#like. he is a wretched little man but he's not wretched in that specific way you know?

[harrows-soup-kitchen]

I think about Harrow and Crux a lot actually and I need to talk about it a little bit or I might scream. because like- Crux sucks right?? we all agree on this, he is an awful, wretched old man who was abjectly abusive to one of two little girls left in his care after the deaths of their primary care takers.

but then his relationship with Harrow in specific makes me insane bc he loved that girl SO MUCH. that was his daughter!!!! maybe even more so than she was Priamhark and Pelleamena’s she was his!!!

and HE KNEW just like they did exactly what had to be done to create her, he watched her grow up reviled by her parents and he looked at that little girl and just… loved her? no questions asked, no morality hang ups, she was worth every sin committed to get her.

because that’s the thing about Crux i think for me, the moment he conceived of Harrow’s existence she was what he was loyal to, not the ninth or the reverend parents or even god just his kid; the rest of the ninth loved Harrow because she was The Reverend Daughter, Crux loved Harrow because she was Harrow. and because she was Harrow she was literally more important than anyone else.

and what does that do to a person? because I can guarantee right now that it was not good for either of them, like at all. Harrow was traumatised, fundamentally hubristic and a literal actual child, with a very confused moral compass, who by age ten had become fully complicit in the abuse of the only other child she had ever met!!! she did not need yet another grown adult enabling her to become worse!!

not to mention that he did abuse his position as the final arbiter of her reality to lie to her on more than one occasion, including but not limited to that one time he deadass killed two whole people for going even slightly against his special little lady (not to mention the several times he seemingly tried to kill Gideon without Harrow noticing)

an idea I see thrown around a lot when discussing the potential kiriona-John dynamic that I think works really well and is also interesting when applied to Harrow and Crux, albeit in a slightly different way is : what if your dad was the worst man in the universe and also literally the only person who really wanted you? how do you contend with that?

ALSO the fact that in Nona we find out that half his grudge with Gideon is that she didn’t die for Harrow!! her parents fear it but Crux is BITTER about it!! he’s so angry that she, in his eyes, has been failing to do right by Harrow her entire life because she could never die right!!

anyway, all this to say I can’t wait to see Harrow try to navigate her grief over Crux’s death in AtN while contending with the fact that he was fundamentally complicit in her continued abuse of Gideon for years and years, which ultimately led to gideons degradation of self and set the groundwork for her sacrificial suicide.

not to mention yet another person she desperately loved dying in a way that is unquestionably in service of her continued existence, unasked for and without giving her a snowflakes chance in hell of saying goodbye. again.

[kawareo]

A ship I wish I'd see more of is Ascended Astarion and his former lover, a mind-broken Urge.

A beast stuck in a slayer form, a monster who is not themselves anymore, a former person who can experience glimpses of mental clarity and uses them to beg for the mercy of death. A Durge who defied their Father and saved the world and in exchange destroyed every chance for freedom they could've had.

And a vampire Ascendant, a man who sacrificed thousands for what he thinks is personal freedom. He can walk in the sun but at the cost of doing so utterly alone. Grabbed Durge when they went insane and locked them away, promises to find a way to save them but c'mon, why would he do that? Like this, they're a mindless beast, the way he once was, wrapped tightly around the primal hunger and lust that was ordered by their Master, and AA is the only one who can ease the pain a little.

AA can't die by the feral beast. AA can take it when it rips apart anyone he throws to them for food. AA can whip and beat it until it cowers under him and he can call it mercy because the beast needs a firm hand. Wouldn't it be just so much easier if Durge had accepted to become spawn when Astarion offered? Wouldn't he be such a nicer master than Bhaal is?

Now look at what he is forced to do, the wretched beast.

Also I think this implies Sceleritas would start to annoy AA specifically because the beast of Bhaal is not meant to be locked up like this and I think that this is really funny

[writingjourney]

For Reasons Wretched & Divine

In a desperate attempt to seek out the third Papa’s counsel on an intimate matter a Sister of Sin slips into the confessional one night – only to be met by the voice of Papa Emeritus II instead. Or: Secondo teaches his favourite Sister how to pleasure the man she is infatuated with – unaware that he is exactly who she wants.

content: 19.6k words, pov third person, sexual inexperience, finger sucking, dry humping, gloves & hands, oral sex (both receiving), mild spit kink, choking/sensitive gag reflex, emotional hurt/comfort, praise, sex toys, power imbalance, dom/sub dynamic, soft dom!secondo, p in v, confessions

➽ This is by far the most self-indulgent story I have ever written, also the first one that I ever drew my own banner for. For easier reading I recommend using Ao3 where I split it into three parts of equal length! enjoy ♡

Masterlist – Ao3 link – RATED E – 18+ only

Prelude

He leafs through the list she left on his desk, wets his thumb as he makes his way over to where he hears her getting ready, a small office space he had arranged specifically for her in his basement area. A click as she closes her black leather briefcase and he leans against the doorframe, watching as she slings it over her shoulder, caving in under the heavy weight before she adjusts the painful strap.

“Are you carrying around stones, hm?” he asks.

She turns, mouth parting, her features tensing for a fraction of a second as they always do when he comes close. A static feeling, the room charged with unspoken tension. But then her eyes flicker to his bare forearms, to the open collar of his shirt, the evidence that it is not discomfort that has her body reacting like that. Amused, he focuses back on the list at hand.

“I checked out some books from the library earlier,” she says by way of explanation.

“Are you done for the day, then, sorella?”

“I’m done unless you need me, Papa. I have finished my work.”

“I always have need of you, cara, you are the only one I trust with this task.” He glances up again over the rim of his reading glasses, a mild smile tugging at his lips. “But you have earned your free evening.”

“Perhaps Sister can give me a few more hours down here,” she suggests and the thought alone seems to bring more colour to her face, her fingers shaking as they fiddle with her bag. “I would love to, anyway.”

“Would you, hm?” He cocks his head. “I admit that is not something I am used to hearing.”

No, many Siblings don’t get along with his temperament, the fact that he is rather particular about how he expects things to be done, giving up fast instead of rising to the challenge. Not her, though, no, determined as she is, eager to learn from him, eager to please. For months she’s been down here now, two days a week, cataloguing his vast collection of art, books, and relics, many long afternoons spent in idle conversation as they take notes, more at his probing than hers, though she has a habit of getting him to talk more freely than he is used to.

They are entirely too familiar with each other. He knows the names of her parents, where she grew up, how she takes her coffee and the brand of her perfume, what take out food she likes to order, the books she’s been reading. It would be easy enough to carry their conversations outside of this place, to deepen that bond over a nicely cooked meal. And yet something is holding her back, a flicker of hesitation he can see whenever he tries to go further, when his touches aren’t quite as accidental, when his flirting becomes a little more daring. Or perhaps it is fear, the heat of shame that she is attracted to him of all people. It fascinates him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Papa,” she says, the heavy bag propped against her hip.

Before she can walk by his arm reaches to block her path, a teasing smile on his lips, one he can’t resist. “Sorella, you are forgetting.”

Heat springs to her face, he thinks he can feel it when she leans in to press her soft cheek to his, a practiced ritual. He gives a quick peck but it comes with that Italian intensity, a kiss that lingers long after, the scratching of his cheek, the wet mark of eager lips, and he hopes she can feel it as he does. Her gaze darkens and for a second he expects her to drop to her knees in front of him, confess every single dirty thought she ever had. He would indulge her, naturally. Give her even more ideas.

“Good night,” she whispers, voice nothing more than an exhale.

He nods, satisfied enough with her reaction, his arm falling back down to let her pass. It takes her a moment to notice, before she can break away from his gaze, and his amused chuckle follows her out of the basement. A puzzle he will solve – in due time, and sooner than he expects.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

I – Confession Pt. 1

The only sound in the chapel is the slow rustle of his book as he turns the page.

A slow, solitary night. His official duties have been scarce since entering retirement – though, this is a word he would not use for himself. Retiring, the implication that he can now rest, that his life’s work is over and he gets to be idle. It is not something he wants and though he enjoys the added freedoms he hasn’t been making much use of them. Reduced to confession duty, taking over shifts for his busy younger brother, filling the vacant spots for weekday masses where only few Siblings attend, the view from the pulpit barely reminding him of who he once was. Papa, entertainer, showman, womaniser. Now, it suits him best when he is holed up in his basement all day, restoring flaky artworks, rebinding old tomes he’s been collecting over the years, old school heavy metal blasting from his speakers to drown out any thoughts that could slip into his head. Old school, yes, that is what he is as well now. Rocked down, used, waiting to be discarded.

Confession duty makes him feel useful, at least. It is an irregular night, Terzo nursing an ailment of his vocal chords, urged not to speak unless absolutely necessary. Secondo does not mind taking over. His nights have been quieter, the company he used to keep reduced to the fulfilment of basic needs, the odd overnight stay, a dinner in town here and there. Being stripped of the Papal title came with the added sting of losing the appeal to many. No more grandiose performances.

Purpose, company. It is what he is missing.

He tries not to be offended by how many Siblings show up expecting Terzo and being not quite as enthusiastic once they realise he’s not there. Secondo has his own regulars during the nights he’s on duty, it is the way of things. Discussing such private matters, it requires trust. As the night progresses, however, his breaks stretch out longer. He gets his reading done, a worn copy of The Divine Comedy, read many times over.

When he hears footsteps he pauses, listens whether they carry over or if someone came for a late night prayer. Secondo softly closes his book, pockets it in his black cassock. They approach, sit down behind the lattice on that slippery, worn-down wooden plank, and he readies himself for the well-practiced speech of encouragement he is so used to delivering at any such occasion that a Sibling seeks him out. It is late, his duties almost over, and it is not a rare thing for someone to purposely arrive at this hour, usually when the matter they seek to discuss is of an especially delicate nature. Before he can speak, however, the Sister on the other of the lattice already falls into her confession.

“Forgive me Papa, I know the hour is late and you have lent your ear to many Siblings already but I must–” A deep breath and he sits up straighter as he realises who is talking on the other side. “I must confess that your kind words a few days ago have encouraged me to ask for your counsel in a matter that has been giving me many sleepless nights as of late.”

