#isaac (dancing-master)

[xxsycamore]

KING'S GAME

╰┈➤ ❝ I just need to know in case…❞ ❝ In case what? In case you take it a little too far in role-playing? In case you go down on me and the words mon empereur leave your lips? ❞ - After a round of some silly drinking game, MC can't help but have certain thoughts about Napoleon and how easily he takes on the role of someone in power. Naturally, she wants to know his boundaries of it.

Napoleon Bonaparte/MC • rating: E (MDNI) • tags: Drinking Games; Alcohol; Shenanigans; Humor; Sexual Tension; Massage; Kink Negotiation; Sexual Roleplay; Power Play; Dominant Napoleon; Dom/sub; Master/Servant; Blow Jobs; Oral Sex; Choking; Dacryphilia; Stripping; Dirty Talk; Vaginal Fingering; Begging; Vaginal Sex; Creampie; Aftercare • wordcount: 6,055 • masterlist

a/n: The idea for this fic was conceived long before an event of the same theme came to Ikevamp EN... We ended up not seeing them all play together in the game so I hope this right here fixes that, maybe? I have no idea how it ended up being that long. I guess I've been looking for the right opportunity to explore this part of Napoleon's character in a smut fic, namely his feelings about being called emperor and the likes in the bedroom. Hope you enjoy!

"Oh, I know! How about we play the Ousama game? It's a popular drinking game back home, in my era!"

It's rare for MC to be the one initiating activities on game nights, so naturally, all eyes are on her. Dazai is quick to give his enthusiastic approval, wanting to know more about a game that came after his time but originates from his homeplace. Sebastian smiles in a similar fashion.

"Good pick, MC. I think our residents are going to like it. Will you please excuse me for a second?"

As Sebastian stands up from the table and dashes out of the room, someone's comment oh my god, he's totally fetching his diary, can be heard. But really, there are no hard feelings. Everyone's more than happy to welcome Sebastian at the table and see him being more open and relaxed around his masters for once. Maybe it does have to be documented.

"It's not something like Arthur's games, I assume?" Isaac directs his gaze at MC, almost pleading under the surface for an affirmative response.

She rubs awkwardly at the back of her neck. As much as she hates to disappoint him…

"Erm, it's basically a game of dares… but don't worry, you can always refuse a dare!"

"That's it, if you want to take the punishment, Newt." Arthur seems ready to dance on the physicist's nerves with a complimenting chin-cupping stance, elbows rested on the table and all. Theo rolls his eyes.

"Let me guess. Refuse a dare and drink a shot."

"That's correct." MC nods before Arthur can take more liberties at orchestrating her own game, even if they happen to be thinking in the same direction. "Let me go get what we need for the game!"

By the time Sebastian is back and patting his breast pocket suspiciously, so is MC, with a handful of… chopsticks. And a fountain pen.

"So, what I'm going to do now is write a number for each one of us… Vincent, Theo, Arthur, Isaac, Mozart, Dazai, Sebastian, Napoleon, and I…so that means numbers 1 to 8, and on the ninth chopstick, I'm going to write Ousama - which means 'King' - and then we shuffle the chopsticks in a cup - Arthur, can you pass me the empty cup next to you? - then we each take one but without showing our numbers to the others. Whoever gets the Ousama chopstick becomes King and he places a dare for someone, using the numbers! Is everything clear?"

"Uh. What kind of dares are allowed?"

Napoleon nods at the direction the question originates from. "Good point. Hey, maybe tone it down with the sexual stuff. There are taken people at the table."

Arthur snaps, "Why are you looking at me? I wasn't intending to. Besides, if a dare doesn't stand right with you, you can always drink and avoid it!"

Memories of other game nights seem to flood multiple minds at once, so MC lets out a half-chuckle half-sigh and moves on. She does take a mental note of the hint of possessiveness in Napoleon's comment just now who instantly got worried about another man being prompted to touch her inappropriately. As if anyone has the balls to touch Napoleon's woman, she thinks to herself… and kind of likes the way it sounds in her head.

It's a shame that Leonardo and Comte aren't joining them tonight and are instead enjoying a more sane way of getting alcohol in their system, in some quiet corner of the mansion. And Comte is totally not smoking a cigarillo right now while talking to his old friend, claiming that he hasn't had one in forever, again. And for that matter, Jean's presence is missed as well, but sadly (although understandably) he dislikes partaking in such activities. He's a lot like Mozart in this regard, with the difference that Mozart becomes another person when he drinks some. And that person loves joining drinking games with his buddies!

"If we're all ready - here we go!"

MC gives the cup a rather unnecessary bartender-style shake, assuring the chopsticks are well shuffled and ready to make it to all the wrong hands.

Once placed on the table, a crowd of hands quickly reach into the cup and sneakily withdraw in order to hide their new secret identity, with the exception of one person who has nothing to hide.

"I'm the king. My, I wasn't prepared for this."

As Sebastian holds up the chopstick of fate high in the air for all to see, a few pairs of surprised eyes catch his own. And something like a shimmer lights up in Sebastian's ones.

For someone as unprepared as him, he surely doesn't waste time on thinking about his next move. Not at all.

"Number 6, exchange a clothing item with number 1. Number 3, take off your pants without using your hands. And number 4 must do a handstand."

"By Jove, Sebas, your fetishes are showing!" Arthur blinks, both surprised and somehow entertained by the turn of events which (in his own head) kicks him off the position of number one most perverted person around the table. Or at least for the time being. He's only smiling now because he's safe, being the lucky number 7 and out of Sebastian's fantasies.

Isaac and Theo can't say the same. They exchange a look - eyes traveling up and down each other's frames - looking for a convenient clothing item to exchange, given their different builds. Theo is done with his choice first, and he reaches over the table to undo Isaac's necktie. The smaller man averts his gaze, turning his head away as much as he can so it's not in Theo's way, or perhaps out of embarrassment, but it's over before it ever began thanks to Theo's rough but effective methods of freeing the cloth from under his collar. Using the chance coming with the shortened distance, Isaac snatches Theo's scarf in return as the most adequate thing to take.

"Aw, you two are boring." Napoleon mocks for change, drumming his fingers on the table with a smirk. Theo muses with the thin black tie in his hands, turning to Napoleon with an empty look and silently wrapping it around his forehead instead, tying it off at the side.

"Is this better?"

"Snrk. I don't know, what do we think, Sebas?"

"I approve of your new look, Master Theodorus. Or should I drop the 'Master'? I'm the King now, after all."

MC gasps, "Sebas! Oh, this game is dangerous…"

"Tell me about it. My first dare and I already have to drink. Woe is me." Dazai weeps, rising up from his seat to point at his hakama, making it impossible for him to complete the take off your pants without hands dare.

"Guess that leaves me." Napoleon sighs, pushing his chair back audibly as he stands up.

"Ooh! Go for it, Naps!"

"Good thing it went to someone who's in good shape. I bet it's a piece of cake for him."

"We'll see now." Napoleon smirks to himself, rubbing his hands together as he prepares to tackle the handstand. His eyes get serious for a second as he calculates it all, and in the next moment, his hands are flat against the floor changing the center of his weight. While he's upside down, the gravity makes his partly untucked shirt expose his abs.

Someone whistles, and MC finds herself staring. As if for the first time.

All too soon, Napoleon is back on his feet again, dusting off his palms and retaking his seat by the table. Sebastian is beaming. "I like this game. Thank you for the idea, MC."

"Thank you, MC." Mozart chimes in, for some reason, oblivious to Sebastian making history tonight as opposed to quietly observing it from the side like usual.

"Haha, you guys are welcome… so, let's do it again, shall we? Let's see who will be King this time around~!"

After the new shuffle of chopsticks, everyone seems a little more lively, a little more hopeful - some driven by revenge and some simply by the contagious evil brewing in the air.

"Who is King?"

Out of the people looking at their newly acquired chopsticks, Napoleon is the one who speaks up.

"I guess that would be me."

"It's Napoleon, huh…"

"Oh, how fitting! You were born for it, Naps."

"Haha, not really."

"My bad. You're an emperor, not a king. I'm so sorry, Your Majesty."

Napoleon snorts, not playing along - or perhaps his dismissing the extended apology is his way of playing along. MC raises an eyebrow, studying his reaction. Napoleon's attitude towards these things is… rather complicated, as he seems to both loathe his so-called days of glory and simultaneously accept them for what they are, a part of him. She's been confused more than once about what's a good way of navigating through the situation when the topic is brought up in their conversations. On one hand, she hates the change of expression on his face that makes her feel like winter has returned - even if it's never going to feel to her like how it felt to him, the cruel winter - on the other, she knows he hates it when people walk on eggshells around him.

But now they're all at least half-drunk and merely goofing around. No one's bothered to care about these things, and maybe Napoleon prefers they don't anyway.

"Number 5, hold three ice cubes in your mouth until they melt. Number 4, confess about a fetish you have in front of everyone. Number 2, crack an egg over Number 7's head. Number 1, give me a massage."

"N-Napoleon is a sadist!!"

"So cruel…"

And he's laughing too. Sadistic tendencies aside, his laughter sounds every bit as genuine (and loud) as MC always remembers it to be, and it's strangely soothing. Maybe she should refuse a dare just for the shot, just to drown her worries a little more… Taking a look at her chopstick again because she thinks she heard her number, she sees a 1.

Theo goes somewhere, for ice presumably, despite Sebastian's offer to do it in his stead, and Arthur follows. "Wait, I'll go for the eggs."

"Who got the fetish one?" Napoleon browses the faces of the ones left at the table to spot the flushed one. Vincent raises a hand.

"My fetish is, um… I don't really-"

"Come on Vincent-kun, we all have fetishes~"

"I think I could say… maybe… um.."

"Yes? Go on, say it. We won't judge."

"I'd love it if my partner would touch themselves and let me watch."

"That's perfectly normal, Master Vincent. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"Woah, it's both very vanilla and somehow kinky at the same time..." MC muses out loud. "Oh, but nothing to be ashamed of, certainly!"

Arthur and Theo return, with the latter immediately taking note of Vincent's beet-red face.

"What did I miss? Broer?"

"The fetish dare… Don't worry, Theo, I just had a shot instead."

"Oh, that's good. I mean, no it's not! Napoleon, how dare you make mjin broer take a punishment!"

"It wasn't really- Anyway, Theo, let's shut you up now."

Theo groans, dragging on every move as if giving the ice a chance to melt as much as possible before the inevitable contact with his mouth. At last, there's nowhere to escape and he pops the cubes in his mouth, thankfully they fit.

"Okay, I've been waiting for this. Who gets an egg in the head?"

"It's me… I hate this game…"

Isaac cards his fingers through his strawberry locks, as if for one last time while they're still egg-free. In the meantime, Theo's expression twists, less out of sympathy and more because the ice begins to torture him from the inside out.

"And the executioner?"

"Master Isaac, I'm truly sorry, it's me." Sebastian raises his gloved hand.

"Ahahaha! Haha!" Mozart laughs at the turn of events seeing a servant disserving his master. Or maybe the reason behind his laughter is nowhere that complex. One thing is certain, for some reason, he always gets out of the bunch's drinking games taking no damage in the form of nasty dares and punishments.

Sebastian stands up reluctantly, then sits down again. "Should I just drink? But I have to remind, I can't hold my liquor very well, I'm afraid."

"Just get it over with. I won't be mad at you or anything."

Sebastian sighs to show a little more reluctance before committing the deed. He looks like he's trying to miss his target, but unfortunately the raw egg still perfectly lands on Isaac's head, quickly descending down his face. Isaac's grossed-out expression mirrors Theo's current agony. As someone hands Isaac a handkerchief to wipe off the sticky mess with, another jokingly calls the sight erotic…

"Alright, I'm ready for my massage. Who shall serve the King?"

Napoleon relaxes back in his seat demonstratively in anticipation. It's a bold invitation, and everyone looks up to see the chosen one.

"My king."

MC stands up, showing her chopstick marked with the number 1. She tries to mute the sound of the others' reactions in her head as suddenly her pulse speeds up.

Napoleon flashes her a grin.

"Very well. The King is expecting you."

He lifts his glass to his lips as he hasn't touched it since the beginning of the game, probably deeming it worthless with the nature of the game. Not that he's expecting to be drinking anytime soon - he's simply not the type to back out from any dare unless it's too ridiculous even for him. Maybe that's why he started to miss the warmth at the back of his throat.

As MC makes her way to where he sits, she witnesses the singular bobbing of his Adam's apple when he gulps down the liquid, and she watches dumbstruck for a second as he motions for her to take a sip if she wants to, from the same glass. Well, yes, she finished her own drink a while ago. She accepts the glass from his hold.

"Now, what kind of massage should I request? Hmm…"

Arthur's dirty remarks fall on deaf ears as MC focuses on not choking on the liquid in her mouth.

Napoleon is a giver.

But there's something damn attractive when he allows himself to take from others.

"The king orders you to rub his shoulders."

And it's damn attractive when he's commanding like that. She sees now what the others were referring to in their provocations earlier - it rolls so, so easily off his tongue when he gives an order like this. Even if it's for a stupid game, the sharp look he gives her feels rather… real.

Not that this is anything new to her. For all Napoleon's gentleness, in the bedroom, he has this side of him that colors him rather dominant. And she'd be lying if she said she's gotten so used to it by now she doesn't feel anything between her legs right this moment. Instead of being a liar, she blames it on the alcohol.

Standing behind Napoleon, MC puts her hands on his broad shoulders… and really, it's been a while since she last gave him a massage. Usually, it's the other way around, as Napoleon added it to his ever-growing list of skills, even if initially it was something he'd never done before, given his status in his past life. Now she has his shoulders all to herself to knead and push at, and she catches herself putting selfishness in the act of service. Because she can't help but have impure thoughts.

Napoleon groans. It's quiet but she catches it over the cacophony of other noises in the room coming from the rowdy bunch. They're already setting things up for the next round, and here she's still stuck on her dare. She doesn't want to go back to her seat. Maybe Napoleon can read her thoughts like he always does and offer her his lap for the rest of the night; maybe he will go further and excuse the two of them for the night-

One hand at work, she reaches the other into the cup because they tell her to, and it appears to be Isaac's turn to be King. Good for him, but bad for everyone else. Seems like it's going to be a long night…

Later in the night and a few more rounds down the line, apples have been eaten without hands, glasses have been downed, a few mounts were the targets of unpleasant substances, either deadly spicy or deadly sweet, some clothes have been removed, some eyes filled with tears - and the collective level of soberness in the room has been drastically lowered.

It's a surprise how they even managed to put an end to it before the sun came out when naturally there's always someone who didn't get a chance to take revenge on someone else. Napoleon and Theo, being the best at holding their liquor as per usual, felt it their duty to help the others to their rooms.

MC didn't have much to drink, otherwise she'd be asleep on the pile of residents by now. Not that she intended to retain some of her soberness, it simply happened - because the bubbling feeling in her chest wasn't caused by alcohol, to begin with.

Napoleon, always the caretaker. Maybe if she throws herself at him he'll carry her to her room as well.

"Goodnight, Theo, go get some sleep." The sound of him returning after separating from Theo interrupts her daydreams.

Once he sees he's all alone with MC, he offers her a smile.

"And we're the last ones again. C'mon Nunuche, let's go to our room."

"Carry me?"

MC tries her best puppy-dog eyes at him, and he tests her for a second like it doesn't work on him. He then gawks at her laziness, hoisting her up his shoulder and giving her ass a little spank. "Let's get you to bed, naughty Nunuche. Some of those guys will be mad at you for weeks, you know? But you better not give them those eyes. Only I get to see them."

"Mm…Napoleon?"

The varnished floorboards creak under Napoleon's steps as he makes his way down the hall, holding MC's weight securely. "Yes?"

"Do you really enjoy it? You know, being treated like a majesty."

