson tries to speak, but Alastor cuts him off by pressing the knife against his throat. "You think you're so smart, don't you, detective? Thinking you can outwit me and bring me to prison." Alastor's voice is cold, menacing. I love you, It’s ruining my life~

“What are you talking about?” You ask anxiously. Alastor's eyes flick to you briefly before returning to Jameson's terrified face. "Our dear detective here thinks he's solved the case. He thinks I am the Bayou Butcher." Alastor laughs darkly, the sound echoing through the empty house. “He’s right.” You feel a wave of uneasiness wash over you, almost like you're going to throw up. “You. All this time? I trusted you!” You yell, tears brimming your eyes. Alastor's smile widens, his eyes gleaming with a madman's excitement. "Of course, ma chéri. Who better to trust than your own neighbor, your own friend?" He leans in closer to Jameson, the knife pressing harder against his throat. 

You slowly back towards the exit of the abandoned warehouse. Alastor's gaze flicks to you, and he calls out, "Now, now, ma chéri, don't go rushing off. The fun's just about to begin." You freeze as his attention returns to Jameson, who's breathing heavily, eyes darting between Alastor and you. You know this is your chance. You reach the door and turn to run, but Alastor is too fast. He grabs you by the arm and spins you back around, his other hand holding the knife to Jameson's throat. "Not so fast, mon coeur. You're going to watch this little reunion." Alastor's gaze is cold, unyielding as he looks at you. "You see, detective, you were close, but you never quite figured it out. And now, it's time for you to pay the price for your meddling." He looks back at Jameson. I touched you for only a fortnight~

You can feel your eyes begin to tear up as you silently cry. Not for yourself, but for everyone Alastor has killed. Especially the detective, who’s only crime was trying to stop him. Alastor notices your tears and his expression softens slightly, almost tenderly. "Ah, ma belle, don't cry for him. He brought this upon himself." He turns back to Jameson, the knife now resting against the detective's chest. "Last words, detective?" Jameson glares at Alastor, his face contorted with hatred and defiance. "You're...you're going to pay for this, Heartfelt. Even if it's the last thing I do..." His voice trails off as Alastor drives the knife into his chest. Your silent tears run down your rosy cheeks, as a feeling of helplessness sinks in.

Alastor wipes the bloody knife on Jameson's shirt, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. He turns to you, his expression gentle, almost loving. "Now, cher, where were we?" He steps closer, reaching out to touch your face. “Don’t touch me.” You flinch out of his touch. Alastor's eyes flash with anger at your rejection, but he quickly masks it with a charming smile. "Tsk tsk, ma chérie. Is that any way to treat a gentleman?" He chuckles darkly. "You're upset, I understand." You only cry harder at his words, letting out little gasps as you try your best to stop. Alastor's voice takes on a soothing, almost hypnotic quality. "Shh, it's alright, ma belle. The detective, he was just a means to an end. You and I, we have something special."

I love you, It's ruining my life~

“I used to believe that. Not anymore.” Alastor's eyes narrow, a flicker of hurt and anger passing through them, while still keeping his same signature, everlasting smile. "Not anymore? But darling, how could you say such a thing?" He reaches for you again, his gloved hand hovering near your cheek. "I've given you everything." He says malevolently. “You are a killer! A monster!” You shriek, backing away two steps, only for Alastor to take another four towards you. Alastor's face darkens, the charming facade shattering like glass. He lunges at you, grabbing your wrists and pinning them behind your back. 

Alastor’s voice hisses in your ear, "Monster? Me? No, cher, that would be you, if you keep pushing me away." His usual charming smile is now somewhat manic, as Alastor takes out a syringe filled with a strange blue liquid. Before you can react, Alastor plunges the syringe into your neck. As the liquid enters your system, you feel a wave of dizziness, your vision blurring. You feel yourself quickly slipping out of consciousness. Alastor's voice comes to you as if from a great distance. "Goodnight, ma chérie. When you wake up, everything will be as it should be.”

A/N: please ignore the fact that I have completely abandoned my Haztober theming

[byechristopher]

can you make a chris make up sex??? please

Make it up to me.

– CHRIS STURNIOLO SMUT, FLUFF.

Author's note: love me some good make-up sex – sorry I took so long to respond! Thank you for the request, dear. Hope you like this. Do not copy/steal my work. :)

Warnings: smut smut smut. Minors dni! Didn't proof-read!

"I feel a little neglected lately." my voice is timid but I let a little sigh of relief leave my lips.

I am not used to speaking about my emotions loudly like this, expressing them so freely, let alone in front of Chris. He is my boyfriend but I've always had trouble doing that – it's something I've been trying to fix for a while now.

"Neglected?" he has a tone in his voice that I don't appreciate and I am already regretting my decision to speak my mind, "I don't have time to fucking rest, what are you talking about?" he scoffs and leans back, one of his hands still grab the steering wheel and he sighs, fluffing his hair up with his free hand.

"Just forget it." I roll my eyes, leaning back against the car seat as well, glancing out the window, "forget I even said anything."

"Don't play that card now." I can feel his eyes on me but I refuse look at him.

"I'm not playing any cards. Would you rather have me not telling you anything? Because you know damn well I can do that." I shrug, finally looking at him.

"No, I don't want that. But you're being irrational." his eyebrows are raised and so are his shoulders.

"And you're being rational?" I narrow my eyes, almost like challenging him, "I understand that you are busy but when I tell you I fucking feel neglected, I'm expecting.. I don't know.. maybe a little bit of affection?" I cross my arms, "or is that not possible? To ask that from my relationship?"

"Stop being like this. You just have to understand me! I just don't have time!" he tries to defend himself but every time, he just says something that pisses me off even more.

"Well, that's your fucking problem, Chris. Because I'm working a lot too, you know? But I always make time for you, no matter how exhausted I am. And that's what relationships are about! Making constant sacrifices for each other." I try to explain as much as possible, "and I do understand you, I've been patient for a long time but now it's your turn."

"Well I never fucking complained about you being busy!" he knows he's just saying irrarional bullshit now.

"You never had to! Because I've actually got my shit together. You never had the chance to feel neglected." I stare into his eyes, "oh and also, what I just did, was not complaining. It's called 'expressing my goddamn feelings', something that you're terrible at, even more than me."

And with that, I get out of the car, quickly taking out the keys so I can open our apartment door. He makes me so angry sometimes – he is the best boyfriend in the world, but sometimes, he just doesn't get it.

Hours pass by and we haven't said a single word to each other; I refuse to speak to him, until he understands that he has to make sacrifices too. I can't always just chase him around, taking a step back just to avoid conflict.

A knock on the door of our bedroom is what wakes me up from my own thoughts, "can I come in?"

"Yes, you can."

Chris opens the door and takes a careful glance of me – I am just laying on the bed, under the covers, I am only in my underwear and a t-shirt just to be comfortable. He sighs and lifts the covers so that he can lay beside me, cupping my cheek so gently, his touch is careful and timid.

"I needed some time to think about what you said. And I wanted to apologise." he whispers, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, "you're right. You're working a lot too, but you always make time for me and I am very grateful for that."

I don't say anything, I notice that he's still thinking, just waiting for him to continue.

"I don't want to make any excuses but I felt very overwhelmed lately because of work, and I didn't want to admit it. I haven't been able to sit down and actually try to manage my schedule but I promise to work on it immediately." he smiles apologetically.

"Baby, I know you didn't do it on purpose." I sigh, "but when I tell you how I'm feeling, I need you to try to understand before getting defensive."

"I know and you are right. It was the part of me that didn't want to admit that I'm actually so busy, so tired and so awful at trying to fit everything in my schedule. This is why I got defensive. Next time I will be better, though." he says and I nod, leaning into his touch, rubbing my cheek against his palm.

"I know you will. We all do mistakes. Thank you for taking your time to think about it." I grin and he wraps an arm around my waist – I waste no time, I immediately press my body against his.

"Of course, baby. I needed to be sure before I come and find you." he sighs and hugs me tightly, sneaking his leg in between mine. I smile and lean in to place a kiss on his lips.

He keeps talking but I am too focused on his lips, or the leg between my legs, or the hands that hold my waist. I listen to what he says but I can feel my arousal burning me. My thighs squeeze his leg and my lips rub themselves against his – I stick my tongue out to lick his bottom lip and that's when he takes the hint.

"What are you doing there, hm?" he hums, his fingers gripping my sides a little harder now.

"I think you need to make it up to me, no? For making me wait all this time while you were thinking." I murmur, my lips going from his lips to his cheek, to his chin and then finally his neck.

He groans and pulls his sweatpants down, not wanting to lose any time either. He places his leg between mine again and I press my clothed pussy against his thigh, making him feel my wetness as I start to rub myself against him.

"I'll make it up to you as many times as you want." he bites down his bottom lip as he slowly takes my shirt off. He's only wearing his boxers and I'm wearing my panties, we're still under the covers.

He grips my waist and I start to fully grind on him, rocking my hips, moving them back and forth on his thigh, "Chris. I want you." I whisper and he smiles.

"I can feel it." he whispers and leans in to take my earlobe in his mouth, sucking on it, moaning into my ear as he sneaks a finger between his thigh and my pussy, rubbing it while still putting pressure with his leg.

I almost whine at how much wetter he made me in just one second, and I travel my hand down his body to grab his clothed dick, taking it out to wrap my fingers around it, rubbing up and down his shaft.

He moans and I can feel his body shaking a little bit – he leans in and takes my nipple in his mouth, groaning around it and biting it gently. I gasp and tug on his hair. He grabs his own cock and brings it closer to my pussy, rubbing the tip of it against my panties, making it even wetter.

"Mmm, Chris.." moaning, I wrap my arms around him, trying to rub myself against his cock as much as possible.

With his fingers, he pushes my panties to the side and starts rubbing the tip of his wet cock against my clit, making sure to run it over my entrance, collecting my juices and then rubbing them all over my clit again.

"Please fuck me already, I am ready for you." I whine, I want to scream how much I want him right now.

He moans at my words and completely takes my panties off. He grabs my leg and hooks his arm under my knee, keep my leg lifted as he teases my pussy. He finally pushes inside of me and I lose it – I couldn't believe I could get any more wet, but apparently I can.

"Shit, baby.. you're so wet and warm." he moans, burying his face into my neck to press kisses all over my skin. His thrusts are gentle and slow as he fucks into me with love, while bruising my skin with kisses at the same time.

I moan and cup his cheeks, making him look at me before attacking his lips with passionate kisses. He grabs the leg that he's been lifting up again, making me wrap it around his waist as he rolls over to his back, making me get on top of him while still being inside of me.

"Fuck.. yes.. like this.." I whisper in his ear – I am completely laying on top of him, my breasts pressed against his chest, my legs on either side of him, my face buried in his neck and my hands grabbing his hair.

I can hear him moaning my name as he starts picking up the pace, fucking me a little harder this time – his hands are on my buttcheeks, squeezing them and spreading them as he pushes his cock in and out.

"Hell.. I don't think I can last any longer, baby girl.." he curses under his breath and moans into my ear softly, heavy breathing, placing a soft kiss on it.

"I'm gonna cum.." I warn, too, my pussy clenching around him as I feel him lifting my body up and down – I am at his mercy, completely.

"Mhmm, cum on my dick." he whispers and I let out a loud moan, tugging on his hair again. My body is trembling as he gives my butt a little smack and that's all it takes for me to cum with a loud moan of his name.

He groans and starts thrusting into me with a much faster pace, his fingers digging into the skin of my ass as he finally cums inside of me with a loud moan as well. I can feel him filling me up and my eyes roll to the back of my head.

We sit there in silence for quite a while, "I love make-up sex." I mumble against his shoulder and he laughs.

"I love you." he whispers, he hasn't moved an inch, still inside of me.

"Good, I love you too. Let me stay like this for a while."

[hisui-dreamer]

definitely not prophetic!

Character: Riddle Rosehearts, Ace Trappola, Deuce Spade, Cater Diamond, Trey Clover, Leona Kingscholar, Jack Howl, Ruggie Bucchi, Azul Ashengrotto, Jade Leech, Floyd Leech, Kalim Al-Asim, Jamil Viper, Vil Schoenheit, Epel Felmier, Rook Hunt, Idia Shroud, Silver, Sebek Zigvolt, Lilia Vanrouge, Malleus Draconia

pick one of your favs from above when reading!

Masterlist

imagine having dreams of him every night, each time showcasing him with you, perfectly in love in different scenarios. sometimes you're on vacation and you're exploring some new place, sometimes you're waking up in his embrace as sunlight peeks through the window, and on the rare occasion, you hear bell-like laughter from children running up to you, dragging him along by pulling at his hand, the very picture of domestic bliss

you're not sure what to make of these dreams, you don't even know him that well, having met him just a few weeks ago, and now you're having these dreams about him? what if they were prophetic dreams? no, no, you shouldn't think that way, you don't even have any feelings towards him, so isn't saying they're prophetic dreams too much of a stretch? it almost sounds like you want it to become reality! there's no proof any of these visions are set to happen! you still want to go home after all!

home. that's right, you should be going home. that's your utmost priority, and if anything you should be avoiding the person who keeps appearing in your dreams, juust in case they are prophetic dreams which they are not because he'll keep you tied to twisted wonderland.

only if you keep avoiding a person who has never once interacted with you, you'll only intrigue them more. he didn't mind the fact at all, but as he's observing you from the window, joking around with all your other friends that you have obviously not avoided, he feels a smidge of hurt and maybe even jealously.

he's hearing all this praise about what a nice person you are, how willing you are to help others and talk to other people, meanwhile your attitude towards him is a complete 180; avoiding his gaze when he's trying to speak with you, running off with some random excuse of an errand, or even straight up turning away the moment you locked eyes with him! isn't this a little bit too cruel?

meanwhile, you can't say your feelings for him are entirely hostile. it'd be too difficult to hate a person who always smiles so endearingly at you, who holds you like you mean the entire world to them, whose laugh always washes away any trace of fatigue in you. you're cursing yourself for being so easily swayed by these dreams, but thankfully this motivates you to further limit your interactions with him.

this, of course, does not go unnoticed by him. and to say he's upset is the understatement of the century. what has he done to provoke you this time?! he's only tried to be nice to you, make good conversation, sevens, he's even tried to bribe you with your favourite food that he overheard you mention!

ok, he's having none of this avoiding, at the very least he demands an explanation as to why you act so strangely only around him.

he seizes the opportunity when it comes, a hand next to your head, pinning you against the stone wall in a silent hallway. his narrowed eyes peer into yours, and you can't help but get lost in the clarity that often eludes you in your dreams. his eyes glisten with a captivating sparkle, framed by delicate eyelashes, and you can almost imagine his voice murmuring sweet nothings to you as he showers you in affection...

no, no, no! this is exactly why you're avoiding him!!

you feel your face heat up so much so that it feels like a blazing furnace, radiating so intensely that it sparks a whirlwind of dizziness within you. you avert your gaze to the ground and you try to get out of this situation, but he's not having any of it.

he tilts your chin upwards so you'll face him once again, his touch gentle and familiar just like the ones in your dreams, and he's granted the sight of you, blushing and flustered and so so overwhelmed and-

...oh?

did... did his heart just skip a beat?