With no small amount of confusion he realises that she too must mean his brother. He is unaware of such an incident as the one she is describing and last he saw her – this very evening when she left her office with that heavy bag slung over her shoulder – she did not give a hint at being weighed down by something else.

Before he can make himself known, she is already continuing, the words flowing out of her so fast that he can sense the nervousness in her speech. “Perhaps I should start by telling you that I know, as you said, that there is no shame in inexperience and I am aware I am far from the only one who might be insecure about these things. However, the fact of the matter is… there is someone rather experienced who I have become infatuated with. A man, to be precise.” Another deep breath. “He doesn’t know about any of this and he might not even feel the same way about me but still I fear that he might be sorely disappointed if he… if he ever did decide to be intimate with me and found out how very… lacking I am. And I am not talking about sex, per se, the issue is rather… The issue is rather that I have never performed a specific act during my past encounters and I know that I will struggle with it.”

“And what act would that be?” he asks, without thinking.

She audibly startles, though she is trying to hide her gasp. For a second she says nothing, then she stammers out, “Oh, this is– Papa– I don’t–”

“Mi dispiace, sorella, you may have expected my brother to be here tonight. I can assure you, however, that you can confide in me just the same.”

Hurried breathing, he fights off an amused smile at her reaction. “But– because we work together–”

“I assure you of my discretion,” he replies. “I have done this for many decades, sorella. None of what we speak about in here will leave the confines of the confessional.”

She takes a moment to consider, perhaps feeling trapped now which is not his intent. He gives her time, the quiet settling once again. After spending so much time together he can’t shake the hint of disappointment that she’d go to his brother of all people, that she still seems too wary to confide in him.

“It’s just–” She takes a deep breath and he fights the urge to take a look at her through the lattice. “Will you be disappointed in me that I feel ashamed of my own inexperience?”

Ah. Is that what kept her from confiding in him? The fear that his good opinion of her might change? “I will never be disappointed by something like this, sorella,” he assures her. “I am only disappointed that you still distrust me so.”

“I trust you,” she stresses. “I do trust you. I think you’re the person who knows me best in this ministry but I do not want things to change between us. You’re… you’re the closest I have to a real friend.”

He cocks his head, surprised by this admission. “I promise you this will not change. I am here, cara. Take your time.”

For a second, she does not speak, shifts around on the bench. He hears her take a few shaky breaths and while this is not out of the ordinary it is unusual for her. Secondo did not take her reluctance for insecurity before tonight, confident as she is in her work, in dealing so well with him of all people. It is endearing to him, makes his heart ache inside his hollow chest in a way he doesn’t quite understand.

“I have been with people,” she says, then, “but it wasn’t… it wasn’t ever anything special. Some… some fumbling, kisses that escalated and ultimately just a sort of disappointingly quick conclusion. I’ve not been very adventurous, it is hard for me to trust people so intimately with my body.”

“And there is nothing wrong with that,” he assures her, glued to her every word.

“Thank you for saying that.” Another pause. “It is just, now that… there is this man, I realised that I am lacking the skills that… that he might be used to. He is experienced and he knows what he wants which is something I find very attractive. And yes, this should not change his feelings for me, if he has any feelings for me, but if he does not want to take things beyond a physical nature then this might put a quick end to whatever is between us. Before I have a chance to convince him.”

“I see.” Secondo tries not to be vexed by this, the idea of helping her to please another man. “Sorella, dolce ragazza, will you tell me what it is that you are so intimidated by? Is it an usual thing this man wants from you?”

“No, that’s the thing, Papa. It is not unusual at all, it is… Satan, this is pitiful.” She groans into her hands, a pained, muffled sound. “It’s the fact that I have never pleased a man with… with my mouth.”

“Ah.”

“I know this is… it is such a basic thing,” she rambles on. “I am embarrassed, I should not be so worried about it but it’s that I… I am sort of sensitive if you understand what I mean and I’m afraid if I tried… it’d just end in a pathetic performance and he’d decide that he can do better.”

He can feel the blood draining from his face, pooling lower into his body. Only briefly is he irritated by this, being aroused by the mere fraction of the idea of feeling her gagging on his cock. But he can’t indulge this now, not when she is this upset about it. “Sorella, I do not have to tell you that he is not worth your time if this is his reaction.”

“I know and he might not– this might not happen. But with this fear, I’m sure my nerves will make it even worse. I just don’t want to get hurt.”

Secondo takes a deep breath and shifts to sit more upright, leaning towards the lattice now. “As I see it, there are two ways to soothe your worries, sorella. You must confess to him when the time arrives and you wish to please him – and you must tell him truthfully. If he is a man deserving of you he will neither laugh nor judge but guide you with patience. But you must want it, sorella. Remember that every act of sin in Lucifer’s name is one of great enthusiasm, not one of pressure or a sense of duty. If you never wish to perform this act for discomfort or any other reason then he must be understanding of this as well and respect your wishes.”

“But what if he isn’t, Papa? What if he doesn’t want to be with me when he finds out?”

“Then he is not a man that should ever be allowed to touch another person, let alone you. If this should happen, sorella, or if he forces you to do things you do not want, then you will come to me, yes? Promise me.”

She seems taken aback by his vehemence, quiet for a while, but then he sees the shadow of her nodding her head. “I promise.” He hears a sniffle, one that tears right through him. He hasn’t noticed her crying. “But… but what is the other way, Papa?”

Closing his eyes, he fights off the urge to step out of this booth and comfort her. He has ulterior motives, of course, biting at him like tiny parasites, not necessarily a bad conscience, he does mean to help her, but the urges underneath are anything but good.

“If you truly wish to learn, then they key is practice – with your hands, with a safe tool or perhaps… an experienced guide.”

He waits for her reaction now, hoping he did not overstep, that he has been reading her right and despite her feelings for another man she still harbours this attraction to him that he’s sensed when they work. He should not be toying with her in such a vulnerable moment, no, but if it would help guide her into the arms of someone he knows will keep her safe?

“A guide?” she asks.

He fights off a satisfied smile, curious as ever. “Someone you trust, sorella. Someone with experience and patience to show you how it is done.”

“I could not ask anyone of such a thing, Papa. They’d think I’ve lost my mind.”

“Would they?” he replies, then, unable to hold it back, “Who would you ask, sorella? My brother?”

“No!” Her voice rises. “It’s not like that, Papa. I did not– I just wanted reassurance from him, not to– I don’t think about him like that. And I don’t imagine anyone would voluntarily offer to be subjected to shitty blowjobs for a few weeks, least of all Papa.”

“Sorella, you trust me?”

This time, she does not hesitate. “I do, Papa.”

“Then will you come over?”

“Come ov– right now?”

“Yes.”

He hears the wood creaking when she gets up, the soft opening and closing of the door to her booth. In front of his door she hesitates and he almost thinks this is the moment she’ll run away but then, with a visibly shaking hand, she opens. Moonlight streams in, illuminating her face that is still streaked with silent tears. He holds out a hand, and although it is a tight space she fits perfectly into his lap when he drags her there. If she notices that he’s already half-hard she does not comment, secured with a hand around his shoulder.

“Sorella,” he whispers, wiping at her cheeks. “It pains me to see you like this. You should have come to me a long time ago.”

“I know, Papa.”

“Will you let me help you now?”

She glances away, tensing. “I– Would you truly want to?”

“Yes.”

“And not out of pity?”

“No pity, cara.”

She eases in his grasp, allows him to cradle her face in his warm leather gloves. He knows they feel good on the skin, smell of the woodsy oil he uses to keep them soft. It tugs at him, that she is so distressed because of a man who is most likely not even worthy of her. No one is, though, that he knows. And he’d keep her alone if he could, their days spent down in the basement, sorting through his collection between bouts of frantic sex and good food. He’d show her everything, patiently, make her feel so good she’d never think about another man’s cock ever again.

“I’m scared to disappoint,” she admits, then, unusually small.

“I know,” he says. “You want to be good at everything you do, hm? I have noticed this with your work. But we cannot be good at everything right away. I was not, I assure you.”

“You’ve done it before?”

He nods, thumbs stroking over her soft cheeks. “I have done many things, some of which I was good at some of which were just not as good as in my head, hm? It does not matter if you are the best at it, ragazza mia, it matters that you enjoy it just as much as the man who receives it. Or at the very least that you do not mind doing it for someone you like.”

She smiles and he can see her finding back to herself, her gaze stronger, her hands on him firmer, assuring him that she does want to be here, do this with him. Shifting his weight a little he leans back so that she can rest more comfortably in his lap, leaning against the wooden side of the booth. His fingers stroke along her  jaw now, one hand moving to her hip while the other traces the curve below her ear, then forward to her chin, over to the other side. He does it until she’s relaxed, used to his touch.

Then he toys with her mouth. She tenses only shortly, allows him to part her lips, completely enraptured by his ministrations. It’s how he’s seen her look at him during mass, one of the few Siblings who never misses any of those he leads. A smile spreads on his lips, pride that she does indeed trust him, perhaps even longs for him, the intimacy he offers, his company. Slow movements, a finger tracing her bottom lip, feeling her teeth against the tip of it.

More daring, he pushes his thumb inside, makes her spread her mouth open wider. She shivers but allows it, her eyes never leaving his. The muscles in her jaw are tense. After a moment he removes his hand, tugs at his glove until it comes off. Perhaps tasting skin will make it more familiar and he has to admit that the thought of feeling her warm mouth on his finger makes his own heart speed up, that heat in his lower belly now simmering on a steady flame.

“Is this good?” he asks.

She nods.

“Words, my dove, I need to hear it.”

“It’s okay, Papa.”

“Brava.”

He begins by tracing her lips again. This time, he inserts his index finger, longer, pushing further inside. When he sees that she tolerates it he adds his middle finger, a little deeper once again. He does not let it deter him when she gags right away, just retreats a little before going back to where she was comfortable. His fingers are big, he is aware of it, and she has never taken anyone into her mouth, something that thrills him more than he wants to admit to her face. If it takes him a long time to get her to take all of him then it only means that whatever man she was talking about will slip further and further from her mind.