It's a short trip, and MC's perspective soon goes back to normal as the floor and the walls swap their places once more before her eyes. Not that she's interested in it, so she throws herself at the bed in the next second, sinking in the welcoming embrace of the comforter, not bothering with removing it at least for the time being.

"Pfft, where did that come from?" Napoleon says while closing the door behind him. The crickets are still singing their songs under their window, it can't be that late in the night.

"From the game. For a second I was worried it left a bad taste in your mouth."

"Hmm." Napoleon fake-muses, kicking off his shoes before sinking one knee on the bed. "I think I liked it when you were the one treating me like a majesty."

"No, don't joke, tell me seriously."

"I am serious though."

Somehow they end up in this position that doesn't help resolve the tension poisoning the air around them one bit; with him caging her with his body on the soft mattress and her having nowhere else to look at but right at his penetrating gaze. Her fingers twitch, nails catching into the fabric of the comforter, seeking a sense of stability.

"I just need to know in case…"

"In case what? In case you take it a little too far in role-playing? In case you go down on me and the words mon empereur leave your lips?"

Like a spark to the kerosene pooling low in her belly, Napoleon's words make beautiful explosions bloom behind her eyelids that have fallen shut amidst the last sentence. She takes a breath but it only feeds the fire as she can't help the way her exhale sounds raspy.

"Would you like that?"

"Would you?"

MC bites on her bottom lip. "This is not about me."

"I thought you wanted to serve your King."

She averts her gaze, because if she looks a little longer at this alluring jade gaze that reeks of sex, she'll be able to feel herself losing her composure, and she's trying to have a serious conversation here.

"I do."

"Hmm." Napoleon plays with her, trailing a hand down her modest home dress, prodding at the buttons at the front. "This is bad, I don't know what to ask for first. I've lost shape."

"Liar. You were perfect at it earlier."

"Someone's been paying attention. Were you also fucking me with your eyes? Right there, at the table?"

MC takes two sharp breaths, and it resembles panting, all too soon. It's out of irritation and not arouse, not yet. When she pictured their little game, she thought she'd just have to bow her head obediently and indulge in her desire to serve. Not enduring Napoleon's verbal teasing as any other night.

"Is it that bad? Will my King punish me now as he sees fit?"

Napoleon looks at her. For all the things that may be at the tip of his tongue, MC imagines most vividly the tone Napoleon would speak them in and how much he's cut for the role. Her soul sings at the thought, but it's nothing holy.

"Get up then. Don't you think it's a little rude to be lying down in my presence?"

That's fair. With renewed vigor, she pushes herself off the bed and waits readily by the side of it.

"Remember to not look me in the eyes. It's forbidden. You'll only look when I allow you to, if I allow you to. You'll have to earn my grace."

Instinctively, MC wants her nod to be accompanied by eye contact, but she corrects her mistake before it can even take place.

"Present yourself. Take it all off."

MC blinks surprisedly at how fast things are happening but isn't against it at all. She has the feeling that he is capable of making her do all sorts of dirty things with a mere flick of his tongue, undressing for him is nothing.

She makes a show of it, despite not having many articles of clothing on her to take off seductively - before long, she's stepping out of her dress that has pooled at her feet, and she retakes her previous position.

"I'm pleased with what I'm seeing. Come closer. Kiss me."

He doesn't have to ask twice. It's something familiar and yearned for since they crossed the threshold of their room—hell, no, since they took a seat at the table for that game. It's welcoming and fulfilling and it's just what she needed-

Or so she thought, until she terribly embarrassed herself with a rather awkward and rigid pressing of lips against lips, and no movement. In her selfishness, and out of habit, she left her mouth open for Napoleon's invasion. But she's forgetting to consider that kings get tired of their conquests too.

She summons her boldness and turns the desire in her veins into fuel for action. She shoves her tongue in Napoleon's mouth, but gently, not with the intention to dominate, but rather to serve. To kiss him until he gets enough. Her tongue swirls against his own, the movement rather clumsy, the making out of a juvenile rather than that of a skillful lover… but it's what he wants. He wants to see her seduce him, use every millimeter of her body for his pleasure, and keep going until he has his fill.

A thin string of saliva connects their lips upon her withdrawal, and her eyes are shut tight. She has to keep them shut, otherwise she'll look right at him. Napoleon chuckles.

"You may open them."

She does, and the sight is not kind on her fragile composure. Locking eyes with Napoleon has never felt like this, like a privilege, and exploring this new feeling is exciting.

"You're not half bad with your mouth. Undress me and put it to use."

Heartbeat thumping in her ears, MC finds it impossible to conduct herself in that moment; to sturdy her hands into performing the task and to break her gaze from his piercing pools of jade. She starts with the shirt, more tugging at the buttons rather than precisely undoing them, before pushing it completely off his shoulders, and finally letting it fall to the floor. He's glorious with just his trousers on and that scrutinizing, almost cold gaze. She opens the fly enough to take his hardness out, and her stomach tightens instinctively.

She wets her lips and parts them, taking in the head of his cock, letting it rest on her tongue. Even when her world narrows down to the hot pulsing flesh in her mouth, she catches herself dividing her focus between pleasuring her lover and.. the position she's doing this in. There's a little bit of getting used to it being required, and it makes her realize how unfamiliar that is - her being on her knees, on the hardwood floor, and Napoleon standing upright. When was the last time they've found themselves in that exact arrangement? It could've happened once or twice before, in the heat of the moment, or when the space had limited them. But never intentionally. Not because MC has anything against it - rather, it would be Napoleon who changes the position whether he's about to receive oral. He makes sure he's at least sitting down at the edge of the bed, where MC can rest her hands on his hips, or on the bed. Where he can see her better, to check up on her. Now she has to look up to see him, and he seems so far away, or maybe her eyes are doing tricks on her, or maybe her vision is blurring because she accidentally took his cock too deep down her throat and now tears are gathering in the corners of her eyes.

Napoleon brings his hand over her head and collects a fistful of her hair, one unfamiliar thing after another - but before intimidation can mix into her blood, she breathes in deeply, because it's not him forcing her down his cock, it's him forcing her off it.

He holds his cock firmly by the base as he directs it at her parted lips again, but doesn't breach the gap between them. He simply rubs his cockhead on the soft cushion of them, gathering the saliva that starts to droll down and smearing it back on her lips.

"A pretty mouth indeed."

MC can only look at him. She looks at him like she's looking straight at an open flame.

"Next," Napoleon begins, cupping her chin and caressing with his thumb where his cock used to be just a second ago. "I want you to go on the bed and show me the position you want to be taken in. Can you do that for your King?"

MC finally averts her gaze; it happens involuntarily, purely as a reaction to another surge of surprise and embarrassment.

"I— Yes, my King."

Napoleon angles her chin up, a signal for her to rise to her feet. Yes, that would be a good start.

The bed is just two steps away from where she is but MC feels like she can trip thrice on the way there with how much her legs have turned to jelly. Still, she makes it. There's not much room for thinking this through, for deciding on what would work out best for both of them - normally it's him who takes these decisions, anyway - so once she leans forward on the bed, she gives way to impulsivity and the way it saves her from having to give it any more thought. If she has to name the reason, it would be that it aligns with everything that Napoleon is tonight. Of course it would be fitting if he were to take her on her hands and knees.

"Does this… please you?"

She hears the rustling of clothes behind her back, probably the sound of Napoleon getting rid of his trousers, before he approaches her. He doesn't say anything about approving the position or not, and MC can't decide if his silence is worse. He comes to stand right behind her, and she crawls a little closer to the edge of the bed to make sure their skin is touching. Napoleon lets one hand roam from the fold of her knee up to the curve of her butt, and MC jumps lightly at the touch. Needless to say, she's sensitive and oh-so neglected. Her insides throb at the mere proximity of Napoleon's slender fingers close to her sex - it's a miracle she doesn't come undone on the spot as he actually directs his touch to the apex of her thighs. Wetness catches on his fingertips and he wastes little time caressing her folds before plunging two fingers inside.

"Nnghhh…" MC tosses her head, trying her best to enjoy the feeling of finally, finally claiming some pleasure but without losing herself completely in it. Napoleon twists his fingers until his open palm is facing upwards, thrusts in and out a few times in a way that doesn't intend to bring pleasure but rather to prepare - and then his fingers audibly and briskly exit her wetness.

MC whines at the loss of his fingers but finds a new fire sparkled to life inside her, and she's more than happy she wouldn't have to wait any longer for the next dose of intoxicating pleasure.

"Good girl. Do you want my cock?" Napoleon asks, openly and greedy. He's not risking having her beat around the bush by posing a more generic question like what she wants next. They both know the answer to that already.

Not that he spares her the torturous reminder of what she'll get by saying the right thing. He rubs his flushed tip on her glistening folds, pressing it in enough to just barely catch on her entrance; to make her bite her tongue and assume he just might show mercy and put it in without her pleading for it.

"I- Yes, please, Napoleon— take me, fuck me! Please…"

She only realizes once it slips out that she used his name and not the object of their little game of pretend that is his title, but there's no going back.

Napoleon doesn't punish her for it. Instead, he rewards her, giving her what she wants most. The groan he lets out as the familiar warmth and tightness enfolds his aching cock is telling of his own desperation.

MC cries out at the intrusion, only now understanding the difference of not having him finger her for longer prior to this. It doesn't hurt - she just feels a little fuller somehow. A little on edge. He gives her time to adjust, however, and she just basks into this dangerous feeling for as long as it's there until he carefully withdraws only to give it another thrust.

"Ahh!" Her insides squeeze around Napoleon again, as he goes in deeper this time. She blames the position, trying to reason out why she feels him in her guts. Napoleon withdraws again, and then pushes in, trying to fit even more of himself inside.

"You're taking me so well. I'm so deep inside you, I bet you can feel me in your deepest parts."

She groans at his words and their truthfulness as his thrusts grow rhythmic, the place where they're connected burning with the delightful friction, and her arms soon give out. She buries her head between her hands, enduring the change of angle as her rear sticks out, and Napoleon keeps pounding at her. His own sounds of pleasure are barely masked by the sounds of skin on skin, but he's not hiding them either. He lets her know how good she's making him feel, telling her something dirty in a low voice that she can barely register over the drumming in her ears.

"You feel so good- merde- Ngh. I want to stay inside you forever."

He's always holding her tightly when he fucks her, his grip being strong enough to leave marks the following day, but there's something about the way he takes hold of her hips now. At first, MC thinks nothing of it, lost in euphoric pleasure. It's only when she feels her knees being lifted off the bed that she understands what's happening.

Napoleon rises up her bottom to meet his hips, in his standing upright position, taking full control of her body in that moment. He's so strong, making it all seem effortless; and it's not a matter of matching his thrusts anymore - she can't do anything. She's facing away, with one pair of limbs immobilized and the other grasping uselessly for purchase at the covers. Her whole body rocks back and forth, feeling like a ragdoll in Napoleon's arms. There's something primal and simultaneously embarrassing about how good it feels to give herself over to him like that; about the trust she puts in him to have her completely at his mercy.

And then Napoleon stills inside her. And he groans. And before she knows it, a warm spray of come hits her walls. Her eyes widen, only now realizing they've already been going at it for a while, for a while enough that he seemingly couldn't hold back and—

And maybe he just didn't feel like waiting for her to come before he does.

The realization makes her dizzy in an unexplainable way, and she moans so loudly she feels herself pathetically falling into that bottomless fit, just like that, just as Napoleon takes his cock out of her. It's petrifying, coming without him inside her, but strangely the pleasure never ceases. His hand finds his way between her quivering thighs and shoves them apart in a quick manner, beginning to rub at her clit; whispering praises against the skin of her nape, enveloping her smaller body with his own from behind as she presses into the bed so violently, chasing after her peak.

"Come for me. Come for me and scream my name."

And that's enough to tip her over the edge. Coming with Napoleon's load inside her intensifies the feeling; the way her insides are still remembering his shape, the way she's so full yet so empty. It makes her see stars.

"Napoleon— Ahhhhh!!"

"I'm here. I'm here, mon amour."

Napoleon holds her trembling form as he draws out the last of her high, gently moving her into a spooning position. He keeps touching her everywhere, her belly, her breasts, the curve of her shoulder, caressing all the spots that went unloved in their game.

"I felt— so good I thought I might die—"

Napoleon huffs out a breathy chuckle, and it tickles the babyhairs at the base of her neck.

"I'd be lying if I said this doesn't stroke my ego, Nunuche.", he whispers, and it's somehow more shiver-inducing than anything he's said that night. "I think you might be right. I might be enjoying myself a bit too much when I'm calling the shots."

MC turns her neck just enough to look at him from the corner of her eye. She studies him again, with his disheveled hair and boyish smile and his low tolerance of putting up a front now that he gave voice to his most basic instinct and let it rob him of the ability to give anything more thought than he needs to. She leans in for a kiss and he takes the initiative enthusiastically but ends up drawing it out to make the remaining endorphins dance slowly between their bodies.

Letting the tiredness in her limbs settle in just like the fact that the room is several shades a brighter blue than how they entered it, MC only nuzzles back onto Napoleon's chest, trying not to give voice to the heat between her legs beginning to awake again without a sense of the time.

"And I might just love to see you like that. Mon empereur."

Taglist: @arsnovacadenza @kimi00twin @otomelady @privilegedpancake @g-kleran    @thesirenwashere @ravenarld @devonares @galaxyprison @starshards26 @thewitchofbooks @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @lordsister @ikemen-banshou   @themysticalbeing @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @coornn @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @queengiuliettafirstlady @aurora-morning ​ @ikemenlover24 @mcofthemansion @joy-the-reader @katriniac @ikemen-writer @tele86 @lovely-bubb1es @aria-chikage @babyblue0t7 @rhodoliteschaos @shrimpy-kitsune @nightghoul381 @xbalayage @lucyw260 @kittygrimm88 @lokis-laugh @judejazza @my-day Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

[youryurigoddess]

On love and sacrifices

There’s so much more to this scapegoating business and big sacrifices referenced in the Good Omens narrative than the literal goats. And they’re only getting bigger, louder, final.

But let’s take it slow and start with the beginning, quite literally — i.e., with the Good Omens 2 title sequence. As we follow Aziraphale and Crowley on their journey, the universe warps and their usual left and right side positioning switches during the magic show (not accidentally an act of trust and sacrifice required both from the angel and the demon). They stay so throughout the next scene, which is their little dance in the air, and after they seemingly get settled on the A. Z. Fell and Co.’s roof and back to normal, the flipped sky in the background suggests that something’s not quite right yet. In the central part of the shot looms a large, humanlike shadow of the Elephant Trunk Nebula.

The nebula is a part of a constellation called Cepheus, after an Ethiopian king from the Greek mythology who agreed to sacrifice his only daughter in order to appease the gods and end a local calamity started by her mother and his wife, Cassiopeia (talk about generational responsibility). With time and a delightfully ironic twist of fate, the name of said daughter, Andromeda, became more famous than that of her father. Although she was chained up to a rock and offered to the sea serpent Cetus, the girl was spotted by the warrior Perseus, casually flying over the sea — either on the back of the Pegasus or thanks to a pair of winged sandals — after his victory over Medusa. He fell in love on the spot, defeated the serpent (with the help of a magical sword or Medusa’s severed head, depending on the varying sources), and freed the princess. That’s not exactly where their story ends, but we won’t be getting into the rest here.

Not surprisingly, Neil has mentioned two parallel child sacrifice stories from the biblical context back in August. The first is one of the big ones — The Binding of Isaac. God's command to sacrifice Isaac, his only son, was a test of Abraham's faith. The angel of the Lord intervenes and provides a ram to be sacrificed in the boy’s place.