[talesofesther]

𝔈𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 𝔉𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢

↳ 𝐂𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧: 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬

Aemond Targaryen x Reader/fem!OC

Series Summary: You made a promise to Aemond once, when you were young and naive, and the only friend he'd ever known; yet you abandoned him before you could fulfill it. Between broken bonds, a betrothal, and flames that still burn deep within you; this is the story of how you fell apart and found each other again.

A/N: This chapter has been long awaited for me ever since I thought of this series, hope you enjoy it. Please let me know what you think. The song that inspired it was this one. <3

Word count: 4,3k

Masterlist | Previous chapter

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was bustling with people; Princes, Princesses, Lords, Ladies, and all nobility in between. All gathered for the feast in celebration of Queen Rhaenyra's new rule. The hall's great oak-and-bronze doors remained open, as did the curtains of the high windows, allowing the hazy moonlight to shine through.

Hundreds of guests sat at the long tables on each side of the Hall, and the Targaryens had their seats on their own table—adorned with a banquet of meals for the night—in front of the Iron Throne. A group of musicians entertained the feast, and the center of the Hall remained free for the dance yet to happen.

After exchanging pleasantries with many boring nobles, and having a glass or two of wine to take you through it, you had taken a step aside to breathe. You leaned back against one of the walls of the Great Hall, watching from a safe and secluded distance as the guests relished in their time within the Red Keep. Plenty of them seemed to teeter on the edge of drunkness already—speaking about their lands and affairs a little louder than they should.

An amused smirk came to you, never having been fond of the royal court, but the drama that came with it would always be mildly entertaining. Alas, the corset of your gown had started constricting your breathing about an hour ago and the expensive fabric of the skirt began itching on your skin. Truthfully, this feast couldn't end soon enough.

"And what's a fine lady such as yourself-" A familiar voice caught your attention quite suddenly, and you watched with narrowed eyes as Aegon approached you with a sly smile and a golden chalice in his hand. "-Doing here all by herself?" The first Prince finished slowly.

Aegon eyed you up and down, causing you to straighten your posture. Aegon's cheeks were flushed, his silver curls were messy, pupils blown, and smile all too loose—unsurprisingly, he was drunk. He stumbled up to you, resting his shoulder on the stone wall close enough for you to smell the wine on his breath.

"Shouldn't you have a certain one-eyed someone keeping you company?" Aegon traced the rim of his chalice with his thumb, half-lidded eyes gleaming under the torch lights. "If you were mine, I would never let you out of my sight," he whispered.

With the side of your eye, you glanced in the direction you knew Aemond to be; still seated beside his mother at the table, with a vacant seat beside him—yours. As you looked at him, you caught a glimpse of him quickly turning his head forward again, averting his gaze.

You took a long and steadying breath, holding it in your lungs for a beat before allowing it to fall from your lips. This was no place to cause a scene—the many voices blending with one another around you and the musicians' tune reminded you as much—even if Prince Aegon seemed eager to taunt you for it.

"Hello to you too, Aegon," you tried a smile, leaning your head to the side as you looked at him, "Are you enjoying yourself tonight?"

"Oh much," he raised his eyebrows, never losing the smirk. "Though I understand if you aren't, we both know my poor brother is hardly the most entertaining to have as one's company." The Prince threw a quick glance Aemond's way as well. He walked closer to you, boldness born from the wine in his system; "I don't blame you… For going away."

You leveled him with a glare when he invaded your space, eyes turning as sharp as a dragon's. "Aemond is one of the few people here worth having around." And you weren't daft, you knew he'd hinted at the years you'd spent away, at Dragonstone. You leaned closer to him, voice low and steady; "And I haven't left, nor do I plan to."

"I was hoping you wouldn't." Aegon expressed in the same breath, one corner of his lips still raised, yet his gaze drifted lower on your face for a moment. "That was quite a show you pulled with my brother at the training yard," he held a pause, eyeing you with amusement, "The day before last."

You hummed, raising a brow.

"Bold," Aegon hushed, twirling the wine on his chalice.

"You were there, then?" You didn't remember seeing Aegon during the rainy day of your sparring with Aemond. But you weren't necessarily paying attention.

"For a bit." The first Prince shrugged. He took a long sip of his wine. "But even if I weren't, all the gossip about it would've been enough."

You refrained from rolling your eyes, glancing aside with pursed lips. No wonder some of the lesser nobles at court had been giving you poorly concealed stares lately, more than you were already used to; you could almost feel their whispers bouncing off your skin at times, another reason for you to prefer the company of your dragon on most days. "People talk too much, unnecessarily so." You focused back to Aegon, only to notice he'd come closer.

"Congratulations on the betrothal, by the way." He spoke only for you, as if it was still a secret, "I was most pleased to hear you'll be joining the family."

You scoffed. The only thing between you and him was the chalice of wine Aegon still had in his hand, and you were lucky most people had diverted their attention to the dance that had just begun in the center of the Great Hall. "I thank you, my Prince," you spoke pointedly, more in jest than anything else.

A low chuckle came from Aegon, he had his lips parted, tongue between his teeth; "Know that, if you ever grow bored of my dear brother… My door is always unlocked for you." It was all sultry and suggestive, like he knew he went over the line and was enjoying every minute of it, almost as if instigating a reaction; "Gods know you're too good for-"

And Aegon earned his prize when you cut him off by taking a fistful of his robes and forcefully turning him around, slamming his back onto the stone wall. A grunt escaped the Prince, the wine of his chalice spilling onto his fingers in a deep burgundy stain.

"Have a care on how you speak of my betrothed, Aegon." You all but growled at him, nearly ripping the fabric of his clothes with how tight you bunched it in your hands. "Or, may the gods help me, I ought to turn this feast into a funeral."

"Ah, so fierce." The first Prince's words were something breathless and bordering on needy, coming with a smirk and an eager chuckle from the back of his throat.

You shook your head at him, berating yourself for allowing him to get under your skin, and the look on your face only invited Aegon to lean closer, despite your hold on him. And if he leans closer still, his nose might touch yours. You wondered if that's what he wanted all along. He kept his hands to himself, but there was something all too telling about how he didn't try to get you off him.

"I have-" He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, gaze trailing down on your face, "Missed that fire of yours."

You raised a brow at Aegon. And amidst the music, the smell of scented candles, and the loud voices of the nobles; you leaned closer, innocent tilt to your lips while you held his gaze until you couldn't anymore, until those same lips brushed against the shell of his ear. "Go out, Aegon," you whispered to him, feeling a tingle of satisfaction when you heard him groan, "To the balconies." Pulling back, you took hold of both his cheeks with one hand. A harsh grip that made him wince.

"You're too far gone on your cups. Go and get some fresh air, before you force me to ruin everyone's night," You hissed between your teeth, pushing the first Prince aside as he pouted on your hold.

Aegon lingered only for a moment longer, from the corner of your eyes you could notice him bringing one hand to his face. "Yes ma'am." He downed the last of his drink, and with a clumsy curtsy to you, he was finally walking away.

The last thing you needed was to give the ladies at court more reasons to gossip about you, but Aegon had been a rock in your shoe ever since the days you'd run after him with a sword whenever he pranked his younger brother when you were children. He'd been insufferable then and you were less than pleased to know he'd apparently grown bolder. But then, so had you.

You turned back to look at Aemond and a long sigh of relief left your lungs when you saw him enthralled in a conversation with his mother, still seated at the table—good, there was no need for him to trouble himself with his brother tonight. You smoothed down the fabric of your gown and made your way back to your seat beside your betrothed.

Daemon caught your eye as you sat back down, he gave you a small smile, which you returned. The rogue Prince then extended a hand to his wife, the Queen. And you watched as she took it with a bashful smile before being led to the center of the Great Hall—they fell into a rhythm easily, following the melody as they danced.

It didn't take long for Aemond's attention to divert back to you when he felt your presence return to his side. He had a strong grip on his chalice of wine, knuckles white, but it loosened when you met his stare with a tight-lipped smile.

The Prince had been incessantly tapping his fingers on the table for the past fifteen minutes. Partly because he'd seen you with Aegon, partly because he was all too aware of the couples dancing in front of him.

The musicians' song was a slow one, dominated by a soft violin tune. The dance being shared looked nothing short of intimate, every Lord within the Keep had taken his Lady's hand when the melody began.

Distant telltales of the pain behind Aemond's eyepatch lingered. He worried that the headache might return at any point in the night. A few loud voices here and there had already made him wince and grit his teeth. He'd refrained from eating too much; the pain had been bothering him all day, making him less than inclined to put food in his stomach. But there was a nagging in his chest, like longing mixed with something bitter that wouldn't go away, and it grew stronger when the Prince spotted you with his brother.

You were his, after all—the one thing he couldn't allow Aegon to take from him.

Aemond cleared his throat, turning to face you. He was not meant to be a husband, for how could he ever be a good one? There was no gentleness in his life, the only love he'd ever known had been conditional; he didn't know how to do it. Aemond extended his hand to you, anyway.

"My lady," Aemond's voice was timid and hushed. He only looked up at you after a beat of hesitation. "Would you do me the honor?”

Within the most vulnerable parts of his heart, the Prince still hoped to win your affections, even if sometimes he thought himself a fool for it—you and he were stuck in a betrothal born out of duty, after all. With seven years cutting through what you once were. During these very moments with you that Aemond treasured so much, he couldn't help but feel a chill in his stomach.

The question caught you off guard even if it shouldn't have. Every Lord and their Lady-wife participated in the dance, so it would only be proper for you and your betrothed to join, as well. Aemond was performing his duty, that's all. But your mouth turned dry, and you struggled to find words. "The- the honor would be mine, my Prince."

You placed your hand upon Aemond's, his fingers closing around yours all too carefully, and he led you to the center of the Great Hall. "Was my brother bothering you, my Lady?" He couldn't keep himself from asking.

Aemond was more than capable of guiding you through this dance with his eye closed, and yet he faltered, only placing his other hand at your waist when you gently took hold of his arm and secured it there. Once he felt the curves of your body under his hand, however, his hold became steady and strong—nigh possessive. It sent goosebumps down your spine that you tried to mask.

"I'm afraid I'm well used to your brother's antics." You analyzed your surroundings, feeling oddly exposed even if you were amidst many other nobles. You kept your hold on one of Aemond's hands, placing your other hand on his shoulder. With your chest close to his, your breath ran shallow. "Nothing I haven't dealt with before, luckily he remains easy." With a shrug, you shifted your gaze forward, meeting the eye of your betrothed.

Aemond's attention on you shifted, he peered around as well. Maids whispered in each other's ears, noble ladies looked upon his hand holding you with a look akin to scandal, and Lords followed the sway of your hair hungrily. Everyone was looking. Everyone whispering about the second Prince's new betrothed.

"Hey." You stole back his attention, and he felt his destructive thoughts quieting down. The smile you wore was soft and kind, and it was for him.

"Focus on me," you breathed. And Aemond gladly would.

There was a small curl of your hair that had caught on one of your earrings. Aemond's eye slowly traveled your face until he saw it. The Prince raised his hand for a moment, only so he could delicately pull it free—his touch so careful you barely felt it when the tip of his fingers grazed your cheek—and then his hand settled back on your waist. You held your breath the entire time.

"I remember well." Aemond had the ghost of a smile that he tried to hide. "Aegon has always been intimidated by you." The Prince twirled you then, a steady motion that got your gown dancing around your frame, and then brought you right back into his arms.

The two of you fell into a rhythm together, as easy as breathing. Your bodies moved in synch with each other, as if you knew the movement the other would make before it even happened. At one point your fingers intertwined with Aemond's, fitting between one another as if they belonged. Your swaying along the expanse of the Great Hall slowed down to something more intimate, even more so than the soft melody of the musicians.

A trembled breath left Aemond's lips, his eye searched your face for something—and he must've found it, because you felt his hand at your waist close more firmly around you, the tips of his fingers traced your spine and he pulled you closer to himself. You in turn moved your hold on his shoulder to the back of his neck, hand disappearing beneath his long hair.

Aemond seemed caught in a trance, the color of his iris barely visible, only a small ring around the blown pupil. His lips were parted, something a little unsure, nervous. But he was close, so close. You could count each faded freckle, each twist and turn of the scar on his cheek.

There was something entirely too magical about Aemond. Too princely, as cliche as that may be. His pin-straight silver hair framed his face, you couldn't help but notice how wisps of it escaped over the strap of his eyepatch as well—once again you stopped yourself from reaching over, from tucking it behind his ear and allowing your touch to wander. He belonged in a castle, he belonged in royalty, you decided. For seeing Aemond under the fire of the chandelier as his careful hands guided you through a slow dance—bodies close, all intimate and tender—was bewitching.

You couldn't know who did it. Perhaps you met together in the middle. But you and Aemond swayed to a soft melody, hands interlocked, as your foreheads came to rest against one another. His nose bumped yours and you could see through your lashes how he closed his eye and leaned closer still.

And Aemond breathed you in, inebriated in the feeling of you. Your perfume was all-encompassing, your touch as warm as dragonfire, your breath fanning over his lips; he wanted you in his arms forevermore. The feeling all too foreign to him, yet he couldn't have enough of it.

Could duty ever evoke such a moment?