“Not everyone is comfortable taking things in their mouth,” he explains. “It is only natural for the body to fight off the intrusion when unused to it, hm? It is for survival, sorella, it wants to protect you and you cannot blame it for that. But if you wish it so then we can practice and it will be easier with time. Do you want that?”

She nods, mumbling an affirmative around his digits. He smiles, lifts his other hand to pet her jaw encouragingly. Once again he presses down a little harder, goes a little deeper, and this time she is prepared.

“Breathe through your nose,” he instructs. “Relax your muscles, it makes it easier.”

She tries, he sees it, feels her breath against his knuckles. But it only lasts for a short time before she gags again, sensitive just like she’d said, perhaps even more so than he’s expected. But it is good, he thinks, this is perfect. He can show her, the ideal excuse to be close to her like this.

“Shhh,” he coos when she struggles to breathe, removing his fingers to the tips of her lips. “We will get you there, my dove. Do not worry any longer, your Papa will help you. You only have to trust me and you do, do you not?”

Another nod. At his raised brow she speaks, “I trust you, Papa. More than anyone.”

“Good. We will not go any further now. I want you to think about it, sorella, make sure this is what you want, yes? The next time I see you we will try again and perhaps we will try more if you are ready. We can go as slow as you need, but now you need some rest. I do not want to hear about sleepless nights again, at least not if I am not the cause of it.”

She nods, smiles at his jest and shifts in his lap, the arousal sitting uncomfortable between her legs. He knows he mirrors this discomfort, unable to keep his hips completely still. It is not for tonight, however, too much for her to work through already. But she looks grateful, he thinks, her eyes stay dry and the relief is palpable as her body finally relaxes.

This time, she does not forget. “Goodnight, Papa,” she whispers and leans in, pressing her face to his to exchange those wet cheek kisses. He holds still, waits for her to kiss his first, loudly, before he reciprocates. When she breaks away a hint of mischief is laced into her smile. “And thank you.”

His hands tighten on her hips for a second, keeping her there in his lap and holding her gaze with all that he wants to promise. Satisfied that she returns it without as much as a flinch he releases her and she slides off his lap, leaving the booth without another sound.

“Goodnight, indeed,” he whispers, adjusting the bulge in his pants underneath his cassock. When he picks up his book the words swim on the page. He still has another hour.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

II – Lesson Plans

It won’t let go of him.

When he tries to sleep, when he prepares his breakfast, when he sits through a three hour clergy meeting, when he writes Friday’s sermon. His fingers in her mouth, his cock already hard at the mere feeling of her tongue on his skin, that shaky admission of fear and the trust that followed, a festering shame in her eyes that he desperately wants to free her from. Perhaps it is presumptuous, that he thinks it should be him who helps her.

Not that he lacks conviction.

Secondo knows he can show her how to embrace the exploration of her needs better than anyone, the novelty of giving pleasure, a new world he can open up for her. Yes, he can do right by her, encouragement and patience and his guiding hand, protect her from the pain of a lesser man. That she would have him baptise her, it is a gift, or he considers it as such. A thing of beauty, that Lucifer brought her into his care.

His thoughts have been straying to her before that night, that nagging curiosity of why she’s holding back from him, the tingle of lust that has become rarer with age but that she stokes so easily with her presence. Secondo is not in the habit of overthinking, no. Instead he’s pushing uncomfortable thoughts as far away as possible, stuffed into that dark ugly corner in his mind that he has decided to black out, lest they get a chance to hurt him. This is an entirely different matter, an added layer he did not consider before, one that is harder to push away.

There is someone she likes. Someone whose cock she’s been thinking about having in her mouth.

That someone might or might not be him.

Ink drops splatter out of his fountain pen as he realises he subconsciously increased the pressure. He’s beyond cursing, sits back in his office chair instead, identifying his jealousy for what it is. It does not bode well for him, a risk he’d avert if it were anyone else, entanglement, serious feelings. Would she have gone to Terzo of all people to talk about her attraction to him? Terzo would not have known, of course, unless she’d told him, but he is too perceptive for his own good, probably knows she’s been spending hours down here. He can see his brother laughing, telling her to stay as far away from his stronzo brother as possible, semi-serious, perhaps, but Terzo has a way of caring too deeply about his flock and he knows Secondo is not in the habit of reciprocating crushes, rare as they are these days.

Almost a week passes before he sees her again. He makes a note in his calendar to ask Sister to send her here more often, already dreading that conversation. It’s quickly forgotten when he hears her coming down the stairs. She greets him the same way they say goodbye, a kiss to the cheek, a routine he established in one of his slow attempts to take things further. He notes that she is inching a little closer to his mouth, the imprint of her lips lingering in the lines of his jaw.

At first, he does not say anything. They get to work, she catalogues, he wastes some time sorting through a few boxes of books he had recently delivered from Florence where he was a resident Cardinal a few years before his Papacy. Even so, he can’t help but observe her, the diligence, the care with which she treats his belongings, no matter how sturdy or delicate. More importantly, she does not once look at her phone all day. Whoever this other man is can’t be that important.

You’re the closest I have to a real friend, she said in the confessional and he wonders if it is what drives her down here and, in the same breath, whether it is what he feels underneath as well, why he keeps her here, that need for company. Perhaps age has softened him, so much so that he suddenly thinks about a permanent companion for the decade or two that the world has left for him. He doesn’t want to be her friend, no. But is it not how many people start out? Trust, company, friendship, then more. If he can eliminate whoever else is in the equation–

“Papa, I–” She stops when he jumps, cutting his thumb on the cardboard box. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, please go on, sorella.”

Her face is tense, as if he’d startled her instead. She stops wringing her hands, steels her gaze, and he ignores that throbbing in his finger. “I was wondering when we would start our… training.”

It’s late into the afternoon, not that the artificial light in the basement would give any indication. He was waiting for her to be done, call her into his office, see how she’d feel about getting on her knees for him today, but he is too pleased with this progression, her seeking him out. “I take it you have thought about my offer and decided to accept?”

“I have,” she says, not quite so insecure anymore. “And I want to. I am eager to learn and I trust you to teach me.”

“Good,” he says, the books in the boxes long forgotten. At times, she is an enigma to him. It is hard to console the crying sister in the confessional with the woman stood before him, the woman who tolerates his moods, his outward aloofness, tugs at those strings deep inside of him that he doesn’t let anyone else touch. He feels like she is playing him as much as he’s trying to play her and it’s that thrill that makes him reckless with his feelings.

In the end, he leads her to that battered old leather sofa he’s more or less discarded in the back corner, once stood in his own quarters, now exchanged for a firmer model to help with his back pains. It does the job, envelops him when he sits down, comfortable, as relaxed as he’ll ever be at the prospect of a beautiful Sister using her mouth on him. He doesn’t bother with the paint outside of mass anymore and he’s omitted the cassock as well, like most days down here. Just in his slacks and a black button-down he knows he makes quite a compelling sight, even at his age, and she does eye him a little longer than appropriate.

“Right here?” she asks, though it does not really matter. Hardly anyone strays down here, into his domain, and he’s never been one to hide away. She knows this, and when he nods she doesn’t fight him.

“Come here,” he orders, much to her confusion. “Into my lap,” he clarifies.

“But–”

“Sorella, you are beautiful and I am eager to see you on your knees but not even I am ready on command.”

He didn’t mean it as a joke but she laughs, genuinely, and he is way too pleased with himself. Still, her body is rigid when she places her thighs on either side of him, hesitant to fully rest her weight. Secondo is not. His hands settle on her hips and he drags her over his crotch, bunching her habit up enough to feel bare skin and her panties barely hiding the outline of her cunt.

No, this was not part of the deal, not really. He doesn’t care.

“Sorella, tell me again that this is what you want.”

“I do– I,” her voice gives way to a moan, his cock twitching unasked against her core. “Papa–”

“It is not just your mouth that is sensitive, hm?”

His teasing brings heat to her cheeks, suddenly bashful again, and he feels it when he runs his thumb over her skin, making sure to lift her jaw, have her look at him when she feels his size for the first time. She’s pretty like that, aching, overwhelmed by the barest of touches.

“Tell me,” he repeats.

“I want this,” she says.

It’s good enough for him and he has her grinding a few more times, just for his own enjoyment, to see her fight against the need to have him inside of her. Which is not why they are here, no, but he wouldn’t mind getting her to think about it, to yearn for it every time they see each other.

“Now get on your knees for me,” he whispers, eyes still on her, and there is not a hint of defiance in those pupils. She does exactly as he says, slides off his lap and gets between his now spread thighs. He hands her a pillow and she pushes it under her knees, hands carefully grasping at his pants, hesitant but not uncomfortable. The sight overwhelms him. If he hadn’t been hard from her grinding alone he surely would be now.

“I don’t know–” she starts but trails off when he guides her hands to his belt. The front of his pants is already damp but not from him, no. She looks ashamed when she notices and, displeased, he presses her hand to the wet patch.

“I do not want to see this expression, sorella,” he says. “In here, there is no shame, do you understand?” She nods and he reaches for her jaw, lifting her gaze. “Words, my dove.”

“No shame,” she echos. “I understand.”

“Brava ragazza. Now open.”

Her fingers shake but she’s deft enough to be done within seconds, flinching when her hands meet the velvety skin of his dick. With a slight wriggle of his hips he’s slid his pants down far enough for more comfort and she looks up at him, wide-eyed.

He has to fight the urge to laugh. “You will not be taking it all,” he says. “Only as much as you can.”

His words do not seem to calm her, though her eyes linger and he wonders how long it’s been since those disappointing encounters she’s been speaking of. He’s prepared to form more words of reassurance, however many it takes, but then she gets over her fear and cradles him in her hand, curling her fingers around him with some fascination. For some reason, it is not what he expected, that softness, the affection in her touch. His arousal pearls from his slit and she thumbs at him, still gentle, and he tries not to bite his fist. It’s not enough, though.

“Use your spit,” he says, mesmerised by the sight of her.

She looks up, a line of worry deep in her forehead. Secondo takes her hand and, meeting her eyes, lifts it up to his mouth. His tongue works against his cheek until he’s ready to spit into her palm, just enough to help her out. A whimper and her hips shift uncomfortably, another thing he saves for later. But he can’t think about how wet she must be by now if he wants to last for more than a minute.