The second one isn’t nearly as popular, but you might have heard a variant of it in fairy tales or as the Law of Surprise invoked in The Witcher saga. In exchange for Israel’s victory over its enemies in battle, Jephthah had rashly promised God to repay the debt with the first thing seen on his return back home. The victorious warrior didn’t suspect to see his only child moving innocently "to meet him with timbrels and with dances" though. In horror, Jephthah covered his eyes with his cloak, but to no avail: ultimately, he was forced to honor his vow to God, and the girl was sacrificed. As grisly as it might look like in the Old Master’s paintings, it’s important to remember that human sacrifices weren’t limited to physical offerings only — Jephthah’s daughter might have been offered to God in the sense of officially shunning her family and dedicating her life to service instead, probably sequestered in a temple somewhere.

Interestingly, the main character of a big chunk of the Bible and the reason for the Second Coming happens to be THE most influential child sacrifice in the modern history. You know, a certain 33-year-old carpenter sent by his Heavenly Father to die on a cross for the sins of the mankind? Someone better call Aubrey Thyme ASAP.

Circling back to Aziraphale, he could be also seen as a representative of the concept of filial piety, since Eden willing to personally take a Fall not only for the humanity’s collective or individual transgressions, but the shortcomings of his Ineffable Parental Figure as well. Our favorite angel angel always fights for what is right and good, sure, but why would that be even a thing if God was truly omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent?

If Aziraphale’s medal is anything to go by, it looks like we might get an answer from the way it’s introducing another mythological narrative into the game, that is the story of Daedalus and Icarus. The most absorbing thing about this is the stark contrast to the recurring child sacrifice references for S3 mentioned in this post — Daedalus isn’t a father who wanted to sacrifice his son, it was his attempt to save him from imprisonment that ultimately drove Icarus to his death. The boy ignored his father’s explicit instructions, committing the grave and culturally universal sin of disobedience to one's parents that simply couldn’t go unpunished, one way or another.

But Icarus’s transgression could be seen both as high-flying ambition and striving for personal accomplishment as well as humanitarian sacrifice for knowledge and humanity’s advancement in general.

Similarly to a certain angel who left everything for what superficially seems like a work promotion, but is the ultimate act of love — both for his demon and the children they have been protecting and nurturing together for six thousand years. From the very Beginning, his white wings have been shielding everything he holds dear in this world.

[whumpsoda]

Focus

Masterlist

cw: flashbacks, pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee, past abuse

——————

A nod of his head, and a couple kicks of his foot. Graham bobbed along with the rhythm of the music flooding his ears, the string of the earbuds tapping against his chest as he moved, humming to the tune.

The clothes were soft to the touch, still hot from the dryer, perfectly perfect as they folded nicely into each little square. Not a single stain or rip in sight, and it was almost scary to think about. How could he manage to keep it that way? In what world would he be able to keep them better than how he found them, as he thought Edith would want? 

Doing what he’d been instructed to, he focused back on the music, letting it roll over his shoulders and wash all the way down to his toes, steamrolling right over his nerves. It was scarily easy to lose himself in, to discard his keen senses and constant attention on the world around him in favor of the song.

Another shirt, tucked under his chin as he gently placed the sleeves into the middle and flipped the bottom to the top. The task was monotonous, but ten times better with music.

Graham’s feet tapped and circled himself as he stepped to his feet, hoisting the entire pile of laundry along with him. He couldn’t help but move with the beat of the drums, loudly thumping and encompassing in his ears. Stumbling to the drawer across the room, he grunted along with the words bumping into his head.

The song, one of his favorites, slowly rolled out into a distant heartbeat kind of sound, as the sound of the next came humming in as he shrugged open the top drawer.

It was a new song - most of them were, he was listening to Isaac’s playlist - but this one didn’t feel new. As soon as it began he was singing a hum exactly as it went, like he’d heard it a million times before.

He knew the words. They started up, the vocals growling and scratchy, and he could mouth them as soon as they came crashing into his mind. 

Hey, focus.

He snapped to attention, nearly dropping to a kneel, but in a mere second he recognized that the voice wasn’t master’s. It wasn’t angry, commanding, or master’s, and it was right beside him. It still made him flinch, shook him up, although it was more feminine - sharp still - but juvenile. 

You’re going to spill the milk if you keep doing that.

He was holding his breath. Taking a quick sip in, he was hit with the smell of a kitchen, of ingredients. Particularly sugary smelling ones, kind and warm, not at all like his master’s place. Apprehension flooded his senses next, freezing him still.

You can dance if you put the measuring cup down.

The instructions didn’t make sense - a measuring cup - yet he followed them to his best ability, dropping the laundry into the spot of the open drawer below him.

Now do an air guitar!

Ever so carefully, practically disobeying because he wasn’t explicitly ordered to, he craned his neck to the source. 

It’s okay, I will do it myself!

There was a woman, one who wasn't supposed to be there, though he didn’t make any move to back off. Her hair was short but full, shaking along with her laugh, bangs home cut and caught in her eyelashes. She stood beside him, a smidge shorter but still tall with his button nose and his downturned eyes and his little lips. She seemed a bit older, but around his age as he was seeing her. 

She giggled, her whole body moving with the noise, low and gravely. Come, do it with me! She was dancing to the music, harder, faster, better, letting it puppet her movements. It is fun, I promise!

Instead of doing as she told, he stayed still. She didn’t seem to notice.

Shifting back to a glimpse of the drawer, it was gone, finding only a bowl of goopy looking batter, a little distorted and fake looking, like it wasn’t really there at all. At the same time it was there, and so was she.

What if I cracked this egg on your head right now? She said, and that time she was holding a single egg - white - reaching out to plop it right over his face. Instinctively, he leaned away. What would you do?

“Who…?” He questioned, the piercing ache of his head stopping him from getting any farther in the sentence.

Do not give me that look, She tisked playfully, as if he hadn’t said anything at all, now put the sugar in. We have to be done before Mom gets back.

The white blotted out her face by half then, eating up her image to nothing. It hurt more by the second, the longer he stared the worse it got, the white picking at his mind until the music drifted off once more, and his mind was fully and painfully empty.

Barely recognizing the thump of his knees to the rug, he sucked in a slick hiss at the stab of affliction seeping through the white, just as the bass began to thrum.

This one was new again, not at all familiar, and as he listened it felt more and more like hearing through a fish bowl. Even with the song filling him to the brim, he could barely hear it over the seething pain.

I’m not gonna hurt’cha, pal, not as long as you’re a good boy. No need to look so scared.

This he recognized in an instant, even through the blinding brightness. 520 cowered below his handler, no matter how many reassurances he was given.

Don’t tell anyone, boy. It’ll be our little secret that I’m letting you listen.

That was odd. His handler was kind enough to allow him to dirty an earbud, something so terribly off limits he couldn’t believe it. And the music was blaring, blasting his eardrums, but still it felt good. It was horribly muffled and tacky, but he savored it.

You like it? The handler laughed, bitter and sharp, before knocking the pet upside the head, I can tell you do. Don’t lie to me, ‘520, makes’ me wanna hurt you.

He felt the smack, crisp and clean, slick with sweat and sending him further keeled over. Spit pooled out from his slack lips, gathering in a puddle on the white below him. He was surely out of it, blinded by the burning and the possibility of drugs coursing his system.

Stop your whimpering and get over it. You should be able to handle a little wack like that by now.

Huffing a shaking breath, he rested his head to what he thought was the dresser, a dark wash of wood, as he blinked ever so carefully. It didn’t make much sense for one to be there when the facility was only ever white. As his eyelids opened once again, it was instead the white painted wood of his master’s bedroom door.

The song was no longer recognizable, a contorted sound of words and instruments thick with sickness. He could feel his fingers curl through rug, yet see them flat on shining white tile.

He wasn’t supposed to eavesdrop, especially not on Master and Prince, but he could barely contain himself. The noise was louder than it should’ve been, confusing him, but the song was too good to worry himself over. A shift from the sickly buzz churning his mind in circles, a lighthearted pop sound.

That wasn’t right though, because his master didn’t enjoy that type of song, and never let Prince pick. The lady liked it, but she was never really there, and he couldn’t remember her name even if he wanted to, it’s all white and that’s all it will ever be-

“Graham?”

He coughed, hacking out juicy spittle, and a hand was pressed to his back. The instinct was there to slap it away like it would hurt him, but the white was too strong and it didn’t hurt him anyway.

“Graham, can you please look at me?”

It took him a moment to recognize that was his name, that he had a name at all, before he nodded.

She wasn’t there any longer, the lady with his face, nor was his handler. The voice was different, the hair orange, the eyes green and concerned.

“Otis?” Graham croaked, drool dribbling down his chin. The pain subsided to a throb, still there but less overwhelming.

“You are not okay.” They stated, and it wasn’t a question, they both know he wasn’t.

He lied anyway. “No. I am fine.” Trying to catch his breath, he couldn’t help the gather of sweat collected at his temple.

“No you are not.” They shook their head. “I will get Isaac-,”

“No, please, I am fine.” He curled his hand over theres, pressing his forehead to the chill of their knuckles. “Just a headache.”

They bit their lip, glancing toward the door. “You are sure? I can go get her-,”

The music was a little murmur of a song from the earbuds, having fallen out during his commotion. “Fine. ‘M fine.”

Already was the memory of what had just happened nearly gone, save for the affliction and the brightness of the white stinging a burn into the back of his mind.

To him the woman would remain nameless, and she did not exist, and was never even there.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights @arlin-always-writing @bilightningwhumper @sharkyydoesnothing

@whump-till-ya-jump

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[yoursinisforgiven]

MINX ──

pairing: isaac x reader (pickel) 

cw: slight vic x reader (pickel), suggestive, likely takes place sometime before Isaac's final audio, mentions of asriel, direct mentions of sex, mentions of drinking, dancing(?).

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

"The sight of you leaves me weak

There are no words left to speak

But if you feel like I feel..."

Your voice trails off, and a soft hum takes its place, a melody that belongs more to the room than to you. The sunlight has shifted, slanting through the tall windows and scattering patterns across the worn Persian rug. Dust motes dance in the air, caught in a celestial waltz as the rhythm of the music stirs something deep within you. The duster slips from your hand, landing on the desk with a faint thud, forgotten like the rest of the world in this moment of quiet abandon.

The twirl comes naturally, as if your body is answering the call of some invisible conductor. The hem of your skirt flutters like a petal caught in the breeze, and the office—Isaac’s domain—feels momentarily yours. The books, the maps, the small carved owl perched on a shelf as if guarding secrets—they all seem to watch, silent witnesses to your unspoken reverie.

And then there’s the chair. His chair. Sturdy and unyielding, a contrast to the man who occupies it. Isaac is a paradox—precise yet unpredictable, stoic yet brimming with an undercurrent of something raw and untamed. The scent of him lingers here, mingling with the ancient aroma of leather-bound books and the faint smokiness of extinguished candles. It’s a scent you’ve come to associate with comfort and distance, warmth and walls.

“Make sure everything’s perfect,” he had said this morning, his voice sharp but his meaning opaque. Perfect for what? Or for whom? You wonder again, your thoughts weaving through the labyrinth of his words, searching for meaning. Perfection—it’s a word that carries the weight of centuries, the impossible aspiration of philosophers and poets. Does it even exist, or is it just a shadow cast by our longing for something greater than ourselves?

"Please let me know that it’s real

You’re too good to be true

Can’t take my eyes off of you..."

The music shifts, swelling into a crescendo, and your steps falter. You catch yourself on the edge of the desk, your fingertips brushing the cool, polished surface. Your gaze drifts to the globe atop the cabinet, its surface worn smooth in places, the continents blurred by time and touch. How many hands have spun it, how many dreams projected onto its faded map? You think of Isaac, his fingers tracing its surface absentmindedly as he ponders his unknowable thoughts. Does he dream of far-off lands or of mastering the one he already inhabits?

The door creaks open, breaking the spell. You straighten abruptly, your heart leaping as Isaac steps into the room. His presence is a force, filling the space without effort. He pauses, his sharp eyes taking in the scene—the forgotten duster, the soft strains of the music, the faint flush on your cheeks.

“You’re still here,” he says, his voice low, as if he’s caught between surprise and something unspoken.

“You told me to finish,” you reply, the words slipping out too quickly, as though they could cover the vulnerability of being caught in your moment of freedom.

He steps further into the room, closing the door softly behind him. His gaze shifts, settling briefly on the chair, the desk, the faint swirl of dust still hanging in the air. “It looks... different,” he says, his tone neutral but his expression thoughtful.

You glance at Isaac, standing near the doorway, his arms crossed as he watches you with an expression that’s impossible to read. To break the moment—or perhaps to prolong it—you smile, the corners of your lips lifting in a gesture as natural as breathing. The music shifts, the familiar chorus swelling, and with a playful twinkle in your eye, you turn the duster upside down, gripping its handle like a microphone.

“I love you, baby,

And if it's quite alright,

I need you, baby,

To warm the lonely night,

I love you, baby,

Trust in me when I say…”

The words spill out with playful abandon, your voice lilting and carefree. You sway to the rhythm, letting the melody guide your movements, twirling in place as though the room itself were your audience. The hem of your skirt catches the light as it flares, your bare feet gliding over the polished wooden floor. For a moment, you lose yourself entirely in the song, in the sheer joy of the moment.

Isaac’s sharp gaze softens as he watches you, his usual stoicism giving way to something unguarded, something almost tender. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, as if afraid that even the slightest sound might break whatever fragile magic hangs in the air.

You finish the verse with a flourish, holding the imaginary microphone out toward him as if inviting him to join in. “Your turn,” you say with a grin, the teasing in your voice clear.

He exhales sharply, almost a laugh, and shakes his head. “I don’t sing,” he says, but his tone lacks its usual edge, and the faintest smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Everyone sings,” you counter, stepping closer, emboldened by the softness in his demeanor. “Just not always out loud.”

A sharp knock at the manor’s grand entrance echoes through the halls, shattering the fragile stillness. It reverberates off the high ceilings and polished walls, reaching the room where you stand like the final toll of a distant bell. You freeze for a moment, the duster still in your hand, as the warmth of the shared moment dissipates like smoke. You mourn its loss silently, your hand hovering over the record player as the music continues its quiet serenade. Finally, with a steadying breath, you lower the needle and let silence claim the space.

Isaac is already moving. His steps are measured but brisk, his figure disappearing through the arched doorway without a glance back. The faint sound of his footsteps fades, leaving you alone in the quiet room.

A pull of curiosity stirs within you, unbidden but insistent. Isaac’s vague words earlier—“It’s none of your concern”—circle in your mind like a bird searching for a perch. Yet the tone in his voice, the tension in his frame, suggested otherwise. Whoever was at the door wasn’t just any guest.

You place the duster aside, your feet carrying you almost of their own volition toward the kitchen. It’s a safe vantage point, one where you can observe without being seen. As you reach the shadowed doorway, you glimpse the scene unfolding in the entryway.

The grand door, carved with intricate scrollwork, stands open to reveal the figure of a man. Vic.

 ──

You can almost feel the weight of Vic's gaze pressing against your skin as you lower the drinks onto the small table beside the couch. The silver platter is cool against your arm, tucked there as a shield, though it offers little protection. You straighten slowly, your movements deliberate, careful not to make a sound that might draw further attention. The air in the study feels heavier than the ornate curtains that hang at the windows, dense with words spoken and unspoken alike.

Truthfully, you hadn’t been paying complete attention to the conversation—an intentional oversight. The tone between the two men has been taut, laced with a tension so palpable that your instinct was to blend into the background, to become invisible. And yet, Vic’s presence seems to resist such anonymity, his gaze a force that refuses to let you fade.

He sits relaxed in the chair opposite Isaac, his posture deceptively casual, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. Despite his apparent ease, there’s a sharpness to him—a predator’s patience. His hands cradle the tumbler of amber liquid you’d just placed before him, the faint clink of ice against glass breaking the silence as he swirls it absently.

Isaac, in contrast, is a study in control. His back is straight, his shoulders squared, but there’s a stiffness to his movements, a deliberate restraint that feels as if it might snap at any moment. He leans forward slightly, his forearms resting on his thighs, his hands clasped tightly together.