Was the question you distantly asked yourself. Right now, hands shaking for being a breath away from touching his lips with yours; you couldn't know the answer.

What felt like hours, lasted maybe a minute or two. Aemond pulled away, ever so slowly, almost as if it pained him to do so, and so you did the same. The look on your Prince's face was nearly unreadable, but not for the lack of emotion, rather for the overflowing of it. Aemond's eye glinted under the firelight. He looked very pale and very nervous, and a little… hopeful.

You were sure your face mirrored his.

"Why-" Your voice stumbled, a little breathless "Why is that, do you think?" You squeezed Aemond's hand out of instinct.

Your words gave him pause. Aemond opened and closed his mouth as he willed his hazy mind to catch up and remember what it was you were speaking about. A difficult task, all he could focus on was you—your perfume, your closeness, the outlines of your face highlighted in golden hues—you. "I uh-" He gulped, glancing away for a beat and two, to allow himself some respite, "You have an effect on people."

Blinking at his response, you were about to ask what he meant by it when Aemond ducked his head with a sharp intake of air. His brows scrunched and he let go of your waist to bring his hand to his face, over his eyepatch.

Aemond gave an involuntary grunt when his eye socket started throbbing, instantly bringing back the heavy headache surrounding his scar. it came suddenly, the once dull pain he'd managed to keep on the back of his mind now had each of his nerve endings burning. At the same time that the pain kept him from opening his one good eye, the skin around his scar felt numb and warm to the touch. It was the last thing the Prince wanted, his heart bled in his chest at the thought of ruining your night with his burden.

"Aemond?" Your gentle voice came almost like a soothing kiss over his pain. "Is something wrong? Are you alright?" You worried.

"Yes," Aemond forced out, heavy blinks getting his eye open again even if his sight blurred at the edges and blended with the warm lighting of the Hall. The Prince felt nauseous at the nearly unbearable pain, he could feel his face twitching and turned his head aside and away from your increasingly concerned gaze. "All is… well."

Only a fool would believe him. Aemond had turned tense, his face constricted in a weird way while he nearly crushed your fingers with his grip. "Are you… certain?" Yet you knew better than to call him out blatantly. If Aemond wanted to keep something to himself, he would, no matter what you did.

A breath stumbled past his lips, and Aemond cleared his throat, stalling his answer.

"Why don't we-" You paused, regarding him with unbridled worry and a heavy heart, "Why don't we step aside for a while? I can grab us something to drink."

Aemond nodded. "Okay." His voice was quieter than he'd wanted it to be.

You didn't let go of his hand as you dragged him aside, away from the commotion. You were not sure of what he was feeling, but you were almost certain that it was the same thing that had bothered him during the coronation ceremony. It wasn't your place to demand answers, not yet, but you wished he'd be truthful with you. You wished he'd allow himself to be helped.

Aemond's hold of your hand was a tight one, you weren't sure he even realized he did it. You held his hand between both of yours when you stopped just beside the long wooden table you'd been seated before. Running your thumb over his knuckles, hoping to calm him. It didn't do much.

"Forgive me, I-" The Prince refrained from looking you in the eyes, shame weighed heavy in his stomach. His lower lip wobbled with each of the heavy breaths he took. Clouded by pain, Aemond's mind conjured up punishing questions; what if this makes you leave his side again? What if you decide that someone as imperfect as he is not deserving of you?

"Don't fret," you spoke in the same beat, bringing him back to you—always bringing him back. "I was already going to suggest we stop for a glass of wine."

Pursing his lips, Aemond gulped. He mourned the wish of dancing with you until the first rays of sun peeked over the horizon. Aemond's nostrils flared with anger—if he weren't so weak, if he hadn't had his eye cut out, if he wasn't so damaged; he wouldn't have to end your night so suddenly.

"I'll be back in just a minute, alright?" You tried finding his gaze, leaning slightly closer, but couldn't.

Aemond grew restless at the idea of letting go of your hand, like it was a lifeline keeping him afloat—the thought of you leaving him again scared him more than he'd ever want to admit, it made his heart jump into his mouth, and turned his insides as cold as the north's winter. The past seven years might've left a deeper scar than the one on his face. But he did so anyway. It wasn't your burden to bear. He managed a crooked smile for you, the silver strands of his hair bouncing gently as he nodded.

The Prince watched your retreating figure, his eye following you as you reached the long table amidst the crowd and filled one chalice with wine and the other with water. There was something alluring about the way the light of the candles bounced off the embellishments of your dress, how it made your skin glow. Aemond wanted to keep that image of you with him forever, sewn neatly on the tapestries of his mind. He wished to remember this night like this; dancing with you under the golden lights, your hand in his, your eyes on him, your smile for him. And not by the pain that now left a nauseating twist to his barely filled stomach, that blurred his sight at the edges and tarnished the image of you.

Aemond wanted to keep the precious memory for what it was. And so he turned around, and left.

You held the two chalices in your hands. One with wine for you, and the other with water for Aemond. He seemed distressed, that much was clear, you'd noticed the skin around his scar spasming at the same time he'd wince—you'd figured wine wouldn't help with that.

However, a Lord with a fat belly that you didn't know the name of, thought now would be the perfect time to tell you about his lands and fortunes back home. You remained polite as his annoying voice rang into your ears, smiling rather awkwardly while slowly taking a few steps away.

"That is delightful, my Lord. Surely your vineyards are a sight to behold. But I really must-"

"Do fly to our land sometime, my lady. I have all the means necessary to build a formidable Dragonpit." The old Lord gloated, stuffing his chest where his brown beard lay.

"I uh-" Something between a chuckle and a groan escaped you, "I will… keep that in mind. But now I really should be going back to my husband." The word left your mouth before you could think better of it. And you surprised yourself by liking the shape of it on your tongue, when the person behind the title was Aemond.

The Lord, however, deflated in his pride after you spoke. He grumbled something under his breath before saying, "Be well, fair lady."

You didn't waste another second before turning on your heels and sped walking to the other side of the Great Hall, a huff of relief falling past your lips. You stopped at the same spot you'd left your Prince, but there was no sign of him. Turning your head left, and then right, and then back and again. You couldn't spot him.

There was a deep frown crinkling your features and a strange sense of emptiness inside your chest. You spotted Jace then, popping an olive into his mouth as he took a break from his dance with Baela.

"Jace," you called, stepping up to him. The young Prince turned to you with his mouth full but still sporting a smile. "Hey, have you seen Aemond? I lost sight of him." You looked over the bustling Hall again for good measure, but to no avail.

"Oh yeah, I did actually," Jace spoke after he'd swallowed his food, he gestured to the main oak-and-bronze doors, "He left."

You blinked, mouth agape as you looked from Jace, to the doors, and back to Jace. "What- what do you mean?" No—you tried believing—Aemond wouldn't simply leave your side without any regard, he was your partner for the night, your betrothed.

The Velaryon boy shrugged. His features were sympathetic, if a little lost. "He just left."

You nodded hesitantly, pointer finger tapping the rim of one of the chalices.

He just left.

What if duty was all there was, after all?

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Next chapter will be out soon.

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[aricarianis]

CW: explicit depictions of violence.

Johnny’s eyes always lit up when he saw you. You first caught his cerulean gaze a few weeks ago, as he watched you stir the newest waxes in your candle shop. The flames flickered, bending toward the breeze, as if curious about the stranger stepping through the door. Near the glow, Johnny’s expression was like a child in a candy shop—an unspoken hunger beneath his smile.

It didn't take long for the two of you to grow close. He'd come by the shop every day, lingering over each item, inspecting them with an almost obsessive care. He’d make conversation, stretching it far longer than any other client would—an excuse to remain near you. Sometimes, he’d bring treats: tea, cake, little offerings. You’d sit together, listening to the strange stories he told about his work as a Kinetic Solutions Expert, whatever that was supposed to mean.

"He's a grumpy one, but he grows on ye." Johnny’s tone was light, his voice warm with the aftertaste of laughter.

"Grumpy? His name’s Ghost. He sounds terrifying." You teased, carrying your curious tone through the store as you prepped everything for the next day.

"Everyone’s got a dark side, bonnie… most folk just don’t have the right spark to set it off."

“Well, damn, Mary Shelley,” you chuckled, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice. “Coming up with good lines now, huh?”

You blew out the candle between you, retreating to the back of the store—far enough to miss Johnny’s quiet mutter to the swirling smoke, eyes locked at the consumed wick.

"Even better at watchin' 'em burn out."

Locking up for the night, you caught Johnny’s gaze on you as you carefully washed your hands in the back sink, scrubbing until there was no trace of wax or fragrance left. He raised an eyebrow, leaning casually against the counter.

“Bit thorough, aren’t ye?” he teased, nodding to your reddened hands. “Not like you’re preppin’ for surgery.”

You managed a small laugh. “Oh, it’s for his sake.” You dried your hands, setting the cloth aside. “My boyfriend—he’s got this respiratory thing. Even a little wax or candle scent, and it sets him off. Oh, speak of the devil."

Johnny turned around, his gaze narrowing on the man through the storefront window. Tall, languid, soft features. Too frail to look after a right lass. He knew you had someone, but that image twisted something inside him—this frail, inept man. The kind of man who couldn't even shield you from the dangers of the world. He couldn’t shake the thought that any street creep could harm you, and your boyfriend wouldn’t be able to stop it. Johnny had seen enough to know how the world worked—how a thing so pure could draw the wrong kind of attention. Filthy, rough men. Men who didn't deserve you. Men like him.

Johnny’s jaw tightened as he watched you wave through the glass. You looked at the man with that warm, easy smile—the one Johnny had drawn from you so many times it almost felt like it belonged to him. But it didn’t. You gave it to that flimsy excuse for a man, one who couldn’t even bear the scent of a flame, yet still got the privilege of being loved by a girl who breathed fire. His mind raced, picturing every way that man would fail you. It didn’t matter if it looked like madness; the feeling gnawing at him like a spark in dry grass had already taken root.

Next Thursday felt slightly off. Johnny had come by the day before to pick up his order, and as usual, the conversation stretched on longer than necessary, filled with laughter and stories. He never missed Thursdays—it was his favorite day, after all. It was the day your boyfriend came home early from work, took a nap, and then left to pick you up. That nap gave Johnny time to “have you a little longer,” as he always put it.

You missed it. It was just a day, but it felt like more. His bright eyes crinkling at the corners when his cheeks raised, the dramatic way every story tumbled from his lips, the way he made you feel like you were something special—something the world had yet to understand. Things only he could see. More devoted than any friend. Almost as devoted as a—

"Boyfriend!" You gasped, snapping out of your thoughts. You glanced at the clock, realizing it was past closing time. Your boyfriend would be at the shop any minute. You hurried to the sink, scrubbing your arms, when the doorbell chimed.

"Baby, I’m so sorry, I lost track of time! I’ll be right out, don’t come in!" You called out, panic rising.

"Could get used to that... baby."

You froze. That voice—Johnny. You turned, a smile awkwardly pulling at your lips as you saw him standing at the door. "Johnny? I—I thought you weren’t coming. You’re never this late on Thursdays."

"Aye, bonnie, I know." He stepped into the shop, his gaze unwavering. "Had to visit a lad."

"Business?"

"Pleasure," he said, his sky-blue eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place.

You glanced over at the door, suddenly on edge. "I—I’d love to stay, but I’m closing up. My boyfriend’ll be here any minute..." You trailed off, a slight frown pulling at your brow. "He should already be here by now."

Your phone rang from the back counter, cutting you off.

"S’ probably him. Might be runnin’ late." Johnny’s voice was flat, but his gaze didn’t leave you.

He watched as you picked up your phone, face contorting with every passing second of the call. Your mouth dropped, breathing hitched. You didn’t hear Johnny move. One moment, you were still struggling to process the nightmarish news, the next, his hand was on your back, steadying you as your knees buckled. You barely registered him pulling you to his chest. His shirt quickly soaked up the tears that flowed from your eyes, thick and furious, but there was no reproach in his touch—just a steady pressure that held you close. His arms weren’t harsh, but firm, like you were something he couldn’t afford to let go. Your nails dug into his arms, not for comfort, but because you had nowhere else to hold onto. The words on the other side of the line were still echoing in your mind, but Johnny’s presence slowly clouded them out—filling the space with a comforting weight.

Johnny drove relentlessly, the miles slipping by as your body fought between waves of shock and numbness. It wasn’t until you were a couple blocks away that you saw it—black plumes of smoke spiraling into the sky, the jagged shape of fire hoses drawn through it. You shoved the car door open before it even came to a stop, stumbling toward the scene as firetrucks and curious onlookers swarmed the street. Water rained down, struggling to tame the last flames devouring what used to be your home.

The firemen spoke in steady, methodical tones, as though it were another job—no emotion, just fact. You could barely hear them over the pounding of your heart.

Unrecognizable. Suffocated on wax. The fire had consumed most of him.

Your body went cold, a chill creeping down your spine as their words scraped against you like glass. You tried to steady yourself, but the world felt unstable, as if the ground might swallow you whole.

“No,” you whispered, voice cracking. “That’s impossible. There weren’t any candles. He—he couldn’t have set them up. He—” You gasped, stepping back as your knees buckled. “He can’t even be around candles—wax, they make him sick, I—"

The firemen ignored you, their eyes distant, too accustomed to scenes like this. The truth was too heavy for you to hold, too absurd to understand.

A hand gripped your wrist, grounding. Johnny. He had been quiet, too quiet. He remained silent, keeping his grip firm as you tried to steady your breath, to push away the mental images that kept flooding in, images of your boyfriend—how you had joked earlier that day, how he had been so alive only hours ago.

Then your gaze fell to what was left of him. It wasn’t just the remains of a man; it was something worse. His body, twisted and contorted under the blackened sheets, the skin burned beyond recognition, patches of it melted into the fabric, the candles' wax seeping into his face, his mouth, his eyes.

The firemen hadn’t exaggerated. What was left of him was barely human, a grotesque silhouette of what you’d once loved. You stumbled back, vision blurring with tears that wouldn’t stop, chest tight with an unbearable, hollow ache.

Johnny’s grip tightened, his breath warm against your ear, a whisper like an anchor. “Jus' breathe, bonnie... Ah’m here.”