When her hand next wraps around his length it perfectly slides over his skin. She is not bad at this, he notes, a good soft pressure that firms when she twists towards his tip. Her eyes shift between his cock and his face, taking in every little change in his expression, attentive, already working her mind to learn and improve, not from books or his words this time, and he feels oddly exposed, the mirror suddenly held back at him.

“You are doing well,” he says. “Can you take the tip, cara? Keep your hands on the rest.”

She does, closing both of her hands around him. Then her lips wrap around his tip for the first time and he thinks perhaps he’s the one who will embarrass himself today. His hips buck and he tries to hide it by reaching for her head, fiddling with her hair to keep it out of her face. She looks up at him, mildly confused, but she keeps going without question, rotating her hands and licking at his slit, pillowy lips covering her teeth which tells him she knows the basics. It is a kiss, nothing more, and yet the pleasure in his core is undeniable.

“Very good,” he praises, revelling in the way every little compliment has her eyes sparkling, her confidence growing. “It is good, my dove, you are doing well. A little more, hm?”

She takes him so deep that he can feel his cock resting in the centre of her tongue, right where it flexes on the underside of him, his tip at the hollow of her hard palate. It will be enough for today, he thinks, for him and for her. Her gaze alone could be enough, those insecure, hopeful eyes, wide as they gaze up at him. He pets her head, strokes through the silk of her hair, allowing her to go as slow as she wants. It occurs to him, then, that he does not want this to end, that he’s perfectly content just taking her in for a while.

“Your mouth is perfect,” he whispers. “Have you been thinking about this, hm? Having a cock on your tongue?”

She nods, moving her mouth over his tip, deliciously slow, and when she pulls his foreskin back a little he’s starting to see stars.

“My cock?” he can’t help but ask and once again she nods. He fights back a growl, feels that tightness in his abdomen, all the way down to his balls. He can’t be close already, not from this, and yet– “Come up here.”

She jumps, lets go with a pop. He doesn’t care, pulls her back up into his lap and forward, her panties soaked, dripping onto his cock when he places her just so. With a startled whimper she holds onto his shoulders but he’s already dragging her across his lap, back and forth, until finally she begins grinding on her own again, only that flimsy damp layer between them. Within moments he empties himself into the mess between them and at first she doesn’t notice, not until she’s clenching and shaking and he carefully stops her, begins to ache from the friction.

They breathe for a while, that ebb and flow of pleasure slowly fading, electric pulses between their bodies. Secondo lifts her head from his shoulder to see her and she’s practically glowing, a sight that calms him, satisfied that he managed to pull her there with him.

“When will we do this again?” she asks, breathless, frowning when he laughs at her eagerness.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “and every night when we are here, if you want it.”

She nods, that excited clench of her jaw. He reaches out, wipes a sheen of sweat from her brow. This is the sight, he thinks, the sight he could get used to for years to come. But he is getting ahead of himself, not thinking with the right organ.

“Your homework is to practice by yourself whenever we do not see each other,” he says. “Can you do that?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good.”

He bends them both forward, working his pants closed with a full view of her ruined panties. She leans in, damp cheek to damp cheek, pressing a kiss to his skin that is so soft he has to stop himself from keeping her down here until she can’t walk anymore. He can hardly reciprocate, trying to reign himself in, waits until she’s slipped from his lap before he allows himself to move again.  He doesn’t remember the last time his body has betrayed him like that. Nor does he understand why he is not mad about it.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

III – Dried Tears

He adjusts his schedule. Over the next week Secondo’s days revolve around finding ways to see her. Twice a week is insufficient, though he still only lets her touch him in the basement, makes sure not to go much further than that first time. Security, a safe routine. He won’t let her make him come with her mouth, not quite yet. Everything else is for him, observing her during mass, finding her in the gardens where she helps out two days a week, not exactly following her around but letting his curiosity get the better of him.

There is no other man.

He is sure of it now, or as sure as he can be. She never visits anyone else, sees a handful of friends, all of which decidedly aren’t men, not to his knowledge, and that’s the word she used. There is someone rather experienced who I have become infatuated with. A man, to be precise. If there is a man like that who is not Secondo then he is not here in the abbey.

After two weeks of this sluggish routine he’s had enough. He’s toyed with the idea, surprising her in her quarters on a night she’s not with him, to see what she would do, but it takes him a week to finally follow through. He knows where they are, naturally, though he never usually steps foot inside the dorms. It is an exception, he tells himself, freshly showered, neatly shaved, an extra spritz of cologne, he even used that damned moisturiser Terzo keeps pushing into his hands, made sure his cheeks aren’t dry when she kisses them.

She opens and he thinks she’ll slam the door back into his face. He’s assertive, doesn’t let her surprise affect him, though for a moment he wonders if he did overstep, the other man suddenly not so fake anymore, that short flash of fear that he’s with her right now. But no, she recovers and lets him in, and he surveys her small bedroom with a quick glance when he leans in to press that much desired kiss to her cheek. Empty, no signs of a male presence, and she still smells like shower gel and shampoo, wearing sweats under a plain white shirt, no bra.

“I didn’t expect you, Papa,” she says, picking up items from the countertops of her kitchenette, “or I would have prepared something. A drink or–”

“No need,” he interrupts, noting that she is nervous for nothing. Her small accommodation is tidy enough, that same order she so easily brings into his collection, a logic that somehow works for them both, and he thinks it suits her, a comfortable bed with a plethora of differently textured pillows, a bookshelf that despite some overflow is neatly sorted. “It is best if we are sober. For now, at least. I am not intruding?”

“No, not at all. I was about to settle in for the evening, nothing special.” She eyes him and he knows he must look out of place in his usual black slacks and button-down, the black leather gloves, an overdressed man in her safe, comfortable space like an alien presence. “Would you like anything else? A glass of water?”

He nods, though all he wants is to stall, take a better look at her environments. A small television with a handful of old DVDs, a table she seems to use both as a desk and to eat at. The closed door to her small bathroom, a wardrobe. Then, a stack of library books on her nightstand. He remembers her shouldering that heavy briefcase a few weeks ago. The secrets to pleasure. Sexual practices and their history. The art of oral. Yes, she is eager to learn, no half-hearted efforts.

“Have you been practicing, my dove?” he asks with a smug grin, tracing the image of a man and woman nakedly intertwined on the cover of one of the books.

When she joins him she’s back to her bashful self, as though she hasn’t had his cock in her mouth multiple times by now. “I have tried.”

“That is all I ask,” he reassures. “How have you been doing it? With your fingers?”

She hands him the glass and he takes a performative sip, then sets it down, thinks that she might need it later. Her crouching down in front of her nightstand is more interesting, the drawer she opens revealing a handful of toys. Nothing he hasn’t seen before – two different size dildos, a suction vibrator, a bottle of lube, a disinfectant – but he is pleased to see that she is taking her pleasure seriously.

When she takes out a simple black silicone dildo, ergonomically shaped, he notes that it is not quite as big as his cock. “I used this.”

“Show me.”

Her eyes widen. “Papa–”

Secondo ignores it, sits down on her bed, perhaps a little impolitely leaning back, making himself comfortable amongst her pillows, shoes still on the floor. She stands there, stares at him, and her expression alone is enough to have him raise his brows, begging her to disobey. She won’t, he knows she won’t, she is so eager to please. And she doesn’t, kneels down, placing the dildo upright on the mattress, both hands around the silicone. He has to fight off an amused smile, the way she sits there, like a little girl praying to her Lord before bedtime.

When her lips finally wrap around the toy she averts her gaze, as if to get it over with. But his goal is not to humiliate her, though she might feel differently about it. He wants to reassure her once again that she does not need to be ashamed in front of him, that her trust is not misplaced.

“Look at me, cara,” he orders. “I want to see your eyes.”

She blinks, slowly bobbing her head, leaving a glistening trail on the black silicone. He doesn’t bother to observe her technique, it’s not about that. When their eyes meet he reaches for her hair, angles her head to make sure she sees him palming at his cock through his pants. He pretends not to see her hard swallow at the visible bulge already there, the way her hips move in aroused discomfort.

“You are doing well,“ he says. “I am very pleased with you. But you can take more, hm?”

She always soaks up his praise, his soft reassurances, like a flower raising her head towards the sun, unfolding in its light. It is rare, for someone to react this strongly to so little, almost innocently, though he knows she is not truly a clueless little lamb, that she is aware of their game and participates with purpose. It is enjoyable, for once doesn’t feel like he is taking on a role, no, she willingly submits to him the moment their interaction becomes sexually charged, as though it’s the nature of things. Otherwise, their relationship hasn’t changed, not when they work, not when he sees her around the abbey. He is glad of it, that she treats him like she did before.

She takes the dildo deeper into her mouth, then, cautiously, and he opens his belt, the button of his slacks, unzips them. Her eyes never leave his hand where it’s fisting his cock, getting himself ready for her, that phantom feeling of her lips around him ever present.

“Eyes on me,” he says and she blinks up at his face. “Have you been thinking about my cock when you took this into your mouth, hm? Did you want it to be me?”

She nods, a moan low in her throat. There is no room for anyone else in the way she looks at him, the way she reacts. He’s not sure why, even now, he still feels that simmering jealousy, that urge to erase anyone else from her mind, even when that someone might not even exist.

“I think it is my turn now,” he decides, aching to feel her mouth.

It is amusing how fast she discards the dildo, crawls over between his legs, resting her cheek against his thigh. He’d feel flattered but he’s too distracted by the way her breasts move underneath her flimsy shirt, the outline of her hard nipples pressing against the fabric. It is getting harder and harder to stick to their routine, to limit their lessons to this one simple thing. But he’s not sure if he can allow himself to go further yet, not when he just crossed another bridge of her safety, encroaching on her space. Her comfort sits above all else, especially above his own whims.

“Will you take off my shoes before we start?” he asks, stroking over her cheek with a gloved finger. She is all bare-faced, her hair still a little damp, beautiful and so trusting, letting him see her like this. He can allow himself to feel tender for her but only when he pretends that he is the man she spoke of in the confessional. How else would he be here, with her eyes staring at him all adoringly? Him, of all people?