“I didn’t come here for games, Vic,” Isaac says, his voice low, measured, though the edge in it is unmistakable.

The conversation between Isaac and Vic had been sharp, almost clipped, but you had stopped paying attention, caught in the strange pulse of the room, the undercurrent of something unspoken that hummed beneath the words. And just as suddenly as Isaac had started to rise and leave the room, you felt your pulse quicken, the realization that you were now alone with Vic pulling you into the present, a little too quickly.

You glance toward the door Isaac had just exited through, your mind racing for a moment before you shake it off, focusing instead on the man sitting across from you.

Vic, with his smooth confidence and unsettling gaze, notices immediately. “Not to worry,” he says with an easy grin, his voice low and almost teasing. “He’ll be back soon.”

You offer a quiet nod, a soft hum slipping past your lips, but you can feel the tension, thick and palpable, settling between you. He’s studying you, and you can’t quite tell if it’s with genuine interest or the kind of detached amusement that comes from knowing you have the power to unsettle someone without lifting a finger.

With deliberate slowness, Vic reaches for the glass of whiskey you’d placed before him. His fingers brush the crystal, the light catching in the amber liquid as he brings it to his lips, savoring the movement as though every second of it is an indulgence.

When he finally lowers the glass, his gaze doesn’t stray far from yours. There’s something dark in his eyes now, a spark of curiosity, maybe even a touch of something more dangerous.

“I’m somewhat surprised you’re still here,” Vic says, his voice dropping low, smooth like velvet, as if his words are meant to settle in your skin, make you feel them. He leans back in the chair, his posture languid, relaxed, but there’s something in the way he looks at you now—like a cat watching a mouse from the corner of the room.

His eyes never leave yours, and you feel that pull, as though he’s drawing you in with little more than the intensity of his gaze. The whiskey glass in his hand is a casual prop, but the way he holds it—fingers wrapped loosely around the stem—sends an entirely different message. Each subtle motion feels calculated, measured, yet entirely effortless.

There’s a dangerous kind of knowing in his expression, a glint that suggests he’s watching you just as closely as you’re watching him, maybe even more so. "I would have thought you’d slip away by now, when the tension’s thick," he says, his words a slow drawl, drawing out the syllables just a little too much. “But here you are... staying in the eye of the storm.”

The soft clink of the glass as he takes another sip lingers between you both, and you feel the weight of it, how heavy the silence becomes once he lowers the glass. He leans forward, just slightly, the movement so fluid it could have been scripted. His eyes flick to your lips for a moment before returning to your eyes, the action so quick, so fleeting, you wonder if you imagined it.

“I wonder,” he continues, his voice barely more than a murmur now, “what keeps you here. Curiosity? Or maybe something else.” His smile is sharp, suggesting more than he says, and you can feel the heat of his words before they even reach you. It’s a light tease, almost playful, but there’s a deeper undercurrent to it—a suggestion, a challenge buried in the half-light of the room.

You shift slightly, uncomfortable under his gaze, and yet, a part of you can’t seem to look away. The question hangs there, unanswered, as he watches you with that half-smile, knowing that the silence is just as much a part of the game as the words. He’s waiting for you to react, to say something, but your lips stay sealed.

Vic watches, amusement flickering in his eyes, before he takes another slow sip from his glass. His gaze flickers once more, lingering on the curve of your neck, your shoulders, his eyes tracing you as though he’s memorizing every detail. When he speaks again, the words seem almost too casual, too effortless, but there’s something deeper, darker beneath the surface.

“Funny,” he muses, his voice still that low, teasing cadence. “Most people would have run by now, would have found an excuse to leave when the game’s no longer in their favor.” He pauses, letting the words sink in, then leans back again, eyes never leaving you. “But you... You’re still here. And I have to wonder why that is.”

There’s a teasing lilt to his tone, but also something far more predatory, like a hunter circling its prey, testing the waters before the real move is made. His eyes flicker over you once more, assessing, as if trying to gauge the depth of your silence, the depth of your thoughts.

The air in the room seems to close in around you, thick with something unspoken, an invisible thread that pulls tighter with every glance, every breath, every slow word he lets slip from between his lips. 

The weight of Vic’s gaze is undeniable. It’s as though he’s slowly peeling away the layers of you, studying every detail, the silent tension between you thickening with each passing second. His eyes—dark, unfathomable—seem to wrap themselves around you, pulling you in, making you feel exposed in a way that’s both thrilling and unsettling.

Then, without warning, his voice slices through the quiet, the question hanging in the air like a charged wire.

“Have you two had sex yet?”

The words land like a shock, the weight of them hitting you just a beat too late. At first, you don’t fully process what he’s asking, the question sitting there, suspended, as if your mind can’t quite catch up with the force of it.

A sudden rush surges through you—a heat that spreads through your chest, up your neck, and ignites your skin. You feel your heart skip a beat, a flare of panic shooting through your chest. The air feels thick, heavier now, the room closing in around you as the question lingers, waiting for a response you aren’t sure you want to give.

You part your lips, your body instinctively recoiling from the boldness of his question, yet your throat feels tight, unwilling to speak, yet forced to answer. “No—No, not yet?” The words come out uneven, clipped, as if your body can’t quite catch up with the rhythm of your thoughts.

Vic’s smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens, his gaze sharpening as he leans forward ever so slightly, as though savoring your discomfort. The tension between you thickens, and he watches you with a mix of amusement and something darker that edges the corners of his expression.

“Yet?” he repeats, his voice low and teasing, the word hanging between you, practically daring you to justify it. "You plan on having sex with Isaac?"

The question hits you again, the weight of it pressing down on you, but this time you’re more aware of how he’s looking at you. His gaze flicks to your lips, then back to your eyes, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. It’s a game to him—this little dance of words, this push and pull—and you’re already caught in it, trapped between wanting to flee and being drawn deeper into the web he’s weaving.

“That’s—That’s not what I meant!” you stammer, your voice rising a bit more than you’d intended, a nervous laugh slipping from your lips as you try to dismiss the question, but his smile only widens at your discomfort.

He tilts his head slightly, that playful glint never leaving his eyes, as if he finds the whole thing utterly entertaining. "Oh?" He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically against his whiskey glass, never breaking eye contact. "Then what did you mean, darling?" The term of endearment slips from his lips so casually, so effortlessly, that it feels almost mocking, as if he’s daring you to explain yourself, to offer more than what you’ve said.

The room seems to get warmer, the air thicker with each passing moment. You feel your chest tighten, and the space between you both feels charged—almost electric. He’s not just asking questions anymore. He’s drawing you out, pushing you into a corner, all while maintaining that smooth, confident ease that makes it feel like you’re the one who’s overreacting.

You open your mouth to try and correct yourself, but no words come. Instead, the silence stretches between you, heavy and thick, and you realize that Vic is content to let it sit there, watching you squirm.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Vic says, his voice a velvet drawl, the teasing edge sharpening now, “do you think Isaac’s the type of man to leave things… unfinished?” His words are slow, deliberate, as though he’s savoring each syllable. “Or is he the kind to tie up all the loose ends… in his own way?”

The way he says it, so casually, with that flirtatious tone beneath it, sends a shiver down your spine. There’s something so disarmingly confident in his voice, in his posture. You wonder how much of this is just a game to him and how much he actually enjoys watching you unravel, just a little, with every word.

He suddenly stands from his seat, walking towards you. Vic’s presence looms over you, and the heat between you both intensifies with each word he speaks. He senses the way your body reacts—how you tense when he gets too close, how your breath hitches when his gaze lingers too long. And he’s enjoying every moment of it, like a predator savoring its prey, watching you squirm under the weight of his attention.

“Still so quiet,” Vic muses, his voice low and smooth, like a velvet caress that sends a shiver down your spine. He takes a step closer, the space between you narrowing, and you feel his gaze trail over you, examining you like you’re a piece of art he can’t quite figure out. His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, and the intensity of it all leaves you breathless.

He reaches out, casually brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers grazing the side of your cheek with just enough pressure to make your pulse race. The touch is deceptively gentle, yet it carries with it an undeniable weight—a promise of something more. His hand lingers, just a second too long, and when he speaks again, his words are hushed, almost as if he’s whispering to you alone.

“I can feel it,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, thick with something you can’t quite place. “The tension between us. It’s almost... electric.” His fingers trace a slow, deliberate line along your jaw, a touch so light it almost feels like a ghost’s caress, but it lingers in the air between you like a spark that might ignite at any moment.

“Surely Isaac will give you away once he’s done with you, hm?” Vic murmurs, his voice a velvety whisper that sends a shiver crawling up your spine. His breath dances against the side of your neck, warm and intoxicating, and for a moment, you almost forget to breathe. His words leave an ache behind, a nagging question echoing in your mind. When Isaac’s done with you?

You stiffen, instinctively pulling back slightly, but Vic is faster, his grip tightening around your waist, just enough to hold you in place. His eyes, dark with mischief, lock onto yours, and you can see the way he’s enjoying this—enjoying seeing you squirm, seeing the way your composure falters under his teasing touch.

“You’re not really the type to be shared, are you?” he continues, his voice a mix of amusement and something else, something far more dangerous. “I’ve always thought you had a certain... depth to you. So serious, so careful. But I’m starting to think that beneath all that control, there’s a little spark of rebellion.” He leans in just a little more, the air between you crackling, and his lips brush the softest touch against your ear, making your breath catch in your throat. “Tell me, are you the type to be let go of so easily? Just handed over to someone else when they’re done playing with yo—”

Isaac’s voice cuts through the air like a sharp knife, the command so powerful it makes you flinch, your body instinctively recoiling. "Vic. Off. Now," he says, the authority in his tone leaving no room for argument. His eyes snap to yours, and for a moment, it’s like the entire world narrows down to just the two of you, your heartbeat suddenly thunderous in your chest.

Vic freezes, his hand lingering on the air where it had just touched your waist, but he doesn’t immediately pull away. Instead, his lips curl into a mischievous smile, clearly amused by Isaac’s sudden shift in tone. He glances at Isaac, then back at you, his eyes flickering with that same playful intensity, as if he’s enjoying every second of the dynamic unfolding before him. 

Isaac’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes a step forward, his presence immediately shifting the energy in the room. “I said, off, Vic," he repeats, his voice no longer laced with the usual calm detachment, but edged with something sharper. The change is subtle, but it’s enough to make Vic’s smirk falter for just a fraction of a second.

Vic, ever the instigator, seems to savor the tension. He leans back slightly, his fingers trailing lazily down the edge of the chair as if he’s considering Isaac’s words, his eyes flicking between you and Isaac. He gives a small, exaggerated sigh, as if reluctantly conceding the point. "Alright, alright," he mutters with a shrug, his voice playful and almost sarcastic. 

“I’ll be sure to let Asriel know you both are—involved,” Vic had said, his voice dripping with implication, the inflection on the last word lingering in the air like a challenge. The subtle bite of his words tightens something in your chest, a knot of unease settling deep within. Without waiting for a response, he takes a deliberate step back, his eyes flicking briefly to Isaac as he moves toward the door.

Isaac’s expression hardens just a fraction, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face as Vic walks past him. The tension between the two men is palpable, their silent exchange speaking volumes more than the words themselves. Vic’s gaze lingers on Isaac for a moment longer, studying him with an intensity that feels almost predatory, as if he’s savoring the discomfort he’s just caused.

“Good day, Isaac,” Vic says with a casual smirk, his voice light, but the undercurrent of something darker is unmistakable. He pauses at the door, looking back at you one last time, his gaze lingering for just a beat too long, as if he’s trying to gauge something in your eyes—something he’s not yet satisfied with.

──

author's note: im craving a starbucks cake pop, specifically the pink one with white marble like sprinkles.

the song played at the beginning of the story is 'can't keep my eyes off of you' performed by frankie valli.

[gh0stlyb34r]

Welcome to my blog !

About me ! ; the basics

name ; saint , logan , johnny

big age ; 19 ('05)

little age ; 2 - 5

pronouns ; he / they / star / it (+more!)

gender / sexuality ect. ; gay , trans , ace , poly(?)

links at end of post!!

pronouns page | strawpage

About me ! ; my interests

games ; call of duty , overwatch , valorant , hogwarts legacy , jedi fallen order , jedi survivor , red dead redemption 2 , roblox (royale high , dress to impress + more!) , fnaf , poppy playtime , indigo park , forza horizon , resident evil 4 , good pizza great pizza , animal crossing new horizons , mario kart 8 , mario kart wii , just dance , the last of us , detroit become human , spiderman , little nightmares , buckshot roulette

movies / shows / musicals ; star wars , harry potter , marvel , x-men , deadpool & wolverine , the greatest showman , grease , hairspray , moulin rouge , phantom of the opera , annie , hamilton , les miserables , arcane , criminal minds , swat , titains , the batman , high school musical , heartstopper , heathers , young royals , ghostbusters , beetlejuice , into the woods , mean girls , the umbrella academy , nimona , descendants , lemonade mouth , stranger things

youtubers ; pezzy , grizzy , bigpuffer , elasticdroid , gtlive , game theory , warn , aspen , frogger , flats , dawko , ethan nestor , smii7y , blarg , thedooo , beaplays , coleydoesthings , filmcooper , dechart games , hthaze , james marriott , willne

musicians / bands ; taylor swift , hozier , noah kahan , james marriott , mcr , twenty one pilots , p!atd , billie eilish , sleeping at last , the smiths , fleetwood mac , the cranberries , laufey , mitski clairo , paramore , bruno major , depeche mode , chappell roan , novo amor , taylor austen dye , maya hawke , frank sinatra , 1d , 5sos , feels like july , florance the machine , djo , sleep token , lily allen , ghost , lady gaga , gerard way , daughter

misc ; books , lego , monster high , collecting , cds , dvds , posters , flowers , pins , halloween , fall/autumn , deco pacis , colouring

DISCLAIMER ; I do not support the actions of my faves! I hold them all accountable! I do not support JKR , noah schnapp ect!!!

About me ! ; My faves

celebrities / authors ; pedro pascal , oscar isaac , hugh jackman , ryan reynolds , erik j brown , ali hazelwood , tom holland , gerard way , aiden gallagher , kit connor , andrew garfield , ewan mcgregor , hayden christensen , carrie fisher , eddie remain , tom hiddelston , josh hutcherson , david harbour , wynona rider , aaron tveit , matthew gray gubler , maya hawke , natalia dyer , thomas gibson , padget brewster , aj cook

characters ; viktor , jinx , vi , ekko , simon 'ghost' riley , john 'soap' mactavish , kyle 'gaz' garrick , captain john price , keegan p russ , robin buckley , spencer reid , steve harrington , emily prentiss , aaron hotchner , penelope garcia , james potter , remus lupin , sirius black , loki , logan howlett , scott summers , rogue , marc spector , steven grant , obi-wan kenobi , anakin skywalker , luke skywalker , han solo , leia organa , ben hargreeves , luther hargreeves , five hargreeves , newt scamander , theseus scamander , din djarin , wade wilson , danny zuko , ben florian , flynn rider , aziraphale , crowley , nick nelson

My rules ! ; do not interact

nsfw , abdl/ddlg (and variants) , racist, homophobic , transphobic , ableist , zionist , edsh , n@zi , trump supporters , anti agere , anti petre , dsmp/qsmp fans (mainly dream team & wilbur fans)

My rules ; boundaries

when using pet names or gendered terms, keep them masc or gn NO FEM TERMS

DO NOT flirt with me , whether that is as a joke or platonicaly

keep all asks SAFE FOR WORK

more...