But you couldn’t breathe. Not with the image of him like this, suffocated by his own weakness, suffocated by something you couldn’t even understand. The smell of charred flesh and smoke filled your nostrils, and you wished you could close your eyes, wish it all away, but it was already burned into your mind.

Johnny didn’t let go. His arm snuck around your waist, chest pressed to your back, your last pillar. As the two of you watched the final flames die out, his eyes lit up. Blue tinged with copper—a hint of pride twisted in the shades. Tightening his grip, he whispered, almost to himself.

"Some lights fade. Others just burn forever."

[keikiri-kitten]

UNDRESS ME ★ LEON KENNEDY

leon x reader, re4 leon, fem!reader, d.o.s agent!reader, stressed reader, smut, cunnilingus

Leon will never tell you how much he enjoys undressing you. It’s something intimate and passionate where he can take his time with you. Things are easy for him now. The missions aren’t completely unbearable since he’s come home from Spain and he gets to come home to you at reasonable hours. You two even built a routine around it.

He loves finding you at the small coffee table in front of the window, letting the peach tone of the sunset cast against your body as you furiously type on that same rusty, job-given laptop. He can almost expect it when it gets home from work. He can also spot how enthralled you are in your own work that you don’t even notice his footsteps approaching you.

His feet are heavy as they shuffle toward you, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans. A deaf person could hear the beat of his shoes, but not you. The man fears his heart palpitations every time he gets closer to you. Suddenly he can spot them; small little buds planted in your ears. It’s a faint sound of something chaotic that he can hear you listening to but if it’s keeping you focused, there’s no harm in it.

There’s a grin that pulls at this lips as he feels you jump from the tender graze of his hand on your cheek to make you look at him. You yank the small white buds from your ears and lock them up in their proper case before sighing out, “sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” It’s a fragile, defeated smile you give him that wrenches his heart.

“You never do.” Chuckling, icy eyes peer to your laptop and the man tilts his head in the same direction. “I think you should put that away. Any more time on that thing and it’s gonna blow the place up,” he taunted.

You always feel a bit unaccomplished when Leon suggests for you to put yourself first. There’s so much more you felt you could be doing, though leave it to Leon to help you pull away from work. As your hands reach out to save any open documents and shut the screen on the blocky, out of touch laptop, you could spot a rather wide, meaty hand reach out to you.

“Come on. We can leave the work for tomorrow. You did enough today. I sure as hell know I did.” With a laugh, he guided you off of the chair before he leans down to rest a gentle kiss to your temple.

What a poor thing you are. You didn’t even think to take off your shoes. They scuff along the floor as he pulls you gently to your shared bedroom. The man in front of you smirks, shaking his head. “I’m not cleaning up any marks your shoes leave on the floor.”

It was a comment that makes you smirk, “so you’re only good for taking the clothes off,” you affirm. The bedroom is as cozy as you both left it. The bed was undone but the slept in look relaxes you.

“I am only good for taking the clothes off.” He assures, pausing his steps to take pull your body in front of him to get you to stand at the foot of your bed. “Sit down,” he instructs with a genuine smile.

Your shoes are the first to go. He kneels in front of you, one knee propped up and the other shoved into the carpet to keep him steady. He puts each shoe down carefully and standing them up besides one another. You swear you could stare at him for hours. There’s this focused look in his eyes as he works on undressing you, gazing at your legs. His eyes flicker all over your lower half as he works, slightly jumping when you speak up. “Didn’t do enough service for the president today I see,” you tease. If he has enough energy to undress you, what has he been doing all day?

The pair of blue eyes that were locked to your skin soon met yours. Stressed, tired eyes narrowed in amusement as he placed a hand on the knee closest to his chest. “He actually made use of the other traumatized agents. There was nothing left to do.” Shrugging, his hair drapes over his face so effortlessly and the slight stubble on his jaw compliments the rugged look he carries. He’s beautiful. “What about you? You’re taking work home again. I thought we talked about taking it easy.” He knew your job wouldn’t necessarily be smooth sailing and that you would get used to it, but he also thought you were a bit too young to embark on a task so heavy. It was good you’re both working on the same side but it hurt him to know how difficult it was for you.

Leon’s eyes admire you from your face back down to your legs, running the tips of his fingers along your ankles and up your calves as he awaits an answer. He’s only a little satisfied since your skin is covered in thin stocking fabric. Gentle touches continue to reach for your upper thigh, sliding under your skirt to find the band. “It’s more than just going on missions via camera and microphone with federal agents. There’s intelligence things. I write reports, update on every single thing and some of those things can’t be finished in a typical forty hour work week. How good is overtime when you can barely adjust during a normal shift?”

You’re burnt out. The both of you could tell. Leon tries to think of words of wisdom but considering he didn’t even leave his job after the worst in Spain, he’ll sound like a hypocrite. You don’t take notice, though while giving him your drained response, your stockings and panties meet the floor. “Is this a job you wanna stick with?” It takes finding your panties and stockings on the floor to understand that Leon has a swift and sneaky hand. You can’t even respond to his question as you try to process his haste with getting you undressed, though you quickly spot the smirk on his lips.

It’s a strong pair of hands that wrap behind your knees to pull your bottom closer to the edge of the bed. The friction between the sheets and your skirt expose your lower half fully. “Don’t answer that…” Leave it to Leon to be the best and worst distraction. He was no empath, but he could say he understood how frustrating a job like yours must be. Placing a gentle tap on his shoulders, he silently instructs you to place your thighs on them.

As you attempt to do so, he snakes his hands from underneath your legs and around your upper thighs. His touch is tender and careful as you feel it tease up your skin. You can’t help but to gasp when your back hits the bed from a harsh, playful pull at your thighs pull your hips further off the edge. There’s a swift breath he takes before your legs are hoisted onto his shoulder. If this was his idea of a comforting mind break, maybe you can consider quitting therapy.

“I’m starting to believe you only want to undress me so you can put me on your face.” As your eyes gaze up at the ceiling, Leon wastes no time opening you up with the tip of his nose. His tongue licks a slow and gentle stripe within the folds of your heat. As his tongue laps upward, he latches onto your clit, working his tongue and kisses on it.

You can feel his soft lips against you, and his shoulders lifting your legs while he adjusts his posture. “How’d you guess,” he quizzes in a sneering tone. Leon understands his touch is all too gentle with you; playful and is intended to soothe you.

“Leon,” you whisper out, grabbing his attention. Even while catering to you he’s still being a little shit.

“Shh, I’m being a good boyfriend.”

He’s supposed to be undressing you, but you could take this as well.

[the-sweet-madame]

ʟɪɢʜᴛ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴛᴇᴀꜱᴇꜱ.(𝘔𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘯!𝘞𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘳 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳)

(Lowkey half assed whoops but it was funny 😔)

Warnings: Light cussing.

Summary: He does your eyeliner before going out on a date with you.

Female reader!

"Holy shit, can you stay still for one goddamned second?" He scowled at her.

Two roommates bickering with each other. How romantic. It was night, the stars twinkling from outside of the window. The light above spilling upon the two, the blankets and sheets tossed to the side as they temporarily shared the bed.

"Well, it's not my fault your touch is so surprisingly delicate! It tickles." She says, adjusting her position on his lap.

Her legs twisted around his waist while he held her chin, tilting it upwards as he held an eyeliner pen in his other hand.

"Move one more time and you can do your own eyeliner."

Though his threat was meaningless because they both knew he'd still do it away with another scowl.

"Sure, love."

Shockingly enough, it seemed like he bit back to throw a retort concerning her teasing gone and pressed the eyeliner pen to her skin. It was unusual for such a man that spoke so ruthlessly to have such tender touches. It was lighter than a feather, the faint strokes on her skin as his hand moved with calculated precision. It was pretty. His face. His amethyst-like eyes dipped into pure concentration to get the wings identical to each other. His lips pulled into a straight line, almost pressing them together as his eyebrows ever so slightly sunk in his focus.

It was only until he pulled away that she said. "You're pretty."

He blinked at her words before giving her a small scoff. Though, the light pink tinting the tip of his ears spoke enough.

"Does it look good?" She asked, looking at him.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Of course, it looks good, I did it."

"You know, a simple 'yes' could have sufficed? Or 'yeah, you look good.'"

If she had a penny for every time he rolled his eyes at her, she'd be rich. That's precisely what he did with a little devilish grin.

He cupped the side of her face, capturing her lips into a deep kiss before she could even think. His lips against hers muffled the little surprised noise she made. When he moved to pull away, she placed her hand on the back of his neck to pull him back in. It felt rough yet gentle, quick yet slow as their lips locked together.

They finally broke apart, panting slightly. His gaze was intense, teasing and tender all at once. He dragged his thumb down her bottom lip as he spoke lowly with a near-wicked smirk.

"You look hot as fuck.”

He had the audacity to laugh at her flustered reaction. She shoved him lightly with the blood rushing to her cheeks.

“You see, I would fight you right now, but I don’t want to risk my eyeliner getting ruined.” She huffed. “But thanks.”

“Excuses, excuses.” He mocked lightly. “So, are we going on that date or are you enjoying yourself here?” He gestures to her straddling him.

“I don’t know, it seems that you are the one enjoying yourself the most here.” She matches his tone with an enticing grin, circling her arms around his neck.

He rolls his eyes for nth time; she thinks he must’ve beat the world record of eye rolling at this point. But he leans down until their noses are touching once again with a teasing smile. Their breaths mingling with each other as their eyes were locked into a never-ending trance. The light-heartedness fading into something else. Something more genuine. She couldn’t look away, not when his violet eyes were so electrifyingly intense, crackling with sincerity. They didn’t feel it, but they were inching closer and closer. Their lips almost meeting, the air suffocating as it embraced them.

“Though, I do wanna go on that date.” She speaks just as their lips barely brush against each other.

He pushed her off his lap, sending her into the hurdle of blankets and sheets on the side.

[ihaveforgortoomany]

(Fic Idea) Exploring the post-Vienna dynamic between Marcus, Kakania and Isolde with possible reconciliation.

(Marcus does appear in very few fics)

Fun prompt one: Kakania has made it very clear in her anecdote, suitcase lines and wilderness lines she will not meet with Isolde until she is able to help her. However in joining the TK team she is often seen finding different ways to evade Isolde, and hey jumping out of married women's windows does pay off alot. Until it doesn't.

Kakania maybe is enjoying tea with Druvis and Lorelei (or really anyone other than Semmelweis and Isolde) until she hears Isolde approaching. So as any sane person would do Kakania promptly leaves via window, just as Isolde sees her exit. This time however is different, Isolde is wearing the new Jazz style outfit from 2.1 (read my other posts on that outfit and why I like the idea of the garment showing her growth) - and unlike her previous two outfits this one allows for more flexibility in movement.

Isolde is also very experienced in emulating and imitating others, as part of her channeling skill. Plus the fact that she has probably seen Kakania escape from windows before (how in a narrow skirt like Kakania's I will never know) means she probably has an idea how to do it. So Isolde also proceeds to jump near perfectly out of the same window to pursue Kakania, much to her shock and horror at realising she really cannot escape Isolde.

Maybe they could finally reconcile here, or at the very least find a way to live again in each others presence.

Prompt Two: Marcus above everyone has all the reason to avoid Isolde, shes the one who killed Greta Hoffman, even if unintentionally Isolde is still the one to end Hoffman's life. Marcus never figured that Isolde would seek her out in any way so why worry one today she will actually speak to her? She thought of this until the very moment Isolde approached her suddenly one today.

Upon returning to the Foundation after 1.9, Marcus was also given Greta's office, and realised she had collected all the editions of the Flannel Isles, from the first to the last one which they had worked together on.

Why would Isolde approach her? Well somehow Isolde was able to find a copy of the Flannan Isles editions in the Foundation's library, read it and tracked down the potential author of them. Why would Isolde take such interest? I would say the detail on the three ghosts that reside in the lighthouse intrigued her enough to seek the author.

This is how I would frame Marcus and Isolde starting to interact despite everything. Marcus being an overanalysed and someone able to discern details in art probably could find common ground with Isolde, who's a perfectionist. They could discuss the nature of ghosts as the both of them have first hand experience (one more pleasant than the other). Discuss art and culture, pointing out finer details and such. Having a connection outside of Kakania would be a good thing for Isolde.

[glassrowboat]

Silken Shadows (Pt.1). Pantalone.

Summary: You had many customers, many clients. Regulars even. They dragged you along to dinners, to drinks at bars as they chatted about something you couldn't care less about, and to parties of all sorts. All something that came with the job. What you weren't expecting, however, as you stood on the corner of a side walk cursing the chill in the air as you waited for the latest job to come pick you up was a Fatui Harbinger. Well, you were told it would be a big money job.

Word count: 4300+

Authors note: I'm not sure how long this is going to be, but probably less than fifteen chapters? But someone had to give this old man some love, so I took it upon myself.

Also, the reader is a hired date for anyone who needs specifications.

Link to series

Shards of glass sat around him like glistening stars as a pale light streamed in through the large windows of Pantalone's office. Nonexistent constellations were to be found in what was scattered around him in his own personal galaxy. Bits and pieces are as large as one's finger and others as tiny as diamond inlaid in a ring. The only difference being: it wasn't gold encasing a jewel that shined under every twist of the wrist as it reflected a candle's flame, but a wooden floor. One he had taken great pride in picking out once upon after first receiving this office.

Time had scratched its lacquered surface.

How typical.

Another thing he can't control. Just like the natural instinct to grit his teeth so tight, Pantalone can hear them grinding against each other in protest, crying out for some form of mercy.

It made his jaw ache. Yet his lips still twisted into a smile.

They had to.

Even if Pantalone couldn't help but want to physically recoil at his own image, his reflection in the glass at his feet. An aged label with yellowed spots attached to what was left of the bottle, an 817 vintage from Fontaine, the only thing blocking where his narrowed eyes would be in this warped copy.

All the while, one thought kept replaying in his head, repeating like a broken record slotted on a gramophone: that damnable woman.

--

Signora canceled on him.

Right before a banquet that was supposed to be quite the occasion at that.

It would have given him just the perfect chance to introduce the frosty diplomat, his fellow Harbinger, to a colleague of his. A man just as like minded as Pantalone when it comes to the exchange on mora. A fellow businessman, to put it in simple terms. Someone who also speaks in the turnover of gold from one hand to another.