And she does move down to his feet, no question. When her fingers fiddle with the laces he notices how shaky she is. So far, he blamed it on the novelty of their setting, the way she seems to crave reassurance even more than usual, but now he is not certain anymore.

Even so she is gentle when she removes his black leather shoes, sets them neatly aside. Her hands come to rest on his ankles, stroking up his socks until she meets bare skin, looking up to await further instruction. He can’t hide the shiver that runs through him at her touch, subconscious as it might be, goosebumps creeping up his whole body, and for a moment they just stare at each other while he tries to find his bearings.

“Papa?”

“You can start, cara,” he says, swallowing over a lump in his throat.

Her hands travel up his legs, over his slacks this time, and when they reach his crotch she pulls them down a little more, making space. She begins by massaging around his base, fingers running through the dark hair there, kissing him wherever she can reach before she makes her way up his length and to his tip. Perhaps she has learned that in one of her books, he thinks with some humour.

This time, she keeps anxiously glancing up at him, mouthing at him with a tight jaw. He reaches out to help her relax, stroking along that soft skin underneath her chin. Her hands still tremble, even as she uses them to stroke him, lubed with her own spit tonight.

“You feel good, my dove,” he praises. “You take me so well, no need to be nervous.”

An agitated breath. She unwraps one of her hands, takes him deeper, tongue flat against his underside, wet and hot and firm. Pulling back his hood she licks along his slit, gently sucking at the tip. He moans, unable to hide the sound, and she sucks harder in response, sinking down further. It’s good, he is about to tell her as much, but then it goes too deep and she gags, pulls back, breathing through her nose just like he showed her.

“Slow,” he says. “We are in no hurry, my dove. You were doing so well. Molto, molto bene.”

She nods, takes him back in, not quite as far this time. Her second hand returns, slow stimulation, not that he minds. She is gentle with him and it has a whole different appeal, not like the messy throaty blowjobs he is used to, no, and he does not want it to be over fast, doesn’t need it to be perfect. Not when she touches him like this, like she wants to, like he’s worthy of such softness.

“Good, brava ragazza,” he whispers. “Keep going, just like that. You can take a bit more.”

She tries again, swallows him deeper until he can feel the soft roof of her mouth, but she has to gag again, her eyes watering, sucking in air through her nose. Secondo gathers her hair, tips her head up, looking at her as he mimics how he wants her to breathe. Doing her best to follow the rhythm, she steadily calms down.

When she seems alright, he allows her to continue but she is too ambitious tonight. Her teeth grace his skin when she swallows him too fast and he winces, more in surprise than in pain. When she looks up at him with some shock she gags again, harder this time, fully pulls away to breathe, sitting back on her heels. He watches, ready to move her in case she does have to throw up, but instead she begins to tremble, thick tears rolling down her nose. A sob and she curls in on herself, crying harder.

“Come here,” he says, which she ignores, at first.

He grabs her arms, pulls her up and she doesn’t fight it. When he tucks her against his chest she wraps herself around him and then she’s buried her face against him as if to hide away.

“I told you, I’m useless,” she whispers.

“Shhh, I will hear no such thing.”

She’s quiet then, still shaking, still crying, but silently now. He has an idea of what’s going through her head, only now she won’t share it, not after he cut her off like that. With some regret, he begins to caress her, soothing, trying to convey that he is not angry with her.

“Talk to me,” he says.

She hiccups. “I won’t be able to do it.”

“You were doing it, my dove,” he assures her. “You are impatient.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He coos, presses soft kisses to her hair. She tried to prove herself to him, he realises, still worried that she’s not good enough, impatient, wanting to be perfect for him already. And he knows she is a fast learner, usually, used to improving quickly, to showing her worth, but she hasn’t understood yet that this is not about perfection, not about skill but trust, intimacy, affection and care.

He doesn’t mind, no, he will show her, teach her what he truly wants. It registers to him in that moment, how rewarding it feels to hold her, to comfort her, and not just to prove to her that he can, no, though it is important that she understands. Secondo has always been a man who enjoys providing care for others, often to the neglect of his own well-being, though not always all that selflessly. For his brothers, spiritual guidance in the ranks of the church, then to care for his lovers, emotional release through physical outlets in the way he was shown as a young man. The truth is he enjoys being needed, being admired, just like she does, and perhaps it is the one thing he misses about the Papacy, as hollow as these connections were. It is not often that someone like her seeks him out, someone who offers such tenderness in return, who seems to care for him in equal amounts, who wants him to want her, no transaction.

Someone who might choose to stay.

That is what he truly wants.

“We will stop for today,” he decides. “No more until you have recovered.”

“No,” she says, sitting up to look at him with wide eyes. “No, I can keep going.”

He wipes at her tear-streaked cheeks, cradles her head. “No more tonight. We have time.”

More tears gather at her waterline and she averts her gaze, stares at her shaking hands. “Please… I promise I can do better. Just… don’t give up on me.”

“Shhh,” he whispers, a flash of pain at her broken voice, draws her back against his chest, tightly wrapped up in his arms. He’s not sure why exactly she is so tense tonight but he can tell when the head is not in it. He should have realised it sooner but it has been a while since he had to steer against uncertain winds. “You are not in the right state of mind for this tonight, cara. I should not have overwhelmed you. It is my fault and I promise will do better.”

“It’s not your fault,” she disagrees.

He sits up a little straighter. “Ragazza mia, listen to your Papa. In this room, when we meet like this, it is my task to make sure that you are comfortable, that you feel safe and taken care of and if you are scared or unhappy, then I have failed you. So let me take this blame, hm? It will not happen again.”

Her sniffles tug at his heart and he makes sure to look at her, to convey how very serious he is. Her slow nod is as much of a concession as he’ll ever get from her stubborn little head but it is good enough for him for now. For a long time after he just holds her like that, ignoring his discomfort, how hard he still is, the buckle of his belt digging into his thigh under her weight.

“I really wanted to make you come today,” she whispers, fiddling with the button below his collar. “I’ve never managed before, I thought– if I showed you–”

He draws a deep breath both in arousal and at the realisation that this is the source of her insecurities, of her impatience. “Do you not realise that this was by design?” He lifts her chin, makes sure to meet her eyes. “I did not allow you to.”

”But– why?”

Secondo sighs, unsure what to tell her. That he did not want to give away what her mouth does to him, no matter how clumsy? That he is so fatally drawn to her that he does not want this arrangement to end? That he wants to stay in control of it, can’t hand himself over just like that? The painful vulnerability he feels when she touches him with her soft hands, soft lips, soft tongue?

“It was not about that,” he says instead. “This is not for me, my dove, it is for you. I do not have to as long as you have learned a thing or two, no? It is not always the result that matters. Tell me, why do you want to learn this? Who is he to you that you care more about his enjoyment than yourself?”

“I don’t,” she says, some defensiveness in her tone. “I just– is that not what you want?”

“What I want?”

“To come.”

He chuckles. “Yes, but it is not all of it. I could do that to myself, no? With another person, it is about trust and care, my dove. Why are you intimate with someone?”

She sighs, pondering his words, sinks back down and presses herself to his chest. His hands roam her body, making use of the unexpected closeness, and he realises how he has been aching for her. He continues on when she doesn’t show any signs of discomfort and he can’t help but toy with the hem of her shirt, goes so far as to take off his gloves just to feel her skin against his fingertips. A pleased shiver runs through her body, a tiny whimper from her lips. He goes on, traces her spine up and down.

Perhaps teaching is not so much about instruction, he thinks, perhaps he has to make her understand.

When she doesn’t protest he presses his hand flat to her ribs, following the soft curve down to her waist, to her hip, back up until he can feel the swell of her breast against his finger. She gasps when he presses against it, the softest brush of his thumb over her flesh.

“Papa,” she whispers, drawing a deep breath and shivering all over. “Please–”

“Please what?”

“Touch me.”

He smiles, palms at her breast, generously, kneading, stroking, flicking his thumb over her nipple. She is a mess within seconds, writhing, whimpering, pressing herself against him. He throbs painfully against her leg that is slung over him, fighting the urge to just fuck her into the mattress until they’re both spent for the night. Secondo is a patient man, yes, but he can feel himself reaching his limit.

“Do you want more?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You mean yes, Papa.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good.” He grabs her hips, adjusts her backwards until she is fully on the mattress and he can tower over her. Her face is flushed, hair a mess, her nipples straining against her shirt with every ragged breath. “You trust me, my dove?”

“I trust you, Papa.”

“Then will you let me return the favour?”

She furrows her brow. “But I didn’t even–”

“No arguing,” he decides. “Yes or no?”

“Yes, Papa.”

A smug grin. “Brava ragazza. Hold up your shirt, I want to see you.”

As he climbs off the bed she obeys, gathering the hem and bunching it up until her belly and chest are exposed to him. Pleased, he takes in the state of her, her cheeks still stained with tears but glowing all the same. He adjusts his erection, removes his belt but closes the button again, feeling her eyes on him in what he assumes is anticipation, no more fear, no pressure. He puts his gloves back on, slowly, making her watch. Then, with one swift motion, he grabs the waistband of her sweats and underwear and drags them both down, ignores her mild protest. Not that he’s surprised that she’s pressing her legs together while he folds her clothes, but he makes it a point to draw out the moment nonetheless.

“Let me see you,” he says, placing the bundle of soft fabric on a nearby chair. He can’t help but pick the still damp panties up, bring them to his face, inhale deeply through his nose. The scent of her arousal is so strong that he finds himself unable to set them back down, bunches them up and stuffs them into his pocket instead.

When he turns back around, she doesn’t say anything. Her knees are drawn up, still hiding, even though her whole chest is exposed. Secondo approaches, a pointed look. She is not much of a brat, none of this is to rile him up, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let it slide in the future. Tonight, though, it is reassurance that she needs and he wants to build up her confidence again, a confidence he knows she has, if not for this particular thing.

He changes strategy, gently sitting down on the edge of the bed with a hand on her knee. “You do not have to be shy, cara. Not now.”

“What if you don’t like it?”

A laugh he can’t hold back. “I can assure you I will.”