Links ; other blogs

writing blog ; @b4bywr1t3s

caregiver blog ; @royaldaycare

Links ; requests and master list

request info / master list / whitelist

Links ; credits

dni banners ; one , two , three

consent banner and dividers ; @kodaswrld

My tags ;

ghostlyblog ; normal posts + asks

ghostlyboards ; moodboards + stimboards

ghostlymedia ; agere media + other photos/videos

🐾 . lo's fictional cgs ; fictional characters that I see as cgs/my cgs

🐾 . lo's fictional faves ; my favourite fictional characters

[studentinpursuitofclouds]

it's been so long since I was here. But I wasn't to see something

How good do you think the bachelors and bachelorettes are at dancing? Ad as many characters as you like, just please add Lance and Isaac because this question came to mind because of them lmao

Hey hey 👋 glad to see you again ☺️

I decided to go wild and write about all the SDV and SVE marriage candidates (+ Isaac). Hope you like it. Enjoy!

Stardew Valley:

Elliott:

Before dancing, he dresses like a real dandy - everything is ironed, clean and perfect.

He just loves slow dancing, such a romantic.

If he is in the right mood, and with his lover/spouse, he will show himself as a tango master.

Even got a rose in his teeth somewhere, that's how passionate he is about the flavor of the dance.

It is sometimes rare that he will accidentally step on his partner's foot or dress, but as a dancer he is quite good.

Sebastian:

Ugh. Why?

If it were Sebastian's will, he would never have gone to the Flower dance in the first place.

He can't and won't dance, no matter what kind of dance it is.

But the system dictates otherwise, so he had to learn the simplest moves at least for this dumb festival.

Dances very simply, without enthusiasm (unless it's his crush/lover).

Shane:

Yoba, why did Marnie drag him to this stupid festival? He doesn't want to dance.

Besides, he can't dance. Like, at all.

The best he can do is a little duckling dance or a father-daughter waltz (in his case, a niece). And that's because he loves his niece.

But otherwise - no, he will not dance, and he is not a good dancer. Don't even try to ask him.

Alex:

He's ready to show himself in all his splendor.

With Haley as his partner most of the time, he knows the dance by heart.

He's also learned a couple of breakdance moves to show off his athleticism.

A pretty good dancer I would say, but he's not too fond of all those ballet and waltz type dances.

Sam:

Oh, man! Sam can pull off some pretty cool moves. Breakdance, hip-hop - what do you want to see? Uh, waltz? Sorry, he's not really good at that.

(Well, to be fair, he can do it, he just doesn't want to show it).

He whines a little bit about how he looks silly in a suit and he doesn't know how to dance much, but then quickly gets into the groove.

Hey, he's pretty good at it. But he's willing to dance like this only for his partner.

Harvey:

Surprisingly, he's pretty laid back about even the dances whose movements he doesn't know much about.

If it concerns the same waltz, of course. You shouldn't expect him to move energetically, he's not at that age anymore.

He may accidentally step on his partner's foot if the sun is shining directly in his eyes, but this is rare.

But he can learn simple movements and dance well with his partner.

Penny:

Penny loves to watch ballet and waltz, but dancing herself... it's a little tricky.

She actually don't mind to dance and has practiced the moves at home where no one can see her.

But when it comes to dancing in front of people, she gets very nervous.

In dancing with a partner there will always be a follower, but once she gets used to it, she dances very well. The practice hasn't gone to waste after all.

Leah:

She is in favor of any fun activity, so dancing is a pretty good option for her.

The girl is not particularly shy of the audience, even because her movements are not too smooth because of the unusual punch (thanks to Pam).

She doesn't really know how to dance, but that doesn't bother her.

She's having fun, and that's what counts. And if others are having fun - even better!

Haley:

Step aside! Now the dance queen will once again defend her title.

Her dance is perfect down to the last detail. Therefore, more often than not, she will pick a partner who is also a good dancer.

She dances only slow dances because too vigorous movements can make her sweat a lot, ew.

However, will not refuse to dance with friends around a campfire or something else just for fun.

Emily:

Dancing? Absolutely! It's her passion and love.

She can do all sorts of different dances very well, likes energetic dances the most.

The type of people who will drag everyone to the dance floor by the hand, and she does not care that her friends dance like a hippopotamus in a china shop.

The main thing is that everyone has fun! She's ready to rock!

Abigail:

She can't stand all that silly slow dancing, especially in heels and a dress.

But energetic and chaotic dancing with friends is welcome!

She knows youth street dancing very well, yet still somehow manages to get tangled up in her own feet during the flower dance.

Depending on the dance itself, she can be a good dancer as well as a good dancer with two left feet.

Maru:

Oh no, don't even try to get her to dance.

Show her the bare minimum, but more complicated moves? No, thank you.

She considers herself incapable of dancing and confirms it by constantly tripping over everything possible.

Although, maybe if you give her more time to learn the dances, she can dance a little better.

Stardew Valley Expanded:

Lance:

A talented man is talented in everything. So he can dance well, too.

But it's about dancing with a partner, not solo dancing.

Either a delicate and romantic waltz or a passionate tango - his partner's choice.

He dances so perfectly, it's like he's been doing it all his life.

Magnus Rasmodius:

Magnus has a background in dancing, but the memories of those dances only make him sad.

Surprisingly, he is a very gentle waltz dancer. It's the best he can do, but it's beautiful and professional. However, it requires a partner, so...

He won't dance in public though, so it's easier for him to say he can't.

A hidden dancer, just like a diamond in the rough.

Victor:

Well-mannered and very romantic - you think he doesn't know how to dance? Wrong.

He will amaze everyone, and especially his partner, with how well he dances.

He also prefers light and slow movements to classical music. Most often with the object of his adoration.

But if asked, he'll teach a few moves in dancing.

Sophia:

Can't and won't dance. Don't even try to get her on the dance floor, it won't work.

She is terribly shy and may cry if someone forces her to dance in public.

Even a nice pink cake will not lure her to dance.

The most she can do is just jumping on the spot to cheerful music (and then only with her best friend Scarlett). Hardly what you'd call dancing, but still.

Olivia:

To say she can't dance is a personal insult.

Salsa, tango, bachata, rumba, or just slow dance - even now she can show a master class.

Beautiful flowing movements, energetic and passionate. For her, dancing is sacred.

Even though she is already a middle-aged woman, she has enough stamina in dancing to outlast any young dancer.

Claire:

She had waited her whole life for this moment.

Ballet is her passion, and even though she was a little nervous, she showed herself perfectly in this dance.

Beautiful, polished choreography. She has a lot to be proud of - her dancing is excellent, the envy of many famous dancers.

That's what it means to love your hobby! She is simply a wonderful dancer.

Bonus - Isaac:

He certainly didn't originate the idea of dancing.

No one really knew if he could dance, because he turned everyone down (he is still a bitch).

To someone, after all, he did not refuse an uncomplicated dance, and his movements were quite acceptable.

Not a great dancer, but he certainly won't step on his dance partner's feet.

For a beginner dances quite well (if only the movements are the simplest).

[omegaremix]

Spring 2001 Mixtape.

All City: “Move On You” (RMX)

Roots Of Orchis: “Building Peaks”

Einsturzende Neubauten: “Was Ist Ist”

Nobodys, The: “Fuck You Too”

Pharcyde: “Oh, Shit!”

Isaac Hayes: “Buns O’ Plenty”

Sonic Youth & Yamatsuka Eye: No

AxCx: “Morbid Flowers”

Devola: “Pigeon Fight”

Chicks On Speed: “Mind Your Own Business”

Starflyer 59: “Wherever You Go”

Fidel Villeneuve: “I Wish I Was Dead”

April March: “Chick Habit”

Mr. Oizo: “Flat Beat”

Boards Of Canada: “Petina”

Ahmad Jamal: “I Say A Simple Little Prayer”

Sea And Cake, The: “Afternoon Speaker”

Company Flow: “Linda Tripp”

Heat, The: “Play The Drums”

Alter Ego: “Nude Restaurant” (Exploding Plastic Strings RMX)

Staple Singers, The: “Let’s Do It Again”

DJ Scud: “Mash The Place Up”

Smiths, The: “Panic”

Tristeza: Dream Signals In Full Circles

Chris Connelly: “Destestimony III”

Jean-Jacques Perrey: “E.V.A.”

Isaac Hayes: “A Few More Kisses To Go”

April March & The Makers: “Sometimes, Sometimes”

Einsturnzende Neubauten: “Fiat Lux / Maifestspiele / Hirnlego”

Camera Obscura: “Theory Of Sex As An Art Form”

Download: Effector

Unsane: “Vandal-X”

Elastica: “Mad Dog”

Autechre: “Flutter”

Gil-Scott Heron: “We Almost Lost Detroit”

Yoshinura Sunahara: “The New World Break”

Dorothy Ashby: “The Windmills On Your Mind”

Cutthroats 9: “Dirty”

Marvin Gaye: “After The Dance”

Chicks On Speed: “Stop Records Advert”

Donny Hathaway: “Singing This Song To You”

David Axelrod: “The Warning”

Company Flow: “Funcrusher Plus”

Wu-Tang Clan: “Cutting Heads”

Isaac Hayes: “Hung Up On My Baby”

Vision Of Disorder: “Pretty Hate”

Einsturzende Neubauten: “Styropor”

Geoff Farina: “The Rights”

Devola: “Well-Oiled Machine”

Peaches: “Fuck The Pain Away”

Johnny Rebel: “We Is Non-Violent…”

Death Cab For Cutie: “Company Calls Epilogue” (ALT)

Slits, The: “Typical Girls”

Ida: “Shrug”

Pharoah Sanders: “The Creator Has A Master Plan”

[geekednori]

ᴘᴀsᴛʀʏ sʜᴏᴘ

🎧 Bᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ Sɴᴏᴡ Lᴀᴜғᴇʏ & Nᴏʀᴀʜ Jᴏɴᴇs ↻ ◁ ɪɪ ▷ ↺

.・。.・゜✭・.

A gust of cold air whistled through the opening of the door, louder than the bell hung at the top of the door. With an abrupt shiver running up and down a young baker's spine, she broke concentration from the cookies she was icing.

"Hello?"

Scrunched brows, those of the baker, approached the front counter.

"I'm sorry sir, but we're closed."

A young man who carried a frantic look on his face, proceeded in long strides and hands stretched out meeting the bakers.

"Please, I need a cake. My idiot friend dropped one in the pool."

An amused scoff escaped from her lips, slipping her hands out of the strangers. Despite his desperate efforts, the thought of a cake being dropped into the pool in the midst of December seemed difficult to get past.

"A pool? How do you-"

"He's an idiot," He quickly responded, shaking his head annoyed, allowing a few loose strands to fall from his once perfectly gelled hair. It's given her the idea that he might've ran all this way for a rebound cake. Also taking into consideration the heavy pants and sweat bead beginning to form at the temples of his head.

"Do you think you could make me another one?"

The baker peeked at the clock past his shoulder, noticing the late hour. There's no doubt that every shop had been closed off by now. She was this stranger's last hope, creating a weight pressing onto her shoulders. "Okay."

His eyes lit up and the relief had taken over him, pulling the bakery for a hug over the counter.

"Sir?" Her voice cracks, stiff as a board, awkwardly patting the back of the stranger who had her in his arms.

"Sorry." He quickly pulled away, scratching a non-existent itch at the back of his neck.

There was a pause as she tried to hold back a smile at his shy demeanor.

"You can come around back." She gestured for him to follow. "No one's here."

The young man had followed, nose in the air, taking in the scent of freshly baked pastries. The warmth of goodies in the oven around them wrapped him cozily, in contrast to the winter wonderland outside.

Tightening and flattening out the apron around her waist she moved fluidly around the kitchen, setting aside a batch of cookies, clearing the area before taking on her new task.

"What kind of cake would you like?" She asked, dusting her hands off.

"Do you think you can make a white chocolate cake layered with strawberry filling?"

She stops in her path to look over at him with widened eyes, "No actually...I'm afraid I haven't mastered that yet,"

His mouth is agape with worrisome eyes, trying to muster up something to say without any actual words spilling out his mouth. That is, until the baker drops the act at his genuine reaction.

"Kidding." She chuckled softly.

He scoffs, and his eyes falling into crescents as he smiles. The ice had been melted away with the warmth in their smiles.

The stranger silently watched her work intently. Never losing sight of her actions and attention to detail. In wonderment of what exactly goes on in her mind while she works with such focus.

"I'm Isaac, by the way."

"Isaac, I'm Andie." She introduced herself, looking back at him.

He'd already been smiling, though the eye contact between each other had caught him off guard. The corners of his lips spread wider, and he'd caught a better glimpse of her up close, noticing her honey skin decorated in specs of rogue chocolate splatters, and a stubborn hair on her cheek that he'd have the sudden urge to brush away, allowing him to fully admire. Of course, he refrains.

"So Isaac, how did your idiot friend drop your cake in the pool?"

Andie continuously uses his name, allowing it to dance and roll of her tongue the way it does. And she liked it.

Isaac releases a breathy laugh, shaking his head away as the memory replays in his mind.

"That man," He sighs, yet the smile doesn't fail at the thought of this cherished friend.

"We're hosting Christmas on the rooftop this year, and he'd thought it was a good idea to make one trip, with both the cake and a tray of biscuits on his arms. Unfortunately, because the cake was too heavy, he dropped the cake into the pool as he made way for outside."

Nabi snickered, eyes cheerful while her hands work on the batter. All the while, imagining what kind of life this guy must've lived for his rooftop to have a pool. Now thinking about it, he did have that city boy look.

It was sort of boy meets Breakfast at Tiffany's, only he was a male Holly Golightly, dressed in classic black attire with a designer coat that suited him fancy with his tall, lean figure and even proportions. And you can't forget the polished shoes, a blinding watch on his wrist and glittering rings adorning his slim fingers. Perhaps a businessman?

"Why are you working so late on Christmas?" He asked, growing intrigued by the young baker who unintentionally poked his brain for answers.

"Believe it or not, the mornings after Christmas Day are always the busiest." Andie answers with a familiar sting in her heart. "I've got to make sure we have enough pastries prepared."

Isaac's eyes softened at the way her smile lost its glow. It was best to leave it at that, and so he does while taking a glance around the kitchen til' his eyes fall on a batch of holiday cookies.

She's just about ready to fill a tin with a batter, before Isaac stops her, taking her by the wrist gently.

"Wait-"

"Do you think you could add a pattern? Like, when you cut into it, you'd see stripes like a candy cane."

"I could, but it would take a little while longer." She replied, but with instant realization she adds on, "Not that I don't want to. make it that way for you... I just assumed you were in a rush."

Isaac smiles, letting go of her wrist.

"I'm not in a rush. I would actually like to help."

Her skin tingles where his hand had previously wrapped around her wrist.

"Sure. You can help."

His brows shoot up as he fixed his posture.

"Don't worry, you won't ruin it." Andie reassures.

"I'm not too sure about that. My mom doesn't call me clumsy for nothing."

She laughs, but the look on his face says that he was being serious. Nonetheless, he was more than happy to help. His heart did somersaults and stomach was home to hundreds of butterflies.

Having washed his hands and wrap an apron around his waist, he stood by Andie's side curiously.

"Is it okay if-" her fingers pointed at his hands.

The confusion in his eyes was quickly wiped away when he realized what she had been shyly asking.

"Yeah," He nodded, eyes studying the details of her smaller hands.

Andie's hands gently held his, and his breath was caught in his through when he felt the warmth. She guided him through the proper filling making process, explaining the procedure in great detail, though her grew distracted by the thumping in his heart and the fire on his skin where she touched him.

"Isaac?" Blinking away his thoughts, he'd realize her hands were no longer holding his. Isaac looked down at his own hands and still felt the sensation as if the feeling was tattooed onto his skin.

"You think you can do it?"

"Sorry?" He replied as he had not paid attention to a single word said.

"It's okay, I can do it. You can help yourself to some cookies instead."

"No, I can do it." He smiled with determination, "But, do you mind showing me one last time?"

She nods, going over the instructions thoroughly without the physical action of explaining.

"I mean- do you mind holding my.."

"...Sure" She laughed softly

Andie held his hands once again, sparking up the same bubbly feeling at each other's core. She paused, studying his hands before looking up and finding him already staring back at her.