A man who could prove beneficial to Pantalone had the right opportunity to familiarize himself but man but all the ‘Fair Lady’ had to say, in as arrogant sounding voice as she could muster, for that Pantalone was sure, was that she's being shipped away to Inazuma soon. For the gnosis in accordance with the last meeting's conclusion, of course.

That, however, didn't change the fact that she wasn't leaving right away.

There was time she could use, to leverage if she so wished, but now he was left with a tree that wished to bear no fruit. There would be no sweet taste of a win today, of another deal secured at this rate. What a wasted opportunity.

Not to mention, he was still expected to show up with someone on his arm in accordance with the invite marked with a check right on the box for a plus one.

All that right after La Signora didn't even bother to sit down, to go through the proper greetings and laybe even have tea with him to share this bit of information. Rather, she stormed in as Pantalone was drafting out a contract, unfortunately startling him in the process as the door slammed against the wall behind it. It was enough to have the ink scrawled out under his hand smudge as his hand curled around a black fountain pen at the idea that her uncaring actions would leave a dent in the drywall.

Surprise. It was never an emotion he cared for, but it was all he was being given today. Or at least that's how it seemed.

The floral scent of the ink he specially ordered to refill this pen the last time it emptied out from pages upon pages of tireless work that had led to an ache in his hand was the only thing to sooth Pantalone's otherwise swirling mind as he figured out where to go from here.

That here has led him to Columbina.

Her saccharine smile when he slipped into the music room was familiar, something he was as used to as a well-worn book as she held up a singular finger. Asking for one moment more.

The song on her lips quelled only when she was ready.

Besides, it would be unbefitting to ask her to stop with the nonsense already as her voice rose to the heights of the pure white room. One never cuts off the star of a stage, on or off of it. Columbina had a way of bringing the notes to life, of making any eye believe you could see the sheet music she had long since memorized to the point someone might just believe they could see those ever perfect lines of five weaving around columns all up until Columbina took her final bow.

Pink and black hair covering her face still as his hands clapped together, the metal bands wrapped around his fingers, causing a small ring each time they collided. “Wonderful as always, Damselette.”

“I am always exultant to have a proper audience.”

Her head rose from its low hang with a grace only she could have. Every action she took was akin to a bird flapping its wings to soar among the clouds. Fitting for a dove.

“As much as I would like to sit down and show you proper respect and courtesy, Columbina, I am afraid I am too short of time for such a luxury.”

The event is, after all, tonight at 8 o'clock sharp, and while Pantalone has always heard it's fashionable to arrive late, it was never a practice he appreciated others participating in. He wouldn't deign to be the outlier to such a basic rule when there was no need for such.

He didn't need to arrive late to get anyone's eyes to fall on him in rapt attention. The citizens of Snezhnaya knew what his time was worth. As for those who did participate in such boorish behaviors? Simply put, they were not worth the precious minutes that could be delegated elsewhere.

“First and foremost, are you otherwise preoccupied this evening?” Pantalone asked.

Columbina turned her back to him with ease, fingers fiddling with the sheet music before her as she scribbled something down he could not see. Not that it mattered. If it wasn't the very notes she was just singing, it would be an indent on the piece written in a language far older than he.

“Now, what would you want of me that requires I not be ‘preoccupied'?”

“That Marquess in the West, you and I both know the one, has come to the main city for a short reprieve and is holding an event.” As Pantalone spoke, he stepped further into the room, taking care not to scuff the white floors with his own black shoes. “One that does not require a show of a song, but I'm sure they would not deny it if you offered.”

A gentle series of clicks continued until he was standing beside her.

“So, you want me to act as your substitute plus one since the one you originally planned to invite canceled on you at the last minute. Is that it, Regrator?”

Her tone had Pantalone wanting to click his tongue, but he resisted the urge.

“A regretful circumstance I shall have to amend in the future. If you agree to my proposition, that is.”

“The Fair Lady truly pulled that lavish rug under you. Something I do not see often.”

Pantalone kept from looking down at her, instead keeping his eyes instead fixed on the musician's stand, his gloved finger ran over. It would be lace covered eyes and ribbons galore as usual. Nothing he hasn't seen before at every harbinger meeting or the times they cross paths through the ornate halls of the palace, most of which have him catching the sight of her scuttling into this very room.

The faintest layer of dust now coated his finger that had Pantalone itching to grab the handkerchief tucked away in his pocket to wipe it off.

The Damselette always did tend to scare the maids off.

“As stated before, I am currently lacking time. Your answer would be most appreciated.”

“Oh, right, that.” Columbina mused. “Steak dinners, champagne, maybe even chatter amongst people who are delightful company. Just like my plans for tonight with Arlecchino.”

Of course she didn't lead with that.

That means two possible options off his already lackluster list of those to invite along.

The last words Pantalone was given before he walked out with a bow of his head to the higher ranking harbinger was “I hope you find someone to fill the empty seat beside you tonight.” Only for the song to continue on like nothing happened, like nothing interrupted, like he didn't even come in at all.

He made sure to leave the door cracked open on his way out.

Sandrone was all the same, giving him a no. The only difference was she spit the words out like venom the moment his fist knocked on her workshop's door and she flung it open with a flourish, covered in oil and the finest grinds of aluminum that flew in the air. It had him cleaning his glasses off as he walked away.

Lenses punched between the fine fabric of his handkerchief as he went over what to do from here.

If it wouldn't reflect poorly on his image, Pantalone would just show up alone. Wave it off and say his date was busy. Yet here he is, arm twisted. Social expectations are truly the bind that holds us all as he couldn't simply message the Marquess on the fly with something along the lines of ‘I couldn't dain to bring a date after my plus one canceled on me.’ Signed the Ninth.

If it wouldn't come across as poor care for attention, bringing his most trusted secretary along would be a viable option. That is if that very employee wasn't a married man who was only just rambling about plans to take his partner out for dinner earlier this very day. It was their five year anniversary being married, as he recalled. He had even given the man a gift in congratulations.

The other two under his care were off dealing with some less than stellar business Pantalone couldn't afford to take them away from. At least not at this given moment in time.

Dottore would at least prove to be an entertaining option. One segment or another would likely get stuck along his side, maybe even the one with the pink bow tie, and it looks like he's ready to bite the finger off anyone who approaches.

No, best not.

Little options left. If any.

At this rate, his arm would get stiff as it's tugged and twisted into position.

Well, there's always the place a certain man, a debtor, mentioned last time. His whining was just the perfect pitch that made it hard to ignore as Pantalone's guards tore apart his shack of a house apart in an attempt at finding the funds he was due. Only a measly fifty mora that would prove no use in taking. One can not pay if they can not work as starvation tears them apart from the inside out. (or at least that's what Pantalone will say when the man stops showing up to work out of the blue). The excuse? He went to one of those houses in the area.

Exchange time for a woman's company. Nothing he hasn't heard before. Nothing he isn't familiar with. The Northland Bank served customers of all walks of life.

The name, however, was one that rang a bell in Pantalone's head. One that sold a woman's time over her body.

This is what he has been backed into? Truly?

Still, he called the guard that was stationed by the doors he just walked though, fingers snapping to get this individual's attention as Pantalone told them to find a messenger. The need to tell them to be quick about it would be nothing short of an unnecessary addition. They knew that well enough by now.

--

Steps filled the hall just as the creaking of loose floorboards did. They had long since needed to be replaced but actually getting around to hiring someone to do that had been waved off time and time again that everyone had since learned to simply live with being woken up in the middle of the night by someone trying to get a cup of water.

Loud and clear with each echo.

Making the hand that wrapped around your arm and pulled you up off the stool, just another thing you expected as a shrill voice cried out to get your attention. Scratched and broken from what was no doubt the cigarettes The Madame might as well switch out for her meals filling your ears while she jabbered about whatever had her coming to you this time.

That being: a job.

It was no wonder then why a wet rag was being shoved into your face, trying to wash- or better yet- scrub off the powder on your face. Messy blobs of green and pink having been painted on your eyelids the same way a crayon would a child's coloring book, only becoming more of a mess to handle at this treatment as your nose scrunched up as the fabric rubbed against you.

“Wash this shit off your face and give it a real try, kid. Don't know why you keep letting the bucket girl apply makeup on you.” That old hag barked out. In as good of a mood as any as she pulled her hand back to finally give your skin some reprieve. “And try to keep yourself lookin’ real good. This client has some big bucks to spend, and I don't need you messing it up like last time.”

“You always know just what to say.” You retorted as you snatched the rag away from her to wipe the eyeshadow off your face properly. Gently.

Even going so far as to lean down to get a proper view from the vanity and its cloudy mirror to make sure there wasn't a speck of makeup left.

“This ain't your usual crowd, kid, but you're going to high tail it out of here in your best dress and meet this guy two blocks from here so some carriage can pick you up.”

“Ahh, one of those guys. I'm on it. And do me a favor and don't bully the ‘bucket girl' while I'm out.”

It wasn't a surprise when the Madame threw a quick “no promises” over her shoulder as she left the room, leaving you to get ready. Brush already in hand as the door slammed shut. Most likely her doing, but you chose to think of it as a simple draft of wind as the bristles brushed through a soft pad of pink.

The same pink of the gloves you currently dawned. Fingers twitching with each passing minute to keep blood pumping through the digits you were breathing on, trying your best to keep yourself as warm as possible while standing at the usual spot for clients that needed to pick a girl up a few blocks away from the Marmeladova house.

Sure, they had their reasons, but it always came across as the clients having no sense of decorum for a freezing lady. A frozen tundra of a nation, yet they still expected you to stand on the street like a hooker trying to call in her five hundred for the night.

How charming.

Not.

It was when you were pacing back and forth, kicking up bits of powdered snow with every step, did the rolling of the carriages passing by on the street lead to one stopping right before you. Wheels turned stock still as the lines behind painted a clear path right to you. It's not an accidental pullover by some temperamental horses then. Though if you only looked, such a thought wouldn't have even crossed your mind in the first place.

A carriage with golden accents, horses with shining leather straps, a coachman in clothing that looked actually weather appropriate, and a Fatui symbol stamped right before you. Like the sign to a haunted house as the other girls drag you inside, claiming it will be fun, only for you to walk out annoyed and grouchy at the lackluster experience.

Something told you this wouldn't end that way.

A footman, or at least you assumed that's what he was when he was wearing the Fatuus emblem and one of those masks you see the soldiers wearing so openly while walking around without a single care in the world besides holding their heads high pulled the ornate door before you open.

A hand held out to help you up along the steps that had a nice coat of snow dusting them only knocked away by the heel of your boot while ducking inside the red velvet walls. Instantly, you could tell it was warmer in here from the moment you sat down. The thing probably insulated for what reason would you put yourself through the agony of the cold when you can simply buy your way out of it?

At least, that felt like a fair comparison as your eyes met those of a man you've only ever seen in the newspapers. Most of which were fished out of the trash from nicer neighborhoods to use as kindling, but that face was unmistakable.

“Lord Harbinger.” You found yourself saying as you greeted the figure before you. Your own words sounded like they were coming from another's mouth as they were drowned out by the curses flying across your mind. Faster than any bird in the sky or whizzing bullet as he greeted you back.

The shock of it all had you a reeling mess, but not enough so to miss the ice tune of Pantalone's voice as he said “A pleasure to meet you, miss.”

In the very least, this would give you a decent idea of where you stood in this dynamic.

“The pleasure is all mine.”

Your hand was held out between you both on instinct, hanging there for a moment under the small lantern that lit the carriage with the curtains closed shut. Like a barrier to the outside world.

The shake was strong, sturdy, and his leather gloves did little to help you figure out anything about this man the public didn't already know.

An example being how he'd surely have a writer's bump. A man whose bread and butter is contracts surely knows how to hold a quill. How curious. Not as much, however, as the Lord Harbinger wiping his hand off on his jacket the moment yours left his. A folder occupying the other he was holding out to you.

“Read this over and try your best to memorize the names inside.”

With little to no choice otherwise, you took it from him. The folder failed to bend back under your touch as you opened it, not even when your gloved fingers rubbed the material between them as the names were run over again and again in your mind. Good quality, as he expected, as you took in the long list.

Far too long actually.

“I expect you to remember as much as you can, but I'll be there to assist you all the while.”

Your eyes flicked up to look at him, meeting his gaze over the folder. “Assist me all the while?”

“I am to be attending an event tonight. Do I need to piece out more for you, or can you truly not ascertain things for yourself?”

Something about his smile rubbed you wrong. You were once taught that if someone was truly smiling, out of joy, or some bull along the lines of being a happy person naturally, their eyes would have wrinkles creasing at the sides. His lacked that. Though it was hard to tell exactly if that was the case when they were closed.

But could a smile so freely given from a Harbinger be…? It's best not to finish that thought. He's still your client.

“Don't doubt me just yet. I haven't even had the chance to prove myself.” You said, matching his smile in turn.

“Then please, don't disappoint. First, however,” you could barely catch his eyelashes moving when the wheels started to turn again at the simple rap of his knuckles against the carriage roof.

Whatever that meant would prove little to mull over as you leaned back into the cushions.

--

You later learned that was him giving you a look, or as close to one as Pantalone could manage behind those thick spectacles of his you were tempted to break as he walked into a dress store, picked something off the rack, and stated it would be what you were going to wear tonight. No input from you, no double checking to see if it fits. Not to mention, the fabric had been irritating you from the moment it adorned your skin.

How you wanted to claim it rested upon your body like silk, but it was more like that one scratchy blanket you always get stuck with as everyone else steals the nice ones.

At the very least, it was pretty. Had a decent range of movement, too, as the Lord Harbinger dragged you along by the arm he interlocked with his as you were met with new face after face.

Some of the names you could recall reading only an hour prior, others not so much.

Giant grins.

Pretty women with ornate hair styles.

Champagne glasses.

The moment you picked one up, Pantalone plucked it from your hands and hissed as low as possible for only you to hear “I am not paying you to drink.”

This was nothing unusual, the event, that is. Pantalone is a whole other story, but you have been to many parties of all sorts during your time. This was just another rich boy party with underhanded remarks and fancy cheeses.

One that dragged on far too long for anyone's liking.