She allows it, his hand pushing between her thighs, spreading her open for him. For now he keeps his eyes on her face, looking for any signs of discomfort, for even the tiniest indication that she is faking her consent to please him. But he finds none, intrigue and a hint of arousal already, and when he lets his gloved fingers glide down her inner thigh he can watch the goosebumps spreading all over her body.

“You are beautiful, my dove,” he says, taking her in from head to toe.

Under his gaze she fidgets but he can see her confidence growing. He makes a show to lick his lips, to stroke her skin appreciatively, sighing with pleasure at even the subtlest of touches, show her how wanted and desired she is. For months he has been waiting to see all of her but no picture of his imagination would ever live up to her now. Soft. Pliant. Perfect. His.

“Won’t you undress?” she asks after a moment.

“No.”

She furrows her brow. He won’t explain. It is a power play, of course, and she will understand on her own once she feels it. Her discomfort is fleeting, those first encounters, getting to know what he is all about, how he enjoys playing, providing what he does so well, his method, the ins and outs of where they can go. It is about trust, it is about forgetting inhibitions or restrictions or the shame that weighs her down.

“Do you enjoy this?” he asks. “When I take charge?”

He speaks those words as he moves to lean over her, settling between her legs, his face right above hers. She holds his gaze like the perfect girl she is, as though she has already understood what it is he values, what matters to him.

“I do,” she says, allowing him to bend down, mouth at her neck to which she gasps. “It is… it is a bit new to me.”

“I know, my dove, but I can tell that you are leaning into it, that you like it,” he says. “And I am proud of you for how well you are doing. That you are allowing me to show you what I can do for you, that you trust me with your mind and body.”

He kisses her cheek, then down to her jaw, tongue out to lick a stripe up below her chin. She whimpers, her hands at his shoulders now, holding on for dear life. She is sensitive and it thrills him, so much so that he can’t stop kissing her neck and jaw, nibbling, licking, for once careful not to leave any marks on her yet. At some point one of her hands comes to cradle his head and he closes his eyes, leans into the gentle massage she presses into his scalp. When he looks at her, she leans up as if to try and kiss him, but she doesn’t dare to go high enough.

For a long moment he is tempted, feels that draw, the need to devour her so fully that his lips leave a lasting imprint on hers. But he can’t, not if he wants to keep going slow, not when he doesn’t know what his heart would do if he truly felt the tender emotions that stare up at him in her wide eyes.

He makes do with another kiss to her cheek, lingering, wet, hummed into her skin, then he finally makes his way down to her breasts. At first he only blows on them, watches her nipples contract even more, gooseflesh spread over her areola, tempting him to circle one with his thumb. Her breasts feel soft agains this lips when he finally takes one into his mouth, leisurely flicking his tongue over her nipple, sucking ever so gently. Again, her body reacts strongly to his touch, her hips bucking wildly against his belly, her hand pushing his head harder against her. But it is her sounds that affect him the most, those whimpers, breathy and higher than usual, her chest moving underneath him with urgency.

“Do you want it?” he asks. “My mouth on you?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Have you been thinking about this too?”

He looks up at her flustered face and she is so embarrassed that he has to laugh. “Yes, Papa.”

“My mouth?”

“Yes, Papa. Yours, your–” Another whimper. “Your mouth, your hands, the gloves.”

“The gloves? Do you want me to keep them on?”

“Yes, please. Please–”

Her hips buck again and he shows mercy, moving over the curve of her stomach with a few peppered kisses and then down to her mound. He blows on her pubic hair, admires how she is glistening for him, so wet so fast, as though her whole body is just waiting for a morsel of his attention.

Secondo uses his hands to spread her open further, making sure she sees the imprints of his gloved fingers in her flesh, the leather too soft to creak but moving elegantly nonetheless. He is eager to taste her, has been for weeks, perhaps even months, but now that she is laid bare before him he does not want to hurry through it. If he wants to teach her patience and care then he must demonstrate it himself.

Which is unusually hard, especially when he sees her cunt twitching for him.

“Papa–” she whines, throbbing, hands shaking as they reach for the sheets. “Please, I need it.”

“I know,” he says. “I know, my dove, but you will let me admire you.”

She bites her lips and he would not mind having her beg for him but he does not want to tease her too much tonight, those are all games for another time. Instead he kisses along her inner thigh, making his way down to her core. He blows on it again, making sure she can feel her own wetness, lose her embarrassment for her very natural reactions. A look up at her face tells him she is doing better, that she is waiting with bated breath for his tongue.

He gives in, licking a flat stripe along the wetness and parting her folds to make room for him in the process. Her taste floods his senses like the first piece of a sweet summer fruit, so uniquely her that he has to close his eyes, savour it, hum out his appreciation. Once he starts he can’t get enough, it is not something he ever bothered to hide before, but for her he tries to be slow, to ease her into every new sensation, licking and sucking and moving from side to side, sounds and vibrations.

As he goes he keeps his eyes on her, drinking in every reaction, every gasp and mewl, the way her jaw falls open, stomach caving in as her muscles contract upwards into his face. He allows her a few moments in which to close her eyes, though he would usually correct her. But it is her first time, so many impressions that she needs to process, and he thinks she would not handle criticism well tonight, even if playful. No, he wants her to feel good, wants her to get addicted to the feeling of his tongue inside of her, drunk on the pleasure he provides. The rest can come later.

She moans, her fingers cramping in the sheets, and he can tell she is getting close already. He hums once more, sucks at her clit as hard as he can. A high sob breaks from her throat and her hand shoots to her mouth, covering up any further sounds.

Now that he won’t allow.

He stops, bites into her thigh to which she gasps, and when she meets his eyes he grabs her elbow and withdraws her arm from her face, linking their hands together and pressing down on her abdomen.

“But–”

“Let them hear,” he says, thinking let everyone hear, let them know you’re mine.

She follows, the other hand still buried in the sheets. He did not plan to edge her like that but he will not deprive himself of the memory of her sounds, the way they go straight to his cock and will sustain him for a few days at least. No, he wants to see her unfiltered reaction, that raw deep and awkward honesty that will help her ease up when it is her turn again.

“Papa,” she whispers when he starts again, slowly building her back up, too slowly if the urgency in her voice is any indication.

Secondo wants to draw out these moments, every quiver of her legs, every desperate grasp and throb and jitter and whimper and gasp. He feeds on it like a starving man and if she can understand this, if she can see it in his eyes how every movement of his tongue, every press of his lips, is a way to learn about her, care for her, be close to her, then he may not have failed her after all.

When she inches close again, her fingers tightening between his, he shamelessly moans against her, moving from side to side with her clit between his lips, eating, devouring her to the very best of his abilities, and she unfurls so beautifully, her voice thinning out into a scream while her legs shake on either side of his face, her hips helplessly bucking up into his mouth. He can taste her, too, her essence on his chin, his lips, his tongue, and he greedily licks it all up, keeping his face buried deep in her cunt.

He does not plan on stopping just yet. He hasn’t even been inside of her.

When he continues she makes a confused sound that he ignores. A hand on his head, pushing without any real effort. ”Papa– I can’t–“

“You can,” he mumbles into her wetness.

She doesn’t fight him, not when she knows he’s right. This time, he pushes his tongue inside of her and the way she clenches immediately tells him that she enjoys it. In a similar fashion, he tests out different movements, different intensities, sucking, licking, fucking her as best he can with his mouth. He makes her come like that thrice more, though her sounds have become hoarse and her body is a mess of jitters and quakes. It is a sight he enjoys, when the muscles turn into jelly, when the brain forgets how to work. Once he decides that he is done with her every word out of her mouth is but a babbled mess and even though he had planned to use his hands on her as well he decides to be content for tonight. No use for the gloves when she is beyond noticing.

Even as he crawls back up to her it hardly registers, her eyes already closed and her body limp, tingling, flinching at every overstimulation. He cleans off his mouth with his tongue, watches her wrecked form relax properly for the first time since he’s known her.

“Have you eaten dinner, my dove?” he asks, a kiss to her damp forehead.

She shakes her head, turns sideways to where he came to rest by her side. He leaves her there, dozing, recovering, pulls a blanket over her exposed body and uses her bathroom to clean up. He debates, making himself come just to ease the pressure, but it doesn’t feel right. Instead he takes a whiff of her perfume, her shower gel, inspects her toiletries.

When he is all done, more in tune with himself again, he lets his gaze roam over her room once more. It is not much, small like most single apartments here. It would be easy to pack it all up, though he might need another bookshelf to house her collection. His bed is devoid of any more pillows than necessary but he can see that changing as he adjusts to her. Then the image of her body amongst his soft sheets with the high-thread count, not as rough as hers, much nicer on her sensitive skin, and his dove dozing in the warm light of his black candles as he gives thanks to his Lord.

The inhumane size of the kitchenette would frustrate him if it weren’t for her nice selection of products. Good tomatoes, a high quality olive oil, a decent pan. Though her fridge is half-empty he finds a slice of supermarket parmesan, not quite living up to what he’d choose but he can work with it. If she likes Italian food he is confident that he can feed her well. It goes hand in hand for him, sex and good food, nourishing the mind and the body, and tonight she needs both.

He cuts up half of an onion she still has in her fridge, adds a clove of garlic, roasting both in a pan with a generous amount of olive oil, then cuts the tomatoes, throws them in as well and lets it all simmer. After some rummaging he finds frozen herbs in the tiny ice compartment that seem edible enough, though it pains him to add them to the sauce. Pasta boils in a pot behind the pan, barely all fitting onto that tiny stove.

While he waits he watches her sleep, pleased with himself to have worn her out so thoroughly with just his mouth. Perhaps he can repeat this evening, an extra night a week to see her, or two, if she lets him, use the privacy to take his time with her as well, slowly stretch out their arrangement until she forgets the specifics.

She stirs right when the pasta is al dente. Secondo is happy with the tomato sugo and he adds the pasta, then some pasta water, some more salt and pepper, stirs until it is creamy, the juice of the tomatoes giving the dish a subtle red colour. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her getting dressed again, making no mention of the missing panties.

“I didn’t think you’d make dinner,” she says.

“I enjoy it,” he replies. “You like Italian food?”

“I love it, yes.”