Isaac's eyes glimmered and her heart raced at the simplicity of it all. Though, there was nothing simple about the way both hearts race for each other.

ᴍᴏsᴀɪᴄ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ

[qualcosadelgenere]

PT.2

1) Jean Baker: "Australia's strongest goalkeeper. He is the true Poseidon."

2) David Waterman: "Originally an Aussie rules player but was longing to participate in the tournament."

3) Shine Beach: "He cannot stand it when a sandy beach is dirty and picks up garbage every day."

4) Karmei Kohler: "He keeps art handed down from ancient times in Australia as a tradition."

5) Clark Cain: "Eager to protect the rare creatures that live in Australia."

6) Sully Princeton: "A genius at finding the whereabouts of rare minerals. He seems to know by just looking at the terrain."

7) Matt Angle: "Patience strengthened by spiritual discipline is the key to this player's power."

8) Surf Wyndhas: "A worldwide master at surfing. He waits for good waves to always look at the sea."

9) Niese Dolphin: "The brilliant prince of the sea. He is the man to lead Australia."

10) Reef Hamilton: "He is a master at catching tropical fish in coral reefs by skindiving."

11) Joe Jones: "Attacks at once when it comes to opportunities to quietly creep up on the opponent."

12) Quincy Horst: "He travels the wilderness still looking for a new gold mine."

13) Holly Summers: "Although he has a part-time job as Santa every year he envies the cold areas."

14) Clive Scissors: "He is good at cutting through opponents with the use of his sharp arm."

15) Daniel Barrack: "He is working hard to be the best in the world of horse meat that has been kept at his home in Australia."

16) Bruce Marlin: "Does his footwork with a spring characteristic of a kangaroo."

1) Fermin Sanchez: "Like a bull at a matador, he charges straight through the crowd to grab the ball."

2) José Costa: "He's an experienced and tenacious mountain biker."

3) Rafael López: "He's a great flamenco dancer. Girls are lining up for a chance to dance with him."

4) Antonio Galius: "He's always making sketches for abstract paintings, like Picasso."

5) Querardo Naval: "He's trained to be a matador since he was a child, but he hates hurting animals."

6) Joan Nadal: "He eats five meals a day to keep his strength up when he's travelling overseas."

7) Igor Freire: "He's an avid consumer of paella, but he's really fussy about the type of rice."

8) Mikel Pereiro: "His hobby is making sailing boats. He's assembling an invincible armada in his bathtub."

9) Pedro Moreno: "He's raising a black Iberian pig at home, in the hope of producing tasty ham."

10) Samuel Mayo: "This plucky Pamplonica dreams of one day showing his mettle at the Running of the Bulls."

11) Davi Peroqui: "He's fiercely proud of Spanish football, and doesn't hide his desire to take on the world."

12) Juan Zubeldia: "Everyone is bewitched by his virtuosic skill at flamenco guitar."

13) Isaac César: "An opportunist on and off the field. If he sees a beautiful girl, he'll try to charm her."

14) Laudelino Sastre: "Like Don Quixote, he acts rashly without considering consequences."

15) Carlos Arroyo: "He hopes to raise architectural wonders like the Sagrada Familia."

16) Federico Rubiera: "He'd like to have a go at synchronised swimming, but he can't find a boys' team."

1) Ladji Paara: "Always draws pictures in Montmartre. He wants to be called the pioneer of soccer pictures."

2) Pierre Godin: "His motto is: always play with style and grace, no matter who your rival is."

3) Miguel Arron: "Despite his appearance, this boy has a gift for French cuisine."

4) Franz Poujol: "He wants to make a building more famous than the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe in Paris someday!"

5) Kévin Pinot: "He wants to apply Napoleonic battle strategies on the playing field."

6) Laurent Pérec: "He always spends his days off relaxing at outdoor cafés."

7) Ronny Weiss: "As one of France's best boy models, he is in high demand for fashion shows and photogravures."

8) Stéphane Henno: "A young genius artist of chansons. All of his CDs are big hits!"

9) Julien Rousseau: "He likes to play with a rose clamped between his teeth. Very pretentious."

10) Jérôme Éloi: "Due to having a keen sense of smell, this person is capable of blending the best perfume."

11) Alain Failliot: "The son of a bicycle repairman. He'd like to help out at the Tour de France one day."

12) Émile Razzano: "He considers himself a devotee of French cinema and has a large collection of DVD movies."

13) André Panzo: "He likes nineteenth-century philosophy, but his friends do not understand him when he explains it."

14) Jean Jetin: "Although he has not yet made the leap to fame, this guy is a fashion prodigy."

15) Claude Moreau: "His baguettes are known throughout France. Mmm … They are delicious!"

16) Michel Morin: "He has a gift for gardening, especially if it's about cultivating life."

[ask-hector-and-isaac]

hello devil forgemasters! your master arrange masquerade balls? did you both participate in them?

Isaac: Hah! I can't even imagine our Lord arranging such gaudy celebrations. He is a private, reserved person. Besides, as already stated, we cannot dance, and I myself have no interest in learning.

Hector: Lord Dracula would rather dance with Lady Lisa, just the two of them together. The ghosts of the castle accompany them with their music, but the Lord and the Lady are the ones regaling us the spectacle.

Isaac: A charming sight, wouldn't you say? No one could compare.

[johngarfieldtribute]

A Golden Boy…a TRUE American Hero.

Adam McKay’s DEATH ON THE LOT podcast, episode 3 features John Garfield unjust framing by HUAC.

The guests on the podcast are ALL the people I would have selected to interview: daughter, actor and artist, Julie Garfield; authors, Robert Nott and Isaac Butler, and also a surprise—actor, Lee Grant one of the few remaining to be blacklisted in Hollywood in the 50’s. Excellent commentary by all. Good on you, Adam McKay and team!

The Red-Baiting of a Golden Boy | Episode 3 | A new generation of actors questioned the status quo; a rattled establishment fought back; dire consequences ensued. We’re talking John Garfield, Hollywood’s first method actor. LISTEN

"When I was originally requested to appear before the committee, I said that I would answer all questions, fully and without any reservations, and that is what I have done. I have nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to hide. My life is an open book. I was glad to appear before you and talk with you. I am no Red. I am no pink. I am no fellow traveler. I am a Democrat by politics, a liberal by inclination, and a loyal citizen of this country by every act of my life.”

—John Garfield’s statement before House Un-American Activites Committee (HUAC) on April 23, 1951.

All Julie wanted to do was what he did best: ACT. They took everything away from him. Despite that, he held his street cred. He gave away not a single name during his testimony. No ratting on friends and associates from Julie. Badass.

The others involved: Shameful. Shocking that Julie’s life and livelihood could be toyed with so heartlessly and carelessly. This was a man who did so much for his country. How could the ruthless, power hungry politicians ignore these examples of John Garfield’s patriotism?

During WWII, he cofounded—after bringing the suggestion to Bette Davis—the Hollywood Canteen. The Canteen operated from October 3, 1942 through November 22, 1945 (Thanksgiving Day), as a club offering free of charge: food, dancing and entertainment for service personnel usually on their way overseas. Nearly four million people were served as they were serving us!

The Hollywood Victory Caravan included Eddie Dowling, President of Camp Shows, Ray Bolger, Mitzi Mayfair, Louis Polanski, Stan Laurel, Oliver Hardy, Jane Pickens, Benay Venuta, and John Garfield serving as master of ceremonies. One of the first USO tours, Flying Showboat revue toured U.S. military bases in the Caribbean. These celebrities performed under some extremely trying conditions, as the weather was brutally hot and many of the camps were not equipped to host theatrical performances. The show must go on (!) and it did.

Julie running an event at the Canteen.

Julie entertains the troops! Audience members at the Canteen filled the hall.

Here he is selling War Bonds to support WWII efforts with Humphrey Bogart in 1943. Not sure who is pictured with them.

Julie championed the story of real life marine hero, Al Schmid bringing it to the screen in PRIDE OF THE MARINES. He read about the hero in LIFE magazine and brought the idea for a film to the studio. He stayed with Sargent Schmid and his wife for a couple weeks to portray the man respectfully and honesty.

[whumpsoda]

We Search For Stolen Personhood - Graham

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpees, recovering whumpees

——————

Mutt lied against the bed frame, gnawing at his lower lip as he pulled the bedding up to his lap, fists clenched over the fluffiest of blankets he’d never before used. Wesley slept on the top bunk now, so Mutt could sleep on the bottom one. He’d refused at first, but after Wesley’s insistence on him using a bed he had warily given in.

It was very comfortable, he thought, much better than his crate. Too comfortable. Soon enough he was going to forget his place and step out of line. He already had, sitting on the furniture like that. Like the person that he couldn’t be.

Then again, he recalled what Wesley had explained to him. About all the rescue stuff. These people - they weren’t owners at all, Wesley had said - didn’t want him to be a pet anymore.

Did he?

He’d gotten good at using Wesley’s new name. It came to him with ease, as if Prince had never been right. That made him think maybe… Mutt wasn’t right either.

He swallowed, hard. “G- Graham. Graham.” He blurted from below, just before Wesley could completely drift off to sleep, words cracking in the middle.

Wesley soon replied back, deep drowsiness dripping from his croaking voice. “Huh?”

“You said…,” he was doing it. He was doing it. “Pick a name. Graham.”

Wesley was quiet for a moment, the sound of the two’s breathing all that filled the space as his tired brain processed. “That's… I like it. You look like a Graham.”

Graham breathed out, trembling almost, in relief. “Really?” The idea that he could ever look like he had a name at all was mind blowing.

“Yeah.” Graham heard him let out a little giggle, low and gravely with sleepiness. “Do… do I look like a Wesley?”

“Yes! Yes. Really.” He stumbled, holding his face in his hands with excitement. He shoved down the overwhelming urge to kick his feet and laugh, to dance around the room until he was too tired to move. To act completely unlike himself, overcome with giddiness.

Him. Giddy. His master would have never allowed it. Oh, he was being so bad.

Your master isn’t here, though.

He could hear the nod in Wesley’s voice. “Graham and Wesley. That’s good.” Wesley’s approval only squashed more of the butterflies in his belly, bringing on a swirling warmth of honeydew sweetness instead.

“Do you think… everyone will like it?”

“Who cares if they don’t?” He whispered faintly. “It only matters if you like it. That’s what Isaac said.”

“Oh.” He digested that for a beat, hesitating. Did he like it? Could he? “I like it. A lot.”

“Good.” Wesley shuffled around in bed, getting comfortable again. “Goodnight… Graham.”

He desperately hoped he wasn’t dreaming. That he could wake up tomorrow with a real name for himself, and he would never have to let it go. “Goodnight, Wesley.”

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[mixology-expert]

*… carbine smiles*

you’re welcome.

…. I have to go talk to Grif about something. Thanks for the dance.

*…. Carbine leaves, but not before giving Issac a quick kiss on the hand*

— @master-dealmaker

Isaac smiles ever so slightly and nods.

Isaac stands in the middle of the dance floor, watching Carbine leave, his smile fading as the people around him continue to laugh and smile and chat. It fades into the background as Isaac blocks out the almost painful noise.

He glances back at Simon dancing with Yelena for one last moment, before creaking open the door to the venue and leaving as quietly as he can.

[maria021015]

SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 41 AHEAD!

On a dark desert highway - cool wind in my hair, warm smell of colitas rising up through the air. Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light. My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim. I had to stop for the night.

There she stood in the doorway. I heard the mission bell, and I was thinkin' to myself, ‘This could be heaven or this could be hell’. Then she lit up a candle, and she showed me the way. There were voices down the corridor. I thought I heard them say…

‘Welcome to the Hotel California! Such a lovely place - such a lovely face. Plenty of room at the Hotel California! Any time of year, you can find it here’

Her mind is Tiffany-twisted. She got the Mercedes-Benz. She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys that she calls friends. How they dance in the courtyard - sweet summer sweat. Some dance to remember, some dance to forget. So I called up the Captain, ‘Please bring me my wine. He said, ‘We haven't had that spirit here since 1969. And still, those voices are calling from far away. Wake you up in the middle of the night just to hear them say…

‘Welcome to the Hotel California! Such a lovely place - such a lovely face. They're livin' it up at the Hotel California! What a nice surprise - bring your alibis.’

Mirrors on the ceiling, the pink champagne on ice, and she said, ‘We are all just prisoners here of our own device’. And in the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast. They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast. Last thing I remember, I was running for the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before.

‘Relax’, said the night man, ‘We are programmed to receive. You can check out any time you like but you can never leave!’

The breaks squealed eerily as the bus pulled into the front lot of an old motel. A brightly-lit, flickering neon sign notified them that this particular establishment was called ‘Motel Glen Capri’. Unfortunately, it seemed as though a more fitting name would have been ‘Motel California’, after the similarly-named song ‘Hotel California’. ‘Intertextuality’ - Zaida mused internally, remembering another one of her flashcards. As the brunette peered out the window to the almost completely empty parking lot, she felt ghostly fingers trail a path down her spine, sending goosebumps rippling over her skin. Out of all of the motels Finstock could have chosen to stay for the night, it had to be here. At least their luck of late had been consistent. Consistently awful , that was. She didn’t know why she had expected anything more when hearing that the meet was pushed back due to the extreme weather warning.

“There’s only one other car parked - and it’s probably the person who works here.” She mumbled to the werewolf beside her. There were multiple echoes of slightly-differing but equally strong emotions that knocked against those tightly shut doors in her mind. Something bad had happened here. She could feel the imprint of it, left behind like fossilised tracks. "Maybe there’s a reason."

“It’s not like we have a choice,” Isaac shrugged and rose from his seat to follow the stream of students fast-emptying the bus. “Come on princess, you can put up with it for one night.”

She rolled her eyes at his teasing but followed him regardless, slinging her duffel bag up and over her shoulder. The moment her sneaker-enclosed feet landed on the solid ground, that knocking grew louder.

“...I've seen worse.” Scott tried to be positive as he stood on the asphalt overlooking the dungy building.

“Where have you seen worse?” Stiles scoffed in exasperation, hating the look of the place almost as much as Zaida.

“Listen up! The meet's been pushed 'til tomorrow. This is the closest motel with the most vacancies and the least amount of good judgment when it comes to accepting a bunch of degenerates like yourselves!” Finstock announced in his booming voice as he addressed them all. Ah, so that was why they were here instead of the forest down the road - which would have been a better place to stay in comparison. Maybe the forest animals decided they didn’t have enough room. “You'll be pairing up - girls with girls and boys with boys - so choose wisely. And I'll have no sexual perversions perpetrated by you little deviants! Got that? Keep your dirty little hands to your dirty little selves!”

“Coach, there are an odd number of girls!” Zaida pointed out. The man narrowed his eyes, scanning over the group as if he was counting to make sure she was telling the truth.

“Right,” He nodded when he had finished. “You can pair up with Danny then, thanks for volunteering.”

“Making Danny pair up with a girl just because he’s gay is clear discrimination.” She pointed out mischievously for the sake of arguing with the man. Truth be told, she was grateful it was at least Danny and not Ethan.

“Don’t you start with me, missy.” He pointed a finger at her. “The last time somebody suggested such a thing - thanks McCall - I proved everybody wrong! I love the gays! The man I slept with to prove I wasn’t homophobic was gay - and he was a great guy, bought me dinner and everything.”

“Coach-” Stiles began with a snicker but Finatock blew his shrill whistle to shut him up once more.

“That’s enough!” The man glared at them all and held out the keys he had collected from the front desk for them to take. “Everybody take your keys and leave me alone! If somebody wakes me up from my court-mandated eight hours of NyQuil-induced sleep, there better be a fire. Except for you, Greenberg! Even if the sky was raining down army tanks filled with the living dead, I wouldn’t want you to wake me.”