At some point during the night, you just barely caught the richest boy himself telling someone who asked about you that you were just a friend. One that he met through your father, a fellow businessman he had worked with shortly before the man unfortunately passed. How you're only back in town visiting. That he couldn't pass up the opportunity to bring you along.

And it kept like that until the point you were tempted to peel the bandages off the back of your heels after they had been slipping on you the past hour. Peeling from your skin like a piece of string on a fine shirt just begging to be pulled. The thought of them still plagued your mind as Pantalone bowed to the same man you were first introduced to that night again, an individual who took no shame in the jewels hanging from his tailcoat and the golden ring with some odd emblem on his pinky. Wishes of a splendid night on both their tongues as the two of you departed.

It was only when you were both back in that carriage, you suddenly have a lot more appreciation for as it gave you a chance to rest your aching feet, did any words pass between you two again.

Pantalone, a man who was short and concise with you, but had plenty to say to those folks in the hall as they stuffed their faces with meat as they all sat around tables covered in cloth the same thickness as the blankets you use every night. Who made it clear before you even stepped past the threshold of the mansion (though it looked more like a cheap attempt at copying the opera house's architectural style) that you would speak only when spoken to. Interrupting the few remarks you did say when it was just the two of you during those sliver of moments someone wasn't coming up to sing his praises.

It's not like you weren't used to being treated like arm candy. Maybe that's why you truly couldn't care less as he sat in the seat across from you without daring to break the silence, to say anything, until you did.

“I was right about you. You are a rather smarmy individual.”

His hand that had been messing with the fabric of the curtain blocking you both away from any prying eyes trying to peek inside the windows came to a stop with a soft sigh from his lips. Pantalone's hands still pulling it taught, the same way you did on a wrinkled shirt to see what it would look like perfectly pressed and ironed when he spoke.

“How does an escort like you even know that word?”

“How does a Harbinger like you end up with no options for a date besides one you have to hire?”

The second the question left you Pantalone's head tilted towards you in such a slow, deliberate manner you knew you should have kept your mouth shut. Unfortunately, knowing when to do that isn't a trait that comes as easily to you as it does others.

“What's your name again?”

You told him, shared it without second thought before you could take a moment to step back and recall he had been the one introducing you to everyone all night. He had known your name but asked anyway.

Well, you'll have to remember that trick for later use.

“It is an honor to properly be introduced to you, Lord Harbinger.”

With a smile, you held your hand out to him, repeating the same action as before. Two can play at this game, you thought as you waited for him to comply, to play along, and take it. And like a fool, even if it was just in good humor, he did.

If he was going to wipe his hand off again this time, you'll give him a damn good reason.

Your grip turned tight, unyielding, to ensure Pantalone couldn't simply pull away. Making sure, just as he might with each mora coin, he pinches between those fingers, that there's no possible chance to let it slip away as your lips pressed to one one of his silver rings.

It was cold against your skin, but no more biting than the words you were expecting as you silently dared him to say something.

Between the rocking of the carriage and the low light of the lantern between you two you couldn't help but notice that was the first time you've seen his eyes all night.

[ruhorih4ra]

Hi! (⁠´⁠ε⁠｀⁠ ⁠) Heheh maybe this story won't end with 20 chapts... The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math?

This chap has a cliffhanger but I actually have the next part ready so is safe to wait until next monday!

Get out of my way! 🌈

And that’s how you’ve been using the Newspaper club for your own benefit. The routine was pretty simple but exhausting, every day you woke up as early as possible to search for any information that could be used against the Little D.’s. Sometimes you would find something, you would follow the clue until a dead end was met. Those days weren’t completely useless, at least you had learned a few tricks. Books, old scrolls and even antique boards surrounded you day and night. You were completely absorbed and stupidly oblivious to the passage of time and curious eyes.

To begin with, it was difficult to differentiate mornings, afternoons and nights, but now? All days were blurred into something unspecific, your days divided into useful information and effective weapons or useless information and the ever present possibility of a tragic ending.

The Little D.’s annoyed you all the time, their voices always trying to rile you up. Always trying to seduce you to succumb to lust and sloth and ultimately losing the battle. However, the constant chatter and loud work at the club was your shield, so strong and efficient that you had been reduced to a human hermit who barely speaks and lives on caffeine and Beelzebub’s snacks.

“Mc, are you listening?” Mephistopheles repeated for the third time. “Yes. I heard you loud and clear. Would you please be kind enough to stop yelling in my ear?” You heard distant laughter. The demons had grown fond of your presence and the idle bickering between you and the former president of the club. “I would if you would consider listening to me!”

“Well, today’s your lucky day! What can I do for you?” Immediately after you finished talking, an elegantly decorated yet formal folder landed on your already messy desk. “What is this?”

Mephistopheles cleared his throat. He inspected his cane with rehearsed interest as he spoke. “We need to talk. A serious talk about… the mess you had brought upon this club and how you’re going to fix it.” You were silent for a few minutes, a foolish “Eh?” was your only response.

“Follow me please.” Upon entering Mephisto’s office and leaving the publicity of the previous room you felt more at ease to talk. The demon took the large black curtain that covers a gigantic window that overlooks the RAD patio and removed it with a theatrical movement. “Look!”

Nothing. You couldn’t see a single thing, but that wasn’t rare in the Devildom where the sun never comes out. “Yes, the sky is as black as ever, beautiful. So?” You questioned. Mephisto’s eyes widened purposefully, his head bowed to the side, urging you to take a closer look. You narrowed your eyes, walking closer too, slowly noticing that what you previously thought was the sky was far from being it.

Those were… feathers. A little eye opened, followed by another, and then dozens. Crows. All pushing each other uncomfortably together and pressing themselves to the window. “What the actual hell?” You looked at Mephisto in horror. “Why?”

He crossed his arms, looking the scene as if he were already used to it. “You know whose familiars are these, don’t you?”

“I know but why would he do this?” You couldn’t stop looking at the poor horde. “He’s not doing it on purpose, at least that’s what I think. They are simply reacting to Mammon’s emotions. It’s very disturbing if you ask me.”

Mephisto had seen Mammon’s downfall. First, he acted surprisingly mature, showing control and calm. But the more days passed, the more absorbed you became in who knows what, the more you distanced yourself from them, the less the demon was able to keep it together. Constantly seeking you and more often than not facing a refusal, even Mephisto felt bad for the avatar of greed.

He sat in a little sofa and you sat in front of him, still unable to tear your eyes away from the window. That was until you noticed something was remarkably different from all the furniture in the room. The seat you had taken were pink with floral embroidery. “I didn’t remember your office to be this… romantic?” Mephisto was serving a cup of tea, and even though you had a coffee just some minutes ago, you didn’t complain. It must be something nobles do, the need to drink tea while discussing important things. “You see, Mc, this furniture was a gift from Asmodeus. He told me that you would get sick if everything was plain and gray.”

You surveyed the room, quickly noticing that Mephisto’s office had been taken over by pastel colors, from the huge pink wooden clock to the very striking orange coat rack. Your eyes fell on the set of expensive porcelain. “This tea and cake are from Barbatos. The new tiny fridge outside is from Beelzebub, although you only eat the energy bars, everyone else here is happy to help you with the rest.” You looked around, tons of cushions were piled up in different places. “Belphegor.” Mephisto answered with a sigh that you were sure was full of resignation. “Except the cat shaped ones, those are Satan’s.”

You were confused, but Mephistopheles continued, ignoring the growing frown on your forehead. “All of the members of our club are pretty happy, comfortable and well fed thanks to you.”

“I haven’t done anything special. I’m just here.” You said. “That’s enough for the brothers.” Mephisto handed you a cup of tea, he was happy, too much for your liking. “Lucifer gave us twice the budget from last month too.”

“Why? He used to complain about this club quite often.” The smell of the beverage in your hands reached your nose, it was your favorite. You looked at it as if it could explain things better than the demon who exuded smugness. “He gave us the paper you’ve been asking for, even if it’s more expensive, now the newspaper looks better.”

“I haven’t asked for any particular type of paper.” You said and Mephisto nodded enthusiastically. “No?” “I would remember.” You narrowed your eyes while Mephistopheles smelled his tea, closing his eyes and sipping from the tiny cup. “Does it really matter?” The door to Mephisto’s office opened and a demon rushed over to give him a piece of paper, leaving the room as fast as he entered. He read it in no more than a minute, if the smile was any indication, he was satisfied. “Levi agreed to review video games for us. He used to say he was too busy to take another responsibility, but he’ll do it if it helps you.”

“Why would it help me?” you put the cup on the little table with no delicacy, surprisingly it didn’t break. “Honestly? No clue, but he was desperate to help you and the newspaper needed a new column.” Mephistopheles shrugged, not even batting an eye at your outburst of anger.

Just how busy have you been to not notice their attempts to make amends. Your eyes traveled to the curtain again, if you sharpen your ears you can even hear the low chirps of the crows outside. When was the last time that you heard about the brothers? When was the last time you hang out together? You recalled Belphegor’s sad eyes in that brief dream. All your interactions with them had been defined by its short duration and superficial treatment. Perhaps your relationship with them was worse than you had thought, and all this obsession with the Little D.’s was the root of the problem.

Maybe you should follow Barbatos’s advice and confess.

“The new exchange student has been busy too. She’s always with one of the brothers.” Mephisto tried to address the topic downplaying it. “Naturally.” You answered. It is logical, she’s still the NEW exchange student, a human surrounded by demons. A witch, you remembered Mammon’s words. He had called her a witch, but you could remember that there was affection in those words.

“Last time I saw her she was dancing in The Fall with Lucifer. They looked good together.” If looks could kill, Mephistopheles would be drowning in that fancy tea. He was provoking you on purpose.

“Mephistopheles. What do you want?” you spited.

You could feel the strings of smoke tightening your soul, making his way through your nostrils, filling your lungs and taking hold of your throat. How can they be so worried about you if they keep flying around her like flies? You were trying to fight the Little D.’s stupid curse while they enjoy their time together? So while you had been working your ass off to go back to them as soon as possible, they just decided to replace you again.

You took the cup in your hands, your grip tightening around it. “I heard Lord Diavolo wanted her to move into the castle.” Mephisto looked at you intently, he was sure your aura was growing dark around you. “Rumors said he begged.” Mephistopheles found incredibly difficult to say those words, it was risible to think that Lord Diavolo would even think of doing that for a mere human, but there was something mesmerizing about the way your eyes grew cold.

“Liars. All of them.” What if you’ve been busy? Couldn’t they wait as they said they would? “I would find it impossible if not for the fact that she forged a pact with Satan.” You crushed the cup with your hands. You snapped out of the trance when you heard a loud, high-pitched laugh right next to your ear. A Little D. with orange eyes vanished in front of you and was replaced by the worried expression of Mephistopheles.

“What exactly do you think you are doing?! That’s hot!” He hurried to your side, quickly guiding you to the bathroom attached to the office. “Are you okay?! How much heat can a human endure?” He asked, covering your hands with a wet cloth. “She made a pact with Satan?!”

“What am I doing?? What are YOU doing?!” You didn’t give Mephisto a chance to answer your previous question, removing your hands from his and tossing the cloth at him. “Why are you telling me all of this!?”

“Because I don’t know what’s happening!” He tried to keep his voice low but giving the perfect amount of emphasis. “It is none of your business!” You replied, low voice too, suddenly remembering where you were. “It is if it affects Lord Diavolo!” Mephisto handed you the cloth again, his eyes never leaving yours. “But he hasn’t asked for your help, has he?”

Mephistopheles felt a familiar ache that was too close to that certain wound he had buried deep inside his soul. As if he had winced you retreated, guilt present in the way you crossed your arms and averted his gaze.

Mephisto left the room with nothing more than a small snarl. You sat on the toilet, too afraid to go out and discover that the one demon that had offered you help had changed his mind. You heard the door open with zero delicacy, and Mephistopheles appeared holding a small box that seemed to be a first aid kit. He guided you to sit where you were before, on that pink and flashy couch. He then took an ointment you had never seen before and applied it with so much softness that you barely felt it. “This is not from the human world.” You noticed, feeling relief all too quickly.

“No. I asked the angel for it, in case that something like this would happen. You didn’t think that I would not be prepared for everything, right?” He said, managing to sound both offended and somehow unbothered. “Thank you, Mephisto.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you so angry. You’re right, Diav- I mean, Lord Diavolo hasn’t asked me for help.” He continued to tend your hands. “I’m not doing this just for him.” His confession surprised you, to be honest he looked a little surprised too, as if he had discovered something. A small blush crept to his face, but it dissolved quickly enough for you to ponder if it had been real.

“I don’t know what is troubling you or why you keep reading those… twisted things,” he looked at your hands, maybe reproaching himself. “but I wanted to make sure.”

“Make sure of what?” you murmured. “I know what is like to be replaced, Mc, and I can assure you, they could never replace you.” The violet hair of Mephisto glowed in the white light of the hanging lamp above you. The nobleman shook his head fervently. “I know what you’re feeling. Someone who comes out of nowhere and takes what was supposed to be yours. She seems to be perfect in everything, nothing you do is enough compared to her” You saw a spark of indignation in those green eyes, a spark that wanted to start a fire.

“I know it hurts when you think he’s better than you at something you were specifically created for.” You were at a loss for words, or rather, the strength of Mephisto’s feelings kept stealing them. The demon walked through the room aimlessly, speaking vigorously to the inanimate objects around. “Everything happens very fast and, when you least expect it, he has taken your place. The worst is that after some time, it suits him so perfectly that you begin to wonder if you ever had the right to call it yours.” Mephisto stopped and breathed again.

Although you knew Mephisto was speaking of his own painful heartbreak, you couldn’t help but imagine that fateful scenario. Sc slow dancing with Lucifer, her head resting on his shoulder and on his face, the soft smile he reserved just for you. Mammon hugging her and showing her off as he used to do with you. Sc sleeping between Beel and Belphie, feeling the warmth of their arms and calmly listening to the lullaby of their heartbeats. You could imagine Asmo and Sc, modeling for each other ridiculous outfits they had no intention of buying. Sc lying in Satan’s chest, reading the demon’s favorite book, hearing his charming laugh in her ear and Levi, you could hear him call her “my Henry.” As if you never existed to begin with.