He smiles, lets her pick the plates and then shoos her off so he can serve. The table stays abandoned and it is not how he’d prefer it, not as sensual, not as perfect, but he joins her in her bed, watches her eat more so than indulging himself. Would he let her eat in his bed? Perhaps, on occasion, if he was as pleased with her as he is now. Something about her disheveled state, cross-legged, the pleasure still visible on her face. A sliver of domesticity, the vague dream of a future.

“It’s so good,” she says, mouth wrapping around another forkful.

Yes, he thinks. He would let her. He would let her do anything.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

He did not plan on staying as long as he does.

They finish their meal, he has her emptying the glass of water from earlier and then he has to fight her off when she tries to wash the dishes, insists that he do it, a little selfishly prolonging their time. She starts an old black and white movie that he hasn’t heard of before and he wonders if this is her way of inviting him to stay longer. He plans on leaving either way, to give her space, but when he sits down on the bed for her goodbye kiss she slips into his laps and then he doesn’t have the heart to push her away.

They settle in her bed, though he’s sure she’s not actually watching the movie, and it’s not like he is overly comfortable in his tight clothes. But he holds her regardless, chuckling when she inhales the smell of his cologne at his neck, when her hand toys at the hem of his shirt until she’s succeeded in removing it from his pants, two fingers stroking along the newly-revealed sliver of skin. He knows she wants him, she’d let him fuck her right now if he asked, have him stay the night, and he would if she were anyone else, file this night away alongside all the other short-lived encounters he’s had in the past.

But it feels wrong to fuck her now, not just because it is decidedly not a short-lived encounter but because he enjoys her too much and if he moved ahead now it would change, would feel different, and he does not want it to end like all the other times he’s done this. She doesn’t push for anything, successfully bribed him into staying because she wanted him to, not for sex but for his company, and when has that ever happened? Secondo has touched gold, fingertips coated in her richness, and it would be foolish to stick his greedy hand in too fast and burn himself.

No, he will have her but it will be in his own bed, on his own terms, when this charade is over and he knows she’s there to stay.

“Can I ask you a question?” she says after a while.

He’s surprised to hear her voice, so quiet she’s been for the past hour. “What is it, my dove?”

“What should I do if– What should I do if I can never use my mouth like that?”

A displeased hum. “Are you still thinking about this? Did I not distract you enough?”

“I just– I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to go all the way.”

“Then you won’t.”

She sits up, looking down at his face. “What do you mean?”

“There are things you can do without taking him into your throat.”

“But what if he only enjoys the real thing?”

“There is no real thing,” he says. “This is not porn, hm? It is all real.”

She rolls her eyes and he grabs her chin, eyes narrowing. Her mouth opens but she doesn’t protest.

“Some men like when you speak to them,” he explains, not letting go of her. “Tell them what you want to do, that you are enjoying it, that you want to feel them come in your mouth. You can use whatever you can reach, massage his skin, his thighs, his balls, lick them, kiss them, bite even, if he is not a coward. You stimulate him with your hand during that time, just like you do with me. You can try touching more of him as well, his back, his taint, use your nails on his ass, anywhere he reacts and when you do it right you won’t need to swallow more than his tip, hm? Everyone enjoys different things, there is not a law you have to follow.”

She stares at him during his speech, his mouth, her hand moving to cup his jaw and stroking so tenderly that he almost feels the urge to pull away. “So, what **do you enjoy?”

His brain short-circuits at her emphasis and she is faster than he recovers, crawling down his body and fiddling with his pants.

“I want to try again,” she decides and he didn’t realise how hard he is. “Will you tell me what you like, Papa?”

“You don’t have to, my dove, I told you I am perfectly content.”

“But I want to. I feel better.”

She unzips him, pulling his pants down further for better access and he is still stuck on her words, what do you enjoy? But then she palms him and he snaps back into himself, grabs her wrist, holding her in place.

“No.” She looks up, taken aback. He swallows. “Before you try we will need a signal. When it is too much you will pinch my leg three times, yes?”

“Okay.” She shows him the gesture, looks at him, still a little startled, and he tries to relax, tries to allow himself to feel what he feels. It is too much at once, this evening, and yet he is unwilling to stop.

“Go slow in the beginning,” he says. “I like to take my time. You can explore and I will let you know what is good. You do not have to speak, I prefer different sounds.”

She does as he said, stroking him wherever she can reach, his hips, his abdomen, carding through his dark hair with gentle fingertips, then grabbing harder at his sides, scratching at the curve of his ass where it meets her mattress. Her mouth follows her trail with kisses, soft, a little too soft after a while.

“More,” he says. “Suck and bite, scratch.”

Her lips press firmer, nibbling on the curve of his lower belly, biting with some hesitation until he encourages her with a hand on the back of her head and she actually bites. It is good, this is what he knows, and he finds back to his outward self, his mind less clouded by emotion. Her lips reach the base of his cock and she looks up at him when her hand closes around his balls, cradling them, slow and careful movements, licking at his length as she does. He has to hold back a moan. This is what he was talking about, the way she is not even aware of what each little touch does to him.

“Good,” he says. “Brava ragazza, just like that. Do you see? It is not about deep and intense, hm?”

Her nod makes him smile, the way she closes her eyes when she properly tastes him, mouthing at his shaft, licking and sucking from the side, one hand fisting his tip, spreading his precome all over him. Yes, he could come like that, if she kept it up. It is her growing confidence that really gets him, her moans, the way she seems to finally allow herself to enjoy the process. Despite her overwhelm she did pay attention to what he did to her earlier, using it to her advantage now.

“You learn fast, cara. Very good.” Secondo pets her head to which she opens her eyes. “Your mouth is divine, my dove. Just like that, yes.”

The flustered tensing of her jaw and she is moving her hips, subconsciously searching for him, some relief for her own needs. He lets his hand roam her back, almost wishing she’d be closer so he could feel how wet she is. But this position is more comfortable for her so he lets her continue, increasing the pressure more and more, one hand dipping lower to his taint, massaging, pressing down exactly where he enjoys, and he clenches hard, not holding back any reactions now. She notices, looks at him with some awe which seems to encourage her to finally take his tip between her lips.

“Brava ragazza, you like how my cock tastes, hm?” he asks, watching her nod, comfortably taking him deeper now that her whole jaw and mouth are more relaxed. She doesn’t gag this time, breathes well through her nose, one hand wrapped around him and the other one still fondling with further down. “You can take more but you do not have to, my dove. You look beautiful like this, an unholy sight. Just keep going like this.”

She does take more, just a little, testing her own limits. He is proud, cannot help it, the way she responds to his guidance, learns, explores, understands. Her mouth is hot, her tongue active around him, sucking, licking, bobbing her head lightly, just enough to give the impression of friction, and her hands work on him with precision.

He feels it, then, that building pleasure, the tension in his lower body, heat and want and– no, higher up in his chest, his affection for her, burning through his shirt, into the mattress, up to his face. Everything feels hot, his hands sweating, and she looks up at him so fondly that he loses all control over himself.

“My dove,” he breathes, a desperate moan breaking from his lips when she sucks on his exposed tip, her tongue pressed to his frenulum. “I’m close. If you do not– do not want me to come in your mouth you need to– to let go.”

She beams, there is no other word, and he doesn’t bother to compose himself. Her face lights up, her confidence more pronounced than ever, ambition behind those pretty eyes. But she does not let go, keeps working him up, hand twisting around his base, covered in spit and his own arousal, slick and deft. His hand, still in her hair, grabs it tighter now, holding on for dear life, trying not to shove himself in deeper. She moans so beautifully around him while she sucks him off that he can’t hold back any longer. When he comes it is with a strangled, helpless groan, his balls tightening in her gentle grasp until he empties himself in her mouth. She obediently looks up at him throughout, taking him a little deeper as if to feel him quivering inside of her. After everything he held back tonight it is more intense than expected and he fills her until his come is dripping from the corners of her mouth.

She swallows. A proud smile on her swollen lips, still stained with his come.

He lets his head fall back, spent, staring at the ceiling for a moment while stars dance in front of his eyes and the pleasure slowly fades. He’s barely noticing how she licks him clean, tucks him back into his pants, closes the button, wiping at her mouth.

“I did it,” she says and he laughs, a full body laugh, a little incredulous that he just let this all happen. “Papa?”

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, it was good, my dove. You were perfect, my perfect girl.”

She straddles him with a smile and he indulges her when her hands slip underneath his shirt, press into his soft belly. Gathering his wits he sits up until they are face to face. He’d kiss her, he wants to kiss her, but if he did he would not leave this room tonight.

“Bella, bella ragazza,” he whispers. “Do you see? It is not about taking it as deep as it goes.”

“So you liked it?”

He wipes at her lips, smoothes down her hair and huffs a laugh. “I think I did, hm? Look at you, all wrecked for me. What a sight.”

Even now she flusters and he can’t shake the smile that seems to stick to his lips. He moves his other hand to her head as well, cradling her jaw, and begins to massage her tense muscles. She moans in relief, leaning into his touch with closed eyes. Thumbs pressing below her jaw, his other fingers sweep over her cheeks and jawbone, then down her neck.

“You are not used to it yet,” he observes. “It will get better.”

“It’s okay,” she says.

“Hm, you say this now but wait until you are sore tomorrow.”

“Then you just have to come back and do this again.”

He scoffs, thinking that he would, that he will, if she asks him. She seems happy now, relieved, back to her usual self, and he enjoys it. This is how he wants her, not crying at his feet.

“Will you stay over?” she asks and he winces, lets his hands rest on her shoulders.

“No, my dove,” he says. “But I can stay until you are asleep.”

She doesn’t seem as disappointed as he’d feared and the smile she gifts him seems genuine. Once he is satisfied with the state of her jaw muscles he lets her recline, sink back into the pillows. The film has ended and he turns off the television, rests on his side with her for a while. She is tired, worn out, and though he feels a similar exhaustion his departure doesn’t feel very urgent, not even when her eyes close and she drifts off.

He waits a little longer, watching her so calm and relaxed. His belt is somewhere on the floor, as are his shoes, and he slowly gets dressed, gathers himself back together and stands on heavy legs.

“Wait,” she grumbles, not quite asleep after all, and crawls up to him on her knees. “Papa, you’re forgetting.”