The group quickly dispersed, undoubtedly discussing amongst themselves how they were going to sneak into each others’ rooms and whatnot. It left Zaida and Lydia standing beside each other, both girls unsure about approaching any closer.

“Lydia...?” Allison turned back to frown at them in questioning. “Zaida?”

“I don't like this place.” The redhead pursed her lips into a thin line with wary green eyes.

“I don't think the people who own this place like this place.” Allison chuckled, brushing off the girl’s concerns for a superficial dislike of a hotel that was anything less than five stars. Normally Zaida would make the same joke, but Lydia was right. The thick and palpable negative energy that shrouded the motel only seemed to grow stronger the closer she got. Maybe it was best if she didn’t admit to that aloud though, considering Lydia was already concerned and they’d have to stay here through the night either way. “It's just for a night.”

“A lot can happen in one night…” Lydia murmured and Zaida drew the girl’s hand into hers, giving her a reassuring squeeze before tugging her forward. Inwardly, she reinforced those doors in her head until the knocking quietened and faded.

“Come on, Lyds. I want to get to my room and freshen up before Danny claims the shower. I have a feeling he has a rigorous pampering routine.” Zaida grinned, attempting to make light of the situation for her friend’s sake.

“With skin as clear and hydrated as his?” She arched a delicate brow. “Definitely.”

As it turned out, Zaida should have been more worried about Ethan and Danny claiming the room to ‘catch-up’. She had walked in, screamed an uncomfortable apology, and walked straight back out with her cheeks burning. Well, so much for claiming the bathroom. After what she witnessed she was sure she didn’t want to touch anything in that room.

Allison and Lydia had both expressed their desires to shower (though the latter may have changed her mind when she saw the state of the facilities), leaving Zaida with two options. She could seek out Isaac’s room and undoubtedly face many teasing jokes and be subjected to Boyd’s deadly mood, or she could swallow her pride and hope that Scott and Stiles would allow her to use their shower. She went with the latter. Her stomach twisted with dread as she knocked on their door and waited for one of them to answer. The blood in her ears beat to the thundering of her pulse, quickening as her thoughts ran rampant uncontrollably. She couldn’t shake the image of Stiles and Lydia sat beside each other with Scott and Allison behind them.

Zaida had never seen the sense in Lydia and Stiles as a match, but now that she knew her own feelings for the boy, perhaps it was always just a subconscious hope that they would never eventuate. One thing was for certain, she held a biased opinion. Coming from an outsider's perspective, she supposed it made sense. The boy had been pining over Lydia for years, and the girl was finally shedding her shallow and vapid self in favour of a new and improved version. In the movies, that kind of a redemption arc would guarantee the boy finally getting the girl. Hearing them work things out together on the bus made Zaida realise that maybe one of the best things about herself and Stiles - their investigative bond - wasn’t only unique to them. The feelings of betrayal, inadequacy and jealousy only rose to the surface once more. Looking on at all four of her friends together and knowing Lydia could easily replace her role in the quartet planted the worry that things wouldn’t have been all that different had Zaida never moved to Beacon Hills. Maybe one day they would realise that too. That they didn’t need her. That she didn’t matter anymore…and maybe she never had.

Her spiralling thoughts and churning guts were silenced by Stiles opening the door to the motel room. The sight of Stiles with wet hair and only a towel wrapped around him, hanging low on his hips, stirred a swarm of butterflies in her stomach. Her lips parted in surprise and she couldn’t stop her eyes from roving the planes of defined muscle of his torso.

“Zaida? Hey, what are you doing here?” The boy's brows furrowed slightly in questioning and her heart only thumped louder in her chest when he leaned against the door frame with his forearm, displaying the veins that webbed prominently beneath the skin.

“Oh, uh…I was just going to ask if you guys were using your shower - which, clearly you were, and are not currently.” She stumbled over her words at a far faster pace than usual in her flustered state.

“Scott already had one and I just finished. Why, did Danny hog all the hot water?” He jested, unaware of her current predicament.

“He never made it to the bathroom, actually. But from the looks of what he and Ethan were getting up to, he will definitely be needing one later.” She raised her brows and swallowed her rising disgust at the memory of what she’d walked in on.

“Oh God, my condolences.” Stiles wrinkled his nose in an expression mirroring how she felt. “You can use ours.”

He finally stepped aside, moving those distracting muscles away from her line of sight and allowing her to function normally again - or semi-normally, at least. When she stepped further into the room Scott shot her a knowing look and she glared at him. Damn those werewolf senses. Dragging her duffel bag with her into the bathroom, Zaida peeled off her musty bus clothes and stepped beneath the hot shower spray. The water pressure wasn’t great, and most of the tiles were edged in pink mold that climbed from the grouting, but at least she felt a bit cleaner when she stepped out. She hadn’t packed any pyjamas - having not planned on staying the night - but she had packed an extra outfit for after the cross country, anticipating how awful it would feel to endure the five hour bus ride back in her sweaty clothes.

When she exited the bathroom Stiles and Scott were lying down on their twin single beds, staring up at the peeled and cracked ceiling. Stiles was fully dressed this time in dark-wash jeans, a grey T-shirt and a maroon jacket that clung to his biceps in a way that made Zaida flush.

“Hey, come here,” Stiles beckoned her over, patting on the thin mattress beneath him. She tentatively took a seat at the end of his bed. “We need your brain.”

“To hell with the rest of me, right?” She snorted sarcastically, though it was only partially a joke. A headache was beginning to play behind her eyes like a drumming in her brain.

“All right, so I have four.” Stiles returned to the conversation he had been previously having with Scott, leaving Zaida to guess at the subject matter. “Lydia and I think that the Darach and the alpha pack are preparing for war against each other. The alphas are expanding their pack, and the Darach is committing human sacrifices for power - however that works.”

“Four? You have four suspects?” Scott raised a brow towards his hairline. So that’s what they were talking about. Scott finally allowed his best friend to discuss the identity of the Darach.

“Yeah, it was originally ten. Well, nine, technically, I guess - I had Derek on there twice.” Stiles lifted his shoulders into a half-shrug.

“Well, I guess we can cross him off, now that he’s… you know.” Zaida muttered. She was still bitter about Stiles and Lydia working together without her.

“So, who's number one? Harris?” Scott brushed off her comment.

“Just because he's missing, doesn't mean he's dead.” Stiles nodded in confirmation.

“So, if he's not dead, our chemistry teacher is out secretly committing human sacrifices...?” Scott added skeptically.

“Yeah, I guess that just sounded way better in my head.” Stiles winced when he realised how far-fetched his theory sounded aloud.

“Harrris is definitely sketchy, but why would he write ‘Darach’ on his graded papers and leave them on his desk if it was him? That’s self-incrimination at the most , and giving us crucial information the Darach wouldn’t want people knowing at the least.” Zaida pointed out.

“Maybe he was trying to throw suspicion off, or maybe the alphas got to him before he could clean it up?” The Sheriff’s son suggested.

“I don’t think so. He was leaving a message - like he knew he was going to be taken. Maybe he knew who the Darach was.” Zaida offered.

“Well, what if it's someone else from school? Like, you remember Matt? We didn't know that he was killing people…” Scott interjected, trying to be helpful.

“Excuse me? I'm sorry, what? I-“ Stiles craned his neck, leaning up to look at his friend with an appalled expression. “Yes, we did! I called that from day one , actually.”

“Yeah, but we never really thought that it was Matt…” Scott chuckled lightly.

“I was serious! I was quite serious, actually! Deadly serious! No one listened to me!” Stiles scoffed and got to his feet in his outrage.

“I listened to you,” Zaida mumbled under her breath. Between his comment just then and how he had only validated her earlier theory of Scott’s injury-origins when Lydia had said it, she felt entirely overlooked.

“Who were the other three?” The werewolf pulled them back on track.

“Derek's sister, Cora - no one knows anything about her, and she's Derek's sister.” Stiles tucked down another finger as he demonstrated the list on his hand. “Next, your boss.”

“My boss?” Scott repeated in surprise, sitting up.

“Yeah, your boss. I don't really like the whole Obi-Wan thing he's got going on, you know? It freaks me out.” Stiles explained and at Scott’s confounded look his jaw dropped. “...Oh, my God! Have you still not seen Star Wars?!”

“I swear, if we make it back alive, I will watch the movie.” Scott sighed in defeat.

“That’s ‘movies’ plural, Scotty boy.” Zaida corrected.

“How many are there?” He questioned with a clueless frown.

“Three in the original trilogy, three in the prequels, three in the sequels, three non-canon Ewok spin offs, two standalone spin offs, then the Clone Wars film and tv show, and most recently, the Kenobi and Ashoka spin-off shows. Plus the holiday special, Star Wars Rebels, The Mandelorian, Andor, The Book of Boba Fett, Lego Star Wars, the upcoming Droid Story film...” Zaida listed them as Scott’s eyes only grew wider and wider along with Stiles’ broad smile. “Do you want me to keep going?”

“No!” Scott shook his head definitively and changed the subject. “Stiles, you said you had four. Who was the last suspect?”

“...Lydia. She was totally controlled by Peter, and she had no idea, so…” The boy admitted with a grim expression.

“What? My best friend is not going around committing human sacrifices!” Zaida blurted in defence of the girl, in disbelief that he had even suggested such a thing.

“I’m not saying she’s doing it on purpose. When Peter controlled her, she had no clue what she was doing. He could be doing it again. Think about it, Lydia found one of the bodies and has no idea how she ended up there.” Stiles elaborated on his theory, and when he put it that way Zaida supposed it was an undeniable possibility. “Maybe she didn’t just find the body.”

“I need some food.” She rubbed at her temples, easing the tension there as she got to her feet.

“I’ll come with you. I saw a vending machine on our way in.” Stiles offered, though it was more of a demand than a question. He was up and leading the way out of the door in only a few moments.

“You coming, Scotty boy?” Zaida looked to the werewolf hopefully, not quite wanting to be alone with Stiles right now.

“No, you guys go.” Scott was too zoned-out to pick up on her silent plea for his company, leaving a disappointed Zaida to trail after Stiles.

“Maybe this isn’t the best idea - you and vending machines don’t exactly have a long-standing history of a good relationship.” The brunette pointed out in a sarcastic drawl as she followed after the boy outside, walking along the balcony that was lined with other room numbers.

“That was ages ago. I’m a changed man, Zaida.” He winked at her. Certainly he was a changed man. Compared to that hyperactive little boy and self-assured, strong-willed girl they were back then, both of them had changed. He was a bit calmer now - though still chaotic - and more confident. As for herself? Well she wasn’t so sure anymore. She’d thought that she’d found her place in Beacon Hills - that she meant something, and that she made a difference. She’d thought that now that she was in more control of her abilities, she was powerful. Last night at the mall only proved to her how wrong she had been. She was completely worthless, her ice shards discarded in a split second by a blind man. If it weren’t for Allison and her flash arrows, them being there would have been a disaster. There was nothing Zaida could do to help her friends, or her brother for that matter. In fact, all she had done was force Xander to paint a target on his back to protect her. The only difference she had made was that she’d somehow managed to make the situation entirely worse.

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet. What’s going on in that brilliant mind of yours?” Stiles wondered, his analytical amber eyes arrowing on her - able to see right through her to the turmoil within. ‘Brilliant’ - she snorted audibly. Not so brilliant that she could figure out the Darach and alphas were opposing sides in an upcoming battle. Not so brilliant that she could find a way to save her brother from the fate she bestowed upon him. Not so brilliant that Stiles would believe her theories before Lydia confirmed them.

“I’m fine, Stiles.” She spat back with more venom in her tone than she intended.

“Okay, now I definitely know something is wrong. When you say you’re fine, you’re not fine. Ever .” He shook his head. “Is it about Deucalion? About what happened last night? Everyone’s been fussing over if Scott’s okay because his mental anguish manifested in a physical injury, but no one’s asked if you’re okay, have they?”

“You did,” She answered in quiet realisation. He’d cared enough to question if she was up to this trip even before getting on the bus. That small gesture kept that tiny flame of hope burning in her chest, and it was enough to light up the consuming darkness.

“How are you holding up with it all?” He asked with sympathy softening his molten-honey eyes.

“Well, the werewolf who murdered my parents is just waltzing around Beacon Hills, and Xander is next on his hit-list because of me. Yet I’m here on a Cross Country meet while he’s probably running - or fighting - for his life. If he even still has it. So I’d say I’m doing fabulously.” Her lips pulled into a tight and sarcastic smile.

“You know it’s not your fault, right? There was no way for you to have known any of that was going to happen.” Stiles attempted to reason with her, but guilt was far stronger than logic. It clawed at her insides, raking deep scrapes into her very bones.

“But it is my fault, whether I meant for it to happen or not. I’m the reason my brother might be dead right now.” She swallowed hard, her self-disgust and inadequacy rising thickly in her throat. It was sickening.

“You…you don’t know that. Xander could be safe.” The boy tried - the way she was speaking was entirely foreign. He’d never heard her talk like that before. Zaida always had a plan B, and then a plan C, or D, all the way through to Z. She always seemed to know what to do. Always appeared two steps ahead of the rest of them. Zaida Callis never gave up. But right now, she sounded entirely hopeless, and it struck fear into his gut. “Your brother knows what he’s doing - he’s police trained and he’s a Hunter trained by the Argents - the oldest Hunter family ever! He’ll be okay.”

“I hope so,” She muttered, not wanting to talk about this anymore. Not even with him. Talking about it only meant she had to think about it, and she was already thinking about it enough. Zaida was thankful when the two of them descended the noisy metal staircase and reached the vending machine beneath it, effectively cutting off their conversation. Boyd was standing and staring at the glass with another one of his famous deadpan expressions as he punched in the buttons on the keypad to select Peanut Butter Crackers.

“Hey! That was the same thing I was gonna get.” Stiles grinned in a friendly fashion as he peered nosily from next to the beta. The metal swirl holding the snacks rotated, but not enough to release the packet into the drop-chute. “Oh, hang on...You know what? I got a patented method for this, don't worry-”

“Stiles,” Zaida let out an exhausted sigh as the boy gripped the machine from its top, preparing to shake it. Boyd interrupted them both, punching straight through the glass with a closed fist, the rest of him not moving so much as an inch. He snatched his snack from the machine and turned on his heel, leaving without so much as a word. “Oh my God…” She frowned as her eyes followed the werewolf. What was it with people in Beacon Hills breaking vending machines?

Stiles, on the other hand, took the opportunity to grab as many items as he could hold, cautious eyes darting about for anyone who might see him committing vending machine theft. “How are you the son of the Sheriff?” Zaida tutted at his law-breaking tendencies.

“It’s because I'm the son of the Sheriff,” He assured her and ushered her away from the scene of the crime, back up the stairs and towards him and Scott’s room.

“Oh no, I’m not going to get caught for you pillaging the motel vending machine. You’re on your own, buddy.” She held up her hands and shook her head, splitting off in the opposite direction with a lazy salute.

“I thought you were hungry?” Stiles called out as she turned back.

“Not anymore. Crime makes me lose my appetite,” She jested dryly. In truth, she really couldn’t bear being around him right now - not when every time she looked at him, she only saw him sitting beside Lydia in that bus.

Unfortunately Danny and Ethan were not yet ‘finished’ in her own room. Zaida discovered that the hard way, and was left with yet another dilemma - she could retreat to Stiles and Scott’s room with her proverbial tail between her legs, or she could seek out Lydia and Allison. She went with the lesser of the two evils and ventured a bit further down the upstairs walkway to where she knew the redhead and huntress were situated. When Lydia opened the door for her and ushered her inside, Zaida wasn’t expecting the vile and acrid taste of jealousy to bubble over and leave a bitter taste in her mouth - but it did. How did the girl still look so beautiful after five hours in a car - over two of those hours spent in a crowded bus? She hadn’t even had a shower or changed her clothes. She looked exactly as perfect as she had looked when she was seated next to Stiles, having him gaze at her with his amber-eyes.