A single tear slid down your face. When he met your eyes, his eyes widened, although it was almost imperceptible. He cleared his throat and fixed his hair, trying to act calmer than he felt. “But please, human. You’re acting like a fool. I know you can’t see their pitiful eyes since you keep your head buried in those books, but you only need one look to see how miserable they are.”

“All these things around us! All these are proof of their devotion to you, don’t you agree?” Mephisto insisted but your attention was in his eyes, how much pain was underneath? It seemed that you hadn’t contemplated them before, and now you couldn’t take your eyes off them.

Because maybe he couldn’t help but made foolish scenarios too. Perhaps he used to picture himself at Diavolo’s side, not as the vice president of the newspaper club but as the vice president of the student council. Surely, he had expected Diavolo to choose, and the prince did choose.

“Whatever, I shouldn’t be saying this. I,” He looked around the office, spoting the elegant folder from earlier. His hands were shaking, although you had to be keen to notice it. “I wanted to ask your help to get Lord Diavolo’s approval for this proposal.” He handed you the folder, eager to change the topic.

“He didn’t replace you.” You said, taking it but completely ignoring its contents.

“What? No I,” He began speaking but perhaps something in the way you looked at him showed him how useless was to keep the act. He had been too obvious letting his heart speak, wearing it on his sleeve. “You may be right. I didn’t have a place to begin with.” Mephistopheles said “You had and still have a place.”

“Yes, I’m Mephistopheles, the vice president of the newspaper club.” He smiled, or at least his mouth tried to. “Mephistopheles, heart isn’t an ownership.” You took one of the arms of the demon, moving closer to him. “Hearts are big enough to allow many inside. For example, you have a special place in mine.”

Mephistopheles would have laugh of your naive words if he hadn’t seen an open door in your eyes. He focused in the white glint that escaped from your eyes, he moved closer, ignoring the tension in your body and the growing nervousness. Your soul was like a precious gem, so white, beautiful and stained… a misty smoke that clouded it. “Mephisto?” You placed a hand on his chest, his nose was already touching yours but his eyes were glued to your pupils.

Mephisto could finally breath in peace, knowing exactly what was happening and why everyone was tense. Your soul was in the middle of a war, that much was clear.

However, in his opinion the brothers were exaggerating, after all you were winning. “How competent, human.” He smiled. “You’re a tough one.” He laughed, his minty breath emphasizing his closeness.

The sudden sound of someone slamming the door open, took your attention away. Neither Mephisto or you moved, instead your heads turned to see the person behind the action. Mephisto was ready to scold them until a pair of well known golden eyes looked at him.

“Am I interrupting something?” Lord Diavolo’s voice had an unsual severity as his eyes alternated between Mephisto and you.

Chapt 20?

Taglist: @yuumaofc @asmolover1234 @gallantys @prefesro @urminebutidontwantyou @fiveofspades @exrellian @kaiserkisser @cutestpatoootie @fandumshippr @frenchmess23yo

[justfangirlstuffs]

For Your Thoughts

Weighty thoughts continue to plague you. While out on a walk, you get another visitor who has plenty on his mind to share. (Takes place after So Much More.)

You x Sea Slug Sun wordcount: 3030

Sea Slug AU belongs to @scarredlove

Hello, mortification, you're old friend. A friend you were currently shaking hands with as you sat on your bed, Moon hovering over you, with Sun standing there holding your spray bottle as he observed the pair of you with his gleaming, opalescent eyes. You normally kept it on hand to cool yourself off if need be, but Sun had decided to use it to squirt his brother like he were a misbehaving cat.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Moonie,” Sun said, setting the bottom back on your desk. “You just seemed so distracted I wasn't sure how else to get your attention."

Moon's sharp teeth were bared in annoyance. Whatever moment Moon had been trying to build was effectively ruined by his brother's appearance. His antennae twitched as he glowered at Sun with sour petulance. "Well, you've definitely got my attention now. Is that what you wanted?"

"Indeed... you didn't tell us you were going to visit our old friend." Sun's tone was sweet but the undercurrent of irritation was glaringly apparent. He subtly wiped his hands over his robes. "We were... worried."

Moon's gaze narrowed slightly. "Oh, you were worried? How sweet of you," he replied sarcastically, sounding anything but grateful. "I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you were worried I'd mess up something, right?"

Oh, gosh.... the tension was unbearable. You glanced between the pair of them and hurriedly spoke up. "Um... it's fine. Everything is fine.” You sat up, scooting away from Moon to put some distance between the two of you. “Moon, thank you for coming to visit. Though... it is getting late and I should probably sleep soon."

Moon glanced at you, his eyes softening as you thanked him, and you could tell he was trying his best not to act upset. "Aw, are you kicking me out?" he asked with a playful smirk, clearly hoping to lighten the mood before he left.

You gave a weak laugh, feeling the tension lighten some. "I don't wanna keep you from them," you said, giving Moon an excuse to leave so he could sort things out with Sun. You carefully pulled your hand away from his. "But... thanks again. It really meant a lot."

He stared at you as you slipped your hand away. For a second it seems that he had something to say, almost like he wanted to pull you back. But then he sighed, slowly leaning back.

"Yeah...you're welcome," he said softly, standing up from the bed.

"Sorry for the intrusion, pearl," Sun said, shooting a bright smile your way. It sounded like he was apologizing on both his and Moon's behalf. "I promise I'll find some way to make it up to you next we meet."

Before you could tell him that it wasn't as big of a bother as he made it out to be, Sun began shepherding Moon towards and out the window from whence they came. They were speaking to each other in their own language, and even though you couldn't understand the words, you could tell they were arguing. A frown was plastered on Moon's face - you could hear his voice, slightly raised but barely so. Once they were gone, you heard the window being closed and then silence. The only sound in the room was you, the sounds of you inhaling and exhaling.

You got up from your chair then walked over to the window. The window that was now closed and the window that separated you and them.

Dammit... you missed them already.

***

The next day passed both agonizingly slowly and swiftly. You spent a few hours applying for jobs, but when it came to your spare time... well, you had tried to do things. You'd already done most of the chores around the house earlier that week. You thought about all the things you wanted to do, yet you could never quite motivate yourself to get started. Like being stuck in quicksand or a tar pit.

It was getting late in the day and you had decided to take a walk on the beach, just to do something. Just so you could trick your mind into believing that you had done something, accomplished something. You bullied yourself into putting on clothes and leaving the house. Once you were outside, the idea of taking a walk came easier. Like, you were already outside so may as well follow through.

Roughly ten minutes later you were walking along the shoreline. It was close to the golden hour, and most people had gone home or back to their hotels due to the evening chill. Being outside, with the smell of the salt and sand, and the breeze on your face, you felt a little calmer.

Or at least you had, until a voice spoke up from right behind you. “Greetings, pearl!”

You hadn't expected sudden company. Although perhaps you probably should have. It still scared you though. Enough to where you jumped and cursed out loud, very loudly. Whirling around, you caught sight of Sun emerging from the frothy waves, glistening with droplets of sea water. He easily shook them off like a spray of tiny diamonds.

He laughed as you scolded and cursed in the evening, his wide smile bright and infectious. "I must say, it's always such a pleasure to witness your reactions. You always look so cute, the way you jump at the most trivial things." He stepped closer to you, completely undeterred by the glower you were leveling at him.

"It's not trivial when you sneak up out of the water like that," you griped. "Give me a dang heart attack why don't you?" Despite the initial irritation of being caught off guard and jump scared, you were actually.... relieved to see him? Was relief the right word? Content? Whelmed? …Happy? You pulled out your water bottle to take a drink.

Sun smirked and chuckled softly, looking at you with bright and sparkling white eyes. His aura was relaxing and calming. "Well, it's all for the charm, right? The element of surprise. It gets you all riled up, your... heart starts beating so fast..." His grin widened as he continued in a more teasing tone. "You could say I make your heart... skip a beat."

You nearly choke, coughing as a burst of guffaws erupted from your throat. "I cannot believe you actually just said that, oh my gosh..." You continued to giggle, covering your mouth to stifle the noises. Wow... this was the second time you'd laughed this month. Like full on laughing. It felt so wild. Like tasting your favorite treat for the first time in months.

Sun beamed as he watched you giggle. You didn't know it, but oh, how he loved it when you laughed. The sunset was just as beautiful as the sound of your giggles, and to experience both at the same time was truly a treat.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I say something funny?" he asked with a sly grin, leaning in a bit closer so your cheeks flushed from his nearness.

"No, no, not at all," you said, taking a deep breath to compose yourself. "So... were you and Moon able to clear the air?" The last time you had seen them, Sun had seemed really upset by the fact that Moon apparently had snuck out to see you without letting his brothers know.

Sun chuckled under breath but didn't respond immediately as he gazed out towards the sea, looking thoughtful. "It was a bit messy, but overall... yes." He finally looked back at you, his pupils disappearing as his bright eyes absorbed the fading sunlight. "Moon was forgiven. Not that I could stay mad at him... but let's not talk about that silly drama for now. I'd much rather hear about you," he said, adjusting his robes as he spoke.

While you were happy to hear that things weren't rocky between the two, when Sun suggested talking about you, well, you immediately shied away from the idea. "Oh, things are... you know.... fine."

Sun tilted his head slightly, his eyes studying your behavior as the frills surrounding his face twitched slightly. "Are they, really?" he whispered, leaning closer. "You seem quite... distant, as if something is bothering you."

"Nothing interesting has been going on with me," you insisted. "What about you? What have you and the others been up to all these years?"

"Nothing interesting?" Sun repeated, his gaze attentive, studying yours. "Don't lie, I know when you're lying. What's wrong?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

You sighed heavily. The real answer was: a lot. Too much. But maybe you could just start small. "I haven't been sleeping very well," you confessed. "I'm exhausted, like all the time."

"You look it." Sun nodded, looking at your face, at your tired, sleepless expression, and the dark circles under your eyes. "What's been keeping you up? Bad dreams, perhaps?"

You shook your head. "Insomnia, it's a disorder that makes it hard to sleep. I've been dealing with it for a while now." It was a side effect of the medicine that you were on but he didn't need to know that for right now.

"Insomnia..." he murmured, nodding slowly. “That sounds difficult. You do seem to have a mind that constantly thinks things. Overthinks." His rays twitched and his next words sounded almost sad. "Can't sleep when your head is filled with thoughts."

You gave a weak laugh, dragging your nails through your hair. “Ain't that the truth? Most nights my head feels like... like a tide pool, where the sediment is getting constantly stirred up. The water is always cloudy, nothing was clear. Just a murky mess.”

"There, my friend. Exactly. You said it yourself. Your head is too crowded, too noisy. Mind's a mess, right? Can't sleep when your head's a messy mess." His hands smoothed over the ruffles of his robes. "What usually goes inside it? Do you think a lot about something or nothing at all?"

"Hey, how about we talk about you for a bit?" you suggested, fidgeting back and forth restlessly. You appreciated that Sun was trying to understand but you just weren't in a good head space to discuss it right now.

"Me? Really? You want to know about me?" He looked genuinely surprised at your question before his voice turned teasing again right away. "You really want to know what I think all day?"A tiny, coy smile played around his lips.

You managed a smile in return. "Sure, that'd be a great place to start. Penny for your thoughts. Or maybe a seashell since I don't have a penny right now. But I'm pretty sure I could find a seashell if you give me a few minutes."

Sun chuckled, his bright eyes shining with amusement. "I'll wait as long as necessary for the sea shell."

You smiled, finding some solace in the fact that you'd managed to make him smile. You dug your heels into the damp sand as you rocked back and forth. “I'll find you a really good one, promise.”

His body shifted towards you as he hummed thoughtfully. "Well then, what do you want to know? My thoughts? My fears?” As he spoke his hand slowly, almost cautiously came into contact with yours. It was such a delicate touch, just a light brushing of his knuckles against yours. Yet it sent a tremble through you. A weird, delightful tremble. He looked like he wanted to hold your hand, but something was stopping him. “My desires?"

"What are you thinking about right now?" you asked curiously.

Sun smirked, his eyes locking on yours again, watching you and your movements. "Right now?" he asked, pondering the question. His eyes were almost hypnotizing in the evening light. "I'm... thinking about you. Your company. The way you move, how your hair sways with the wind. How light the sand is around your feet, how the sun looks in your eyes." He sighed, a long and wistful sigh. "I'm just thinking about you, thinking about us, about right now."

You were admittedly taken off guard by that. Like... wow. Were those... were those butterflies in your stomach? You weren't even sure how to respond. You were too busy preoccupied with how hot your face felt against the cool evening air. "Ah.... that is quite a thought. Worth two sea shells at least." Oh my gaud, why am I like this? You thought.

Sun giggled, feeling positively delighted. He was unsure if his teasing was going a bit too far, but he couldn't resist seeing your reaction. Your cheeks were so pink now, like two fresh roses planted on your cheeks. Seeing such an adorable sight made him positively giddy. The way you played with the air, trying to look casual and relaxed, he had to suppress another laugh, his eyes sparkling brighter and brighter.

"I would have to buy a full beach to pay for the seashells I owe you for how precious you look right now."

You spluttered a few incoherent noises before turning fully away from him so he didn't have to see the red splotch that was your face right then. "You can't just say things like that unprovoked. Are you trying to end my life?"

"But you're adorable when you're blushing like this. Did you look in the mirror recently? Your beauty is enough to kill a man." His voice was soft, his gaze was warm and playful, his expression was amused, but he was genuine in his compliments. "Let me see your face again, pretty pearl. Please."

"Stop it," you said softly, covering your burning face with your hands. "If you're just fooling around, please stop." Because there was just no way he could truly feel that way. Not when you felt like such hot garbage.

Sun paused, he looked at you and realized that you were serious. Your blushing expression, your face that was heating up, and your attempt at hiding it; he could tell that you felt insecure and thought less of yourself, and he decided that he can't just let it be. Not when he genuinely saw you as an extraordinarily charming and beautiful person.

"I'm not fooling around," he spoke, his bright eyes locking on yours as he reached forward with trembling fingers. Carefully but firmly, he removed your hands from your face, keeping them trapped between his own as he stared at you seriously.