“Come on in, you can sit anywhere you like, although I wouldn’t recommend it,” The redhead wrinkled her nose in disgust at the state of the accommodation they were put up in.

Even that somehow looked adorable on her small button nose. When Zaida did that, she always thought her straight-bridged European nose simply looked like a wrinkled beak. That feeling of inadequacy boiled once again within Zaida. In all of their friendship, she’d tried hard to not compare herself with Lydia, knowing it would never end well. But now she couldn’t help it. Zaida was suddenly very aware of the differences between her and her best friend. The redhead had captured Stiles Stilinski’s heart, for starters, without even trying to do so. She was much prettier as well. In fact, in more ways than not Zaida paled in comparison to the redhead’s beauty and other talents. She wasn’t musical enough, wasn’t artistic enough, wasn’t as intelligent. It was as if all of the things Zaida had prided herself for, Lydia could do better.

“Oh, hey Zaida,” Allison flashed her a bright smile from where she was kicked back on her bed, typing away at her phone.

With a jolt Zaida realised it was not just Lydia, but Allison as well who was better than her. Zaida had been utterly powerless the night before, but Allison had held her own, likely saving Scott and Isaac along with the other members of Derek’s pack with her flash-bomb arrows. Zaida wasn’t that skilful, or that calm in the face of danger. She wasn’t calculated enough, wasn’t knowledgeable enough. Zaida simply wasn’t enough. Not enough of anything.

“What are you guys up to?” Zaida took a seat on the end of Lydia’s untouched bed in what she hoped was a casual manner.

“Lydia was just filling me in.” Allison nodded towards the still-standing redhead.

“Stiles and I think that the Darach and the alpha pack are related, just not in the way we first believed. In ancient cultures, ritualistic sacrifices in preparation for battle were quite common. The Darach could be committing these sacrifices for the same reason the alphas are recruiting - they’re preparing for battle. Likely against each other.” Lydia’s lips drew into a tight line as revealed what she thought was new information. Little did she know that Zaida had heard it twice before - once on the bus and once from Stiles’ own mouth.

“Yeah, I heard,” She nodded, trying and failing to keep the bitterness from her tone. Thankfully, neither of the girls picked up on its true origins, attributing it to the stress of the challenges before them.

“Now that you mention it, I was going to ask about that,” Allison put her phone away and leaned forwards against her propped up knees.

“About what?” Lydia arched a perfectly shaped brow. Zaida could already tell she wouldn’t like where this was going at all. She’d pretty much reached boiling point already and was not prepared to hold herself back from the edge much longer.

“About you and Stiles,” The huntress prodded purposefully, waiting for a reaction to confirm her suspicions, yet not the ones Zaida immediately assumed they were. The huntress had noticed a change in the way Stiles interacted with Lydia - a change that she thought might mean the boy had moved on. “You two seemed like you were getting along pretty well on the bus. I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you guys have a one-on-one conversation without him bumbling over his words or making a pass at you.”

“Yeah, well hopefully that means his pathetic little crush on me is a thing of the past,” The redhead rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. “Seriously, what did he think was going to happen? A girl says ‘no’ enough times and you’d think he’d catch the hint.”

“It isn’t some ‘pathetic little crush’,” Zaida snapped and Allison’s eyes shot towards her, widening slightly. Her friend’s dismissive attitude towards Stiles’ feelings only made Zaida’s growing frustration and agitation spike, tipping her over the edge.

“Following me around like a stray puppy-dog begging for scraps is pretty pathetic, if you ask me.” The redhead joked with an amused hum, so used to haughtily brushing off his affections that she did so mindlessly. It only propelled Zaida further down the emotional spiral she’d been descending all afternoon.

“Don’t you realise just how incredibly lucky you are?!” Zaida’s face flushed with anger and it was only then that Lydia recognised something was wrong. “That boy would do anything for you. He cares about you so much and you don’t even have to look twice at him. He’s never pushed you, he’s never asked for anything more than what you were willing to give him. He is so unbelievably loyal and devoted that he knew you were never interested and he still hasn’t moved on for the slim chance that one day you might want him back.”

“Zay, I didn’t mean-” The redhead swiftly tried to backtrack when she opened her eyes to how she’d offended the girl. “He’s just not my type…”

“He is hilarious, and selfless, and thoughtful, and a complete genius! I don’t know what else you could want from him. He’s perfect, Lydia, and I’m hopelessly falling for him when all he can see is you!” Zaida was yelling now, her chest heaving when she realised the reality of what she had just blurted. Her hands flew to cup her mouth and she let out a strangled sob of surprise, tears welling. For a brief period of silence everyone was frozen, not knowing what to do or say in reaction to her outburst.

“...I’m sorry. I…I don’t know where that came from.” Zaida cleared her throat with a quiet voice. Lydia took a step towards her, green eyes wide in shock and sympathy, but Zaida held an arm out to stop the girl in her tracks. She just needed some space for a moment to deal with the overwhelming wave of anxiety that washed over her. “Don’t…just…don’t.”

“Zaida…I had no idea.” Lydia slowly and tentatively took a seat on the bed beside the brunette. She inwardly scolded herself. Of course she’d had no idea - she was so self-absorbed that she’d neglected to notice how her best friend was feeling when now that she thought about it, it had been so obvious. Those lingering looks during training before summer break, and the way her eyes would light up when talking about something stupid he’d said or done. It had been in the way she’d gone silent when the three of them would hang out together and Stiles would make a flirty joke that Lydia would ignore. “How…how long?”

Zaida didn’t answer. Her head hung low, heavy from the weight of her shame. This was not how she’d intended to inform her friends of her feelings. In fact, she hadn't wanted to tell them at all, afraid of how things might change between her and Lydia. She’d never wanted the redhead to feel guilty - after all, it wasn’t her fault that Stiles had chosen her. It wasn’t her fault that Zaida wasn’t enough. She could see from the girl’s wide green eyes that it was too late to prevent that now. “I don’t know…” She finally ground out in a hoarse voice. “A while?”

Allison scooted over her bed to sit on the edge, coming closer to offer her support. “How long have you known ?” She reframed Lydia’s question, remembering how Zaida had brushed it off when she’d last suggested such a thing - the night that they’d hunted Cora and Boyd. The warmth and compassion behind her dark brown doe eyes softened the pounding in Zaida’s temples, like the steady rhythm of a song beating against the walls of her mind.

“The beginning of summer, when we went to the beach house.” She admitted, releasing some of the built-up tension within her with her confession.

“But that was months ago?” Lydia exclaimed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“There was no point - Stiles has made his feelings for you pretty damn clear. There’s nothing you could have done. There’s still nothing that you can do.” The brunette shook her head. “Stiles likes you, Lydia. He knows that you might not ever like him back, but he can’t help how he feels - the same way that I can’t help how I feel. And I can’t blame him for not liking me, just like I can’t blame you for his feelings.” Now that everything was out in the open, that knocking in her mind had quietened, allowing her to calm her raging storm of emotions. Five things. “I’m honestly surprised that you didn’t notice - everyone else did.”

Lydia turned to Allison for confirmation and the huntress answered with a sad smile. “Even you?” The redhead raised her brows in surprise.

“I suspected it for a while, but when I teased Zaida about it she immediately turned the subject around onto me…” Allison trailed off as she recalled the moment she had known it to be true.

“Who else knew?” Lydia questioned. The fact that she was the last one to figure it out when Zaida was her best friend only added to her growing sense of guilt.

“I thought Scott was the first - he could smell it in my chemo-signals. But now that I think about it, Danny and Isaac were making comments from months before that…” Zaida thought back to all of Danny’s jokes that she’d brushed off, and that one time Isaac had pointed out to her that all of the qualities that had attracted her to him , Stiles also possessed. Four things.

“Oh my God, I’m the worst friend ever,” Lydia shook her head in disbelief. How could she have been so blind - so self-absorbed - that she hadn’t seen it?

“You are not the worst friend ever - in fact you’re far from it.” Zaida rushed to defend Lydia from her self-criticism, reaching to squeeze her hand supportively. Three things. “You were going through everything with Jackson, and on top of that you were helping me with training, and my parents’ murder, and finding out what I am. It’s not your fault that I didn’t tell you.”

“I just wish that you would have said something,” Lydia mumbled, tilting her head in an empathetic expression and gripping Zaida’s hand tightly.

“I knew that telling you about it would have only made you feel bad for something you couldn’t control.” Zaida sighed deeply. “I didn’t want you to feel like that, and I didn’t want to let it come between us.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Lydia promised determinedly. “We’re not going to let it.”

Zaida responded with the warmest smile she could muster despite the cold creeping further into her bones.

After a while of hanging out in the girls’ motel room, thoroughly avoiding the subject of Stiles Stilinski and talking about anything and everything else, Allison decided to have a shower. The huntress looked up from where she was rifling through the bathroom cupboards, pulling out a stack of towels, carrying them over to where the other girls were laying side by side on Lydia’s bed.

“I don’t think these towels are clean…” The taller girl trailed off, looking at the items with an unsure expression while Zaida and Lydia drew their attention away from taking selfies on the redhead’s phone.

“No kidding,” Lydia took a short sniff and pulled back quickly. “That smells like a chronic smoker hid their cancerous lungs in it.”

“Maybe they forgot to change them,” Allison attempted to brush it off kindly, whereas Lydia looked pissed off.

“Or maybe, they just never change them. Maybe these bed sheets are years old. Maybe, they never clean anything.” The redhead prattled on with her hands crossed over her chest in a sassy pose.

“Ugh, I really need a shower though,” Allison pulled at her slightly-oily brown hair with an apprehensive expression.

“Don’t you even think about it,” Lydia snatched the towels from her so the brunette couldn’t use them and bounced to her feet. “I’m going to go down to the office and give these people a piece of my mind. This place is in violation of like a hundred health safety laws.”

“I’ll go with her to make sure she doesn’t cuss anyone out.” Zaida rolled her eyes fondly at the redhead and followed her out of the room.

There was no stopping Lydia when she was on a mission. The girl’s heeled boots clacked against the metal staircase as she strutted her way to the management office window, dropping the towels down on the bench and addressing the older lady there, who had her back to them. “Be nice,” Zaida whispered a reminder to the girl.

“Excuse me? The card on the dresser says we have a non-smoking room, but somehow…all our towels reek of nicotine.” The redhead muttered and the woman turned only for them to see a transparent rubber tube embedded in her throat. A tracheotomy tube, Zaida recognised with a shiver.

“Sorry about that, sweetheart.” The woman rasped in a hoarse voice, clearly damaged from years of heavy smoking. Zaida shot Lydia a stern look and the girl’s lips thinned guiltily for her attitude. As they waited for the lady to return with fresh towels, Lydia’s eyes were drawn to a number framed on the office’s wall.

“What's that? That number?” The redhead questioned, unable to help satiating her curiosity once the lady returned with clean towels.

“It's kind of an inside thing for the motel. My husband insists on keeping it up.” The woman chuckled darkly and the sound sent goosebumps rippling down Zaida’s spine.

“What do you mean?” Lydia prodded further.

“It's a little bit morbid, to be honest…” The owner admitted. “You sure you want to know?”

“Well, with a preface like that,” Zaida raised a brow.

“Tell me.” Lydia nodded impatiently.

“We're not gonna make the top of anyone's list when it comes to customer satisfaction…” The lady began.

“Obviously.” The redhead interjected with a rude scoff and Zaida sent her a reprimanding expression.

“But we are number one in California when it comes to one disturbing little detail. Since opening - more than any other motel in California - we have the most guest suicides.” The woman’s face twisted into a slight smile, a glint in her eyes that was almost disturbing.

“One hundred and ninety-eight?” Lydia confirmed with wide green eyes, double-checking the number as if she didn’t believe she’d seen it correctly now that she knew what it represented.

“And counting!” The woman cackled. If Zaida wasn’t creeped out before, she sure as hell was now.

[beevean]

I need to shrink this down, or I'll never be done.

Have some more tragic Isaactor + Hector angsting.

~

Isaac’s jealousy was a boulder chained to Hector’s ankle that he was forced to drag uphill: heavy, impossible to discard, and completely unwarranted.

It didn’t take long for him to long to get rid of it.

All gentle words had long dried up. Nothing he had ever said mattered. Hector had learned to respond to his friend’s scathing glares in kind, too exhausted to feel sorry for his mistakes.

It was not Hector’s fault Isaac could not keep up. Perhaps had he listened more to his advice and had he not attempted to bite more than he could chew, Lord Dracula would give him more than the faintest of acknowledgments, what a General like them deserved. He had no one else to blame but himself for his cocksureness.

No, words didn’t work with Isaac. They were not what Hector was good for.

Their encounters in the shadows of the castle, once a childish game to hide from their adult responsibilities, had become as much of an obligation as replenishing their armies, a chore to do to keep Isaac at bay: he could no longer hope for anything more.

(What would have happened if one day Hector walked away? The question dared to spring out of him, impossible to answer and impossible to squash.)

Isaac had been forbidden by Lord Dracula from leaving bruises on Hector, which only fanned the flames of his frustration, yet his touches lingered like a film on him; and Hector delighted in painting Isaac’s skin red and purple with his fingerprints, yet Isaac drifted further and further away from him, leaving the rotten taste of bile in Hector’s mouth.

And when Isaac descended on him like a vulture, nails digging through the front of his breeches and kissing with sick devotion the scars left by Lord Dracula, Hector could only wonder.

Why was he incurring in Isaac’s wrath in the first place?

He was General Hector, elite Devil Forgemaster worthy of standing at the side of Death, who had mastered the blasphemous art of channeling the very lymph of Hell. He was imbued with the Dark Lord’s raw essence, surpassing the fetters of his own nature. With his hands alone, he commanded power unfathomable to the average human: life flowed through his body, to be shaped at his will.

With that power, he only killed.

The stronger his armor reeked of blood and guts, the more his Lord beamed with a pride that he did not deserve. The more his body and mind fell apart, the more he drowned in praises that fell through his fingers like ashes. He used the secrets of alchemy to craft weapons so refined that mere humans could only dream of them, and he plunged them in the guts of widows and orphans who had no longer the will to plead. He spent time chipping away at stone, cutting with precision the scales and feathers, infusing his creations with pieces of his very soul, and then he’d send his own innocent children to slaughter children – and how horrid it was, that their love was but a mere mockery, an alchemical mimicry that forced a bond between creature and master, trapping them in a life they could not comprehend.

Was that power?

It was nothing like what Hector had imagined, the day he knelt at Lord Dracula’s feet. The euphoria of the first day he had brought his own Fairy to life was all but a murky memory, replaced by a dull, jagged dread.

Wherever he went, flames would dance in his wake, devouring all life in their path, like he had never fled to find safety all those years ago, and he was still the crying boy heeding the words of demons.

There was nothing to be proud of, in having become a mindless force of destruction.

If you have a good weapon, you use it, don’t you?

That was the creed Isaac lived for, brushing off any kind of concern before they could even rise out of Hector’s throat; the crest scarring his back almost shone brighter at his words.

Was Hector a good weapon?

Was he only worth something in Lord Dracula’s eyes not because of his strength, or intellect, or courage, but because he was an exceptionally sharp sword?

After all he did to seek power, to prove to the world that he was more than a weak unwanted child to be beaten, after he rose higher than anyone else in the world... was he really all that different from the lowly peasants who couldn’t stop the death of one woman, and were being slaughtered like cattle at the will of a mad Lord?

How dare Isaac even burden him with his envy, when Hector had never felt so worthless in his life?

(But deep down in his heart, when the night grew still and their life melted away, Hector knew the only reason he still welcomed Isaac in his arms: it was the few seconds after they both finished dragging pain and pleasure out of each other, when Isaac rested his head on Hector’s shoulder, arms wrapped around his neck and face buried from the rest of the world, needing air and needing his friend.

And if Hector closed his eyes, he could lose himself in the illusion that Isaac didn’t hate him anymore, and he was once again a person.)