"Y... you're just saying all this because we were friends all those years ago. But I'm not that person anymore." Gods, how you wished you could be. Things felt so much easier than they did now. You had missed Sun and his brothers dearly and desperately. But that didn't change the fact that they didn't know you anymore and you certainly didn't know them as they were now.

Sun's expression softened for a second keeping a light but firm grip on your hands. "That's the thing. I can see that you've changed, I can see that you don't see yourself as beautifully as I do. But you're still the same person. Yes, time changes everyone, it's inevitable, but that doesn't mean that your core is different. So I know you might not see how lovely that core of yours is. But I can see it clearly, and you better bet that I'll keep reminding you."

Don't cry, don't cry, just.... just take the damn compliment. You take a very, very deep breath, until you thought your lungs might pop, and then exhaled slowly. "I missed you all, a lot. I thought about you so much..." You had never stopped blaming yourself for them getting lost and separated from you.

"I missed you too," Sun spoke softly, as your breathing slowed down, he finally felt like he was getting through your shell. Your fear. Now was the time to push a little, but not be too overbearing. He squeezed your hands with his, but he didn't move any closer. He wanted to make you comfortable with being this close, to feel safe by his side.

"Did you miss us all equally?" he asked suddenly, curiously, as he kept waiting for your answer, your breath. His eyes were sparkling with curiosity again.

You gave a snort and looked up at him. "Sun, really? I never played favorites with you back then, I'm not gonna start now."

"Oh, really?" he snickered, his grip tightening only slightly but enough for you to notice. "You never showed any extra fondness for any of us? Or maybe... extra fondness for one of us?"

You rolled your eyes, slipping your hands away from his, but you couldn't help but smile fondly as the memories started trickling in like a clear water spring. "Still the little attention whore I see. Except not so little anymore."

"Ohhh... You've noticed how tall and handsome I've gotten?" He straightened up to his fullest height, the red spots on his chest gleaming in the waning light, his grin widening. "Now I'm a big attention whore. Positively huge, even!”

You laughed so hard you were clutching your sides. At least he was self aware.

Sun chuckled along with you, enjoying the moment, the two of you laughing together. He was so happy to hear the sound of your mirth, that you seemed to become more relaxed than before, and the way your dimples flashed when you laughed. It all served to make this moment even more beautiful.

"Gods, I'm so glad I've found you again." His voice was soft, the look in his eyes warm and gentle, he paused before speaking again, looking away and scratching the back of his neck. "I hope you still feel the same way about me?"

Honestly, you felt so much lighter than when this conversation started. And it was true. You had missed them, and you were grateful you'd found them again. Just as you opened your mouth to answer, from out of nowhere, an octopus came flying and smacked Sun in the face, clinging to him.

After getting over your shock, a quick glance around and you spotted Moon's gleaming red eyes lurking in the shallows.

To be continued...

[anathemafiction]

June Q&A 

Beka is left alone with Alessa and Hadrian.

The door closes with a soft thud, and silence falls over the room. Three pairs of eyes look anywhere but at each other. Hadrian sweeps his tongue over his lip, clears his throat, and then lifts his chin to count the number of cobwebs on the ceiling.

He counts three, no, two. That last one is just a particularly damp stain that somehow looks more alive than the cobwebs do. Hadrian narrows his eyes, trying to see the spider hanging from her silken traps, but the light is too dim, and he can't meet the eight little shining eyes that, unknowingly to him, watch him just as intensely.

This is her house, after all. All these meddling humans are always coming to disturb the peace.

Alessa sits like an iceberg in her chair, her back so straight that she rivals the wood. Her hands grip her knees, and her lips disappear in a tense, flat line. She stares at the window, although she cannot see past the veil of night. A slither of a pale moon illuminates the sky, its light as pathetic as the handful of stars that litter it. Alessa thinks this night is a poor example of one, but then again, right now, she would think the whole world is a poor affair.

Alessa does not like, nor is she accustomed to feeling... which is the correct word? She supposed it can be called uneasy. Yes, discomfiting. A fool like Hadrian might even call it awkward. She does not like to feel awkward. And yet... she steals a glance at the child in the corner, sulking on top of the chair like a great bird of gloom. Alessa feels she ought to say something, but what that might be is the real problem.

Why is Hadrian not speaking? Is he not the thoughtful one? Alessa turns her glare at the big fool, who, for some reason, is squinting his eyes at a cobweb.

She mentally sighs.

Beka... Beka glares at the door, and she'll be damned, but it seems the thing is glaring right back. "Damn Richie," she grumbles with all the fervor of a young soul. She sucks on the hole between her teeth, her mood darkening by the second.

She doesn't like to think of herself as neglected. She ain't some dependent stupid little girl. She can take care of herself, she always has. But Beka can't believe you left her here with...

Her narrowed eyes glide over to the two idiots. They're breathing way too loud, and she doesn't like the way that woman is sitting in her chair. Beka never saw a stiffer human. "What's wrong with ya?" she asks aloud, partially because she's done with this odd silence. The other is because Beka likes the way the woman jerks in surprise.

She cracks a mean-spirited smile.

Both the woman and the man turn to look at her. Beka knows their names, but she refuses to even think them. They're just Richie's companions. Not even allies, she's Richie's only ally.

"Whatever do you mean?" the woman asks, then, and Beka's smile vanishes at the tone of her voice. "I am sitting, as are you."

"Am I?" Beka challenges, without much reason. She just wants to challenge something. "That's news to me. I thought I was laying."

The woman's eyebrows shoot up. "Then perhaps you are more slow-witted than I granted you credit for."

The words take a while to process. Beka doesn't like how the woman talks, all complicated, but she blinks, and slowly, she understands. Beka snarls. "Whatcha mean by—"

"What she means." The man jumps from his seat and crosses the floor with eager energy. Both Beka and the cold woman look at him, and Beka can't help but think of how dumb his little nervous smile looks. "Is what would you like to do, Beka?"

The girl turns her chin to the side, giving him a side-long look. She puts in it as much disdain as she can. "... what can we do?" she asks tentatively, voice suspicious. She likes it when people call her by her name, very few do, except for Richie and now... this man. But she won't be so easily conquered.

The man smiles wide again. Beka hates how kind it looks. "Well, how about... we play a game?"

She scoffs. "What do you take me for? A baby?"

"Certainly not an adult."

Beka's head whips at Aless— the woman. "And ya certainly a bitch."

The woman's mouth hangs open.

(...)

Which ROs are most receptive to physical affection?

I'll interpret this as an honest, genuine physical show of love and affection, and not lust or desire. Because that would change the rating a lot — so, for this, I'm considering gestures like holding hands, a chaste kiss on the cheek or the forehead, a brush of gentle fingertips on the back of their shoulders, a tucking of a hair strand behind the ear. Leaning into them or have them lean into you when you're seated beside one another, holding their elbow for silent support, matching your pace with theirs, maybe nudging their feet under a table.

All those small gestures that can feel heavier and more meaningful than a night of passion. All the ROs will, at some point, be okay with (and even seek) this kind of intimacy, but it certainly comes more naturally to some than others.

I think Hadrian and Ysabella are tied for first place. Both are incredibly open with their affection, and both seek it—both need it— in their partners. Hadrian earnestly and devoutly, like a treasure he found after years of deprivation, and he cannot get enough of it. He'll do it often, and he'll do it without even thinking about it. He just wants to be close to you, to touch you, to feel your skin against his, to know that you're there and you're alright and Lord in Heaven, but he's lucky. He's lucky when you smile at him, he's lucky when you kiss him, and Hadrian melts every time you hold his hand back, or massage his hair, or walk beside him. He's lucky when you accept his hug, or the pressing of foreheads, or whatever else he might feel like doing.

Ysabella seeks you because she cannot fandom being away when you're right there. In life, you must take advantage of the good when you can, and you are one bright side of it. Ysabella likes to loop her arm around yours and hang from you as she saunters into rooms or streets or wherever else you might take her. She likes to kiss you: your lips, your cheek, your fingers. Not out of desire, but because sometimes her heart fills with longing, and she has to release the energy somewhere. She'll squeeze you into her chest as if she could take you inside her ribcage and keep you there. Bella, unlike Hadrian, doesn't see touch as sacred, but she does see it as good. It feels good. Why deprive oneself of it?

Next up is The Pirate King.

(...)

What would a serious argument with the ROs be like?

The Pirate King. To his subjects, seeing their captain angry is bad news — they'll jump out of his way, avoid his gaze, and make themselves as small as humanly possible. To his enemies, seem him angry is often a death sentence. But he'll be smiling then, with bloodlust in his eyes.

To his friends, seeing him angry is rare. To his lover... almost unprecedented. If he feels the conversation is turning sour and the mood is slipping out of his control, The Pirate does one thing: he grabs you by the shoulders, gently pushes you aside, and strides out of the room. If he can, he'll take in a deep breath of ocean air, grab his pipe, and puff on it until his blood stops singing.

It won't take long, but he'll calm down, and then, The Pirate will seek you, ready to put the matter to rest. How it goes from there depends on you, but he'll do his best to settle everything and lay it out on the table. When he's tense, he speaks in shorter, curt sentences, wary of saying anything he might regret later.

Doesn't like to say sorry. Doesn't require you to say it either. He just doesn't want to see it happen again — from his side and yours. I think the real problem with The Pirate might arise if the issue is a reoccurring one.

-

When angry, Neia is scary. She gets extremely quiet. Almost unnaturally so. Her eyes will fix on yours, her face like a century-old rock, and her muscles will seem as if they turned to marble because she will not move. You even question if she breathes.

She won't answer you. You talk, you frown, you challenge her, you may even grab her shoulder and shake it. Neia will keep her mouth in a thin line.

When you almost give up, she'll crack her lips open. "Shut up," she'll growl and then grab you and smash her lips over yours.

No one argued with the head of the Inquisition. Neia hasn't had a proper debate outside of combat in years. She either slaughtered those who insulted her, or she pulled rank on them. Having you, of all people, argue with her...

She doesn't know what in hell's scorched lands she’s supposed to do. She does know that it gets her blood pumping and, honestly, if you've heard of angry make-up sex, this would be it. 😄 Unsurprisingly, she's not the best communicator. You'll have to approach her later, calm and try to get through to her.

Good luck, though.

-

Lance Silverthread. Much like Alain, there won't be a big head-to-head confrontation. The bard smiles and hides how he feels, and I think that will be the real crux of the issue: Lance hides how he feels. He can be hard to read and hard to get a beat of, and I can see it raising some issues between you.

It's difficult for him to be open and he'll shut you out without meaning to — it's been a part of his nature for so long; it's like asking Alessa to go dancing and frolicking in the rain. In an argument, Lance will be mostly quiet, appearing to be listening, but you can tell his mind is far away.

He won't avoid you physically, but he'll avoid you mentally. It’ll take some effort to break down those mental walls.

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Rafael has no problem confronting you. He prefers it. To keep something in his chest is like suffocating. He needs to get it out, or he'll explode. He'll try not to raise his voice, but it's so easy to be swept by his emotions, especially when the bastard cares.

That's the biggest problem, I think: Rafael would feel hurt. He would hate it — hate it — to not be on the same page as you. Deep in a relationship, Rafael just wants to get it sorted. To fix it, as soon as possible. And because of that anxiousness, his methods may not be the best: he can be too pressing when you need space or too intense when you need to wind down. He refuses to go to bed angry, so he'd rather just have a big blown out and then make peace.

Early stages, however... you'll see it in the game a lot 😄. I think one of Rafael's love languages is arguing. You'll argue a lot. If he doesn't care, the bastard doesn't bother. When he cares, though... he'll go all the way. If you're a hothead like him, there's bound to be some explosions.

(...)

If the ROs could go anywhere to spend time with a romanced Romanus, where would it be? What would they want to do while there?

Alessa would like to take you to the shores of a private beach. Any beach, really, but preferably one where the sand is fine and shines in gold, and there are soft, gentle dunes where your feet can bury deep, and soak in the heat of the earth. Alessa would like for the shoreline to stretch in both directions until it lost sight, becoming a haze of blue where one couldn't tell if it was land or sea. And speaking of the sea... Alessa would want the beach to open to the bluest, wildest, most raw ocean that nature has to offer.

She'd want her nose to be assaulted and her tongue to sting with the crispiness of salt. She would want her skin whipped by tempestuous winds and her ears echoing with the defeating, primal, overwhelming roar of the sea. She'd want to see waves crash on the sand and feel their foam bathe her skin. She'd want you to take her cold hand, and walk side by side until your feet touched the chill-bone water and then your ankles, your legs, your waists, your bellies...

Alessa would stop by her chest, turn to you, and hug you close, hug you tight, hug you until she could think of nothing else but your lips crashing over hers as violently as the waves and your hands mingled with the sea and the salt and the wind and the fervent, unrestrained power of nature.

Alessa would like to lose herself, for just a moment, just a bit. In you. With you.

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If Alain Theer could take you anywhere, he'd take you to the heavens. Again and again, and then, just for good measure, he'd take you there one more time. He'd want to make you forget your own name, where you came from, where you want to be. He'd like, if possible, you see, to have you fall on your pillow like potatoes rolling out of a bag that has been ripped a new hole, and then watch you with a smug grin and a proud chest as your eyes rolled back and you fell into a deep, dreamless, blissfully sleep.

Maybe while mumbling a tired sigh that would sound like his name. Yes, Alain would rather like that.

The good thing about this is that you don't even have to go further than the walls of his bedroom. And they're quite good walls if the nobleman has any say in it. The stones are sturdy, the hangings luxurious, the covers clean, the corners scrubbed, and there's even plush furniture spread around. Wine, if you'd like, servants to fetch fruit and nuts. Alain thinks you'd like it. There's no reason why you shouldn't.

But then... when the candlewax was all spent, and the fireplace was nothing but a sad little mound of forgotten ashes. When the first rays of sunlight would tentatively reach for the line of the horizon, then, if you were awake and willing, Alain wouldn't mind taking you to the gardens behind his castle. There are trees there with birdfeeders hanging from the branches, and... and Alain wouldn't mind sitting next to you on one of the wooden benches — maybe even, if he was feeling particularly sentimental, hold your fingers in his — and pay witness to the song of the morning birds. He wouldn't mind it. He wouldn't mind it at all.

(...)

The entire pieces are available on Patreon!

June Q&A — Part One

June Q&A — Part Two