He gives a rumbled laugh and sits back down, leans towards her. Her lips press to his face, not on his cheek where he expects them, no, but hitting the corners of his mouth with purpose. She lingers, kissing him slowly, his face in her hand, and when she retreats he is filled with regret that he did not turn his face after all.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

IV – Stay

Over the next few weeks they make a lot of progress. A lot of progress – and a lot of exceptions.

Secondo is blurring the lines between guiding and indulging and something more, allowing the tenderness between them to bloom. He is aware that he’s lying to himself, not that he really cares. Telling himself that it is all part of his promise to help her is easier, that she needs it and he is merely providing it for her. Assessing risks is something he is good at, knowing where the fun of the gamble ends, but now he is powering with his heart – and he’s gone all in.

But she is improving, getting more and more comfortable with her mouth, taking him deeper, working more confidently through her gag reflex with focused breathing and short breaks, enjoying their time together, initiating it all on her own. This is the agreement, yes, but he has been selfish, getting his mouth on her almost every time, using his fingers, seeing her response to whatever new idea he has to make her come without actually taking her. Perhaps worst, he has been staying over longer and longer, aching when he has to let her go, when she bemoans the loss of him, when he watches her fall asleep alone as he closes the door to her rooms.

Then he is gone for almost a week.

It is a trip he planned months ago to retrieve two Renaissance paintings from Urbino, a private collector who offered him first access should he want them. Secondo traverses the arcaded courtyard of the Palazzo Ducale, marvelling at the architecture, his business concluded, the paintings ready to be shipped, his last day spent taking in the city’s sights before he leaves. She will enjoy them, if her taste regarding his existing collection is any indication, and he is looking forward to showing her his newest acquisitions once they arrive. In his absence he allowed her to proceed without him, finally cataloguing the latest arrival of books, and all week he kept imagining her alone in the basement.

Secondo does not miss. He has missed people in the past, of course, he misses his late mother, his nonna, he even misses his brothers when they’re away, but the last time he missed a woman it did not end well for him. His youth was spent in such daydreams, with the experiments of love, travelling around for the clergy, emotional as well as physical distances his relationships never survived, a broken heart he stitched together so many times that the scars have left it numb.

The late evening sun shines down on him as he walks back to his hotel over cobbled streets, ready to take a light dinner and pack his belongings. His heart, not so numb anymore, cries out for one person in particular and suddenly he does miss again. He’s been thinking of calling her but discarded the idea just as often as it arrived. Secondo knows he is not an innocent man, that he made mistakes, alienated people who might have loved him had he lowered his walls. A loneliness decades in the making, now fractured by this woman who is too lovely for him, who cried at his feet, who asked him not to give up on her.

He knows he is being stubborn, doesn’t care about that either. He can get what he wants, he has done all he was willing to do, but now he doesn’t want to sway anymore, doesn’t want to impose, doesn't want to beg. She has to say it, ask him, tell him, or he will not go any further. He has shown his intentions but he won’t expose his heart. If there ever was another man he’s certain that he’s forgotten by now but she has not corrected him about that night, hasn’t told him, hasn’t made any implications, and he will not be the fool to ask for more than anyone thinks he’s worth. Not again.

Yes, he wants her in his bed, wants her in his life, but not for the arrangement.

The arrangement be damned.

After seeing her kitchen it is easy to think of a gift, a bottle of expensive olive oil, a generous wedge of real parmigiano reggiano, and he can’t help it, old romantic sap that he is, and stops for a bouquet of red roses before he arrives at home. The thought of visiting her is quickly forgotten when he enters his own apartments, feels the raging emptiness. He wants her here, for the rest of his life.

She’s knocking an hour later, one short message sent to her door, conjuring her at his will. He tries not to let it go to his head, unsuccessfully, tells himself that she must have been waiting for him. And maybe she did because then he sees her, a little dressed up, lipstick, her hair done nicely, and she hugs him like she always hugs him, only somehow tighter, a full body effort, pressing herself to him until she can go no further, her face buried in his neck and her nose inhaling his scent. Secondo cannot deny that he loves these moments. He holds her equally tight, breathing into her hair that smells like flowers. Today, she greets him with multiple kisses to his cheek, covering every inch of it, then she stills, sighs, clings to him with clenched fingers.

“I missed you,” she whispers, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to say it.

“I have missed you as well, my dove,” he admits, his heart jumping. “And I brought you a gift.”

“A gift?”

He leads her over to his open kitchen, the flowers throning over the other items and her expression is everything he had hoped for, everything he ever hoped for. Smiles, a happy laugh, her nose in the roses. More kisses to his cheek, more of her, thanking him, touching him, reassuring him. Then he shows her his apartment, watching with rapt attention how she likes it, letting her explore on her own to prepare a light meal in his kitchen. As always he brought more food from Italy than he had planned to, but at least now he has someone to share.

“I own a lot of books but there is always room,” he says when he sees her eyes on his shelves.

“Room?” She scans the titles, a big chunk of his collection, as yet uncatalogued. Many volumes she has never seen before, some particularly impressive ones, and he enjoys watching her browsing with such interest.

“Room for more,” he explains. “Not necessarily mine.”

Her eyes move to him, curious but not averse. “I never thought there was much room in your life. You seem… comfortable, on your own.”

Secondo scoffs, cutting up some fresh bread. Is this how he comes across? Well, he should not be surprised, and yet it stings to hear it from her. Did he not allow her closer than anyone else?

“There is room,” he just says, if you want it.

She joins him, popping an olive into her mouth, a hand snaking around his waist. “Did your work all go to plan?”

“It did, I acquired two rare paintings for a reasonable price. You will see them as soon as they arrive.”

”Secondo–“

It is the first time she uses this name for him and he stops cutting up his tomatoes, looks at her. “Yes?”

“I really did miss you. I feel like– perhaps I should–” She stops, looking away. “I suppose I just want you to know.”

“Did something happen?” he asks, alarmed by the change in her voice. “Did that man hurt you?”

“No! No, nothing like that.”

A pause and he wills her to say it, to admit that he doesn’t exist or that he exists but does not matter anymore. The thought passes and the longer he looks at her the less he cares about anything else. She is beautiful tonight, every night, but something about her wanting to impress this upon him makes it harder to resist.

He stops his preparations, mentally postponing the meal, and pulls her out of the kitchen. His record player is over by the bookshelf she just inspected and he picks a slow tune, some soft rock compilation from the 70s. At first he simply reaches for her hands, pulls them to his chest, swaying with her. She smiles, leans into him. The music is slow enough for them to continue like this, though he needs her closer soon, reaches for her hips, and she obediently wraps her arms around his neck.

This could be their life, he thinks as he looks down at her mellow expression. This could be their future.

“I really like your apartment,” she says after a moment. “It’s not huge but– you use the space well.”

“You would not mind spending more time here?”

“I would not mind at all.”

A kiss to her forehead. “Good.”

She rests her head against his shoulder and they stop moving, listening to the rest of the song. A lot goes through his head then, how he’d take her to Italy with him the next time he goes, how her books would fit into his shelves, her pillows onto the sofa, how he’d like to hear her slow footsteps every morning before she joins him in the kitchen, how he’ll ruin the life of anyone who dares to lay a hand on her.

“You have lipstick on your cheek,” she says, reaching up to wipe at his skin.

She never finishes. He cradles her face in both hands, angling her so that he can look right into her confused eyes. Her arm limply falls away, dangling at her side. Secondo leans down, pressing his lips to her cheek, to the corner of her mouth, to her nose, to her chin, then repeats it on the other side.

“It’s not time for our goodbye kiss yet,” she whispers.

“This is not a goodbye kiss.”

When he captures her lips she falls against him, her hands grasping at his shirt. Even though he plans to go slow her eagerness is catching and he presses in firmer, his thumbs at her jaw, controlling how she moves, swallowing every little whimper. She gives up control within seconds, allowing him to kiss her as he pleases, slow, deep, opening her up for him until he can get his first taste.

A part of him gets lost, a heaviness that dissipates, an invisible hand around his neck that loosens its grasp until he can breathe again, sees his own reflection in the mirror of his mind. It is not the same bitter old man staring back at him, no hard lines, no scowl, no narrowed eyes, but a young man with hopes and dreams and a smile. Who finally has what he’s been longing for.

Secondo breaks way, not far, just enough to clear his head.

“I missed you,” she says against his lips. “I missed eating with you, I missed you in my bed. I missed your company in the basement and I missed you during mass. I missed touching you, feeling you, tasting you. I missed having you in my mouth. I missed it so much.”

He swallows, his throat suddenly tight, and he decides to steer them back into familiar territory. “Do you wish to remedy that, my dove?”

“Please.”

He leads her into his bedroom, not to the bed, not yet, no, but he lowers himself into the brown leather armchair in the corner. It feels grotesque, almost, to have her here, a place that is filled with memories of so many carnal nights that she might cry, could she see them, knowing her fear of inferiority. But looking up at her now, he realises that her confidence isn’t wavering, and perhaps this is the sign he needed that their lessons are over.

“Papa?” She motions to his shirt. “I would like to undress you, this time.”

“You may open the buttons,” he says. “Take off my shoes and slacks. Nothing else.”

She doesn’t fight him, starts with his slacks, then unbuttons the shirt, and he realises what her plan is, the journey given as much attention as the destination itself. Secondo smiles when her hands don’t seem to leave his chest, carding through thick hair like an insistent brush, back and forth, scratching just enough to leave a few red marks. She goes as slow as she has learned he enjoys, a similar path but never the same, a few surprises, like her tongue pressed to his balls or her teeth on the inside of his thigh. He relaxes, the leather soft on his skin, the world returning to normal.

“I thought you missed my cock,” he says after a while, teasing, and she laughs with her lips on his balls until his cock jumps in her hand.

“I did,” she whispers. “But I missed the rest of you, too, Papa.”

He smiles, pleased with her, gently petting her hair. “I do not have to tell you anymore, hm? You know just what I like to hear.”

He feels another laugh, at the base of his cock this time, and she sinks down on him with a long sigh, licking as if to greet his taste, taking him as deep as he knows she can comfortably do now. It is enough to make him feel how wet and tight her mouth is and there is nothing he would miss, no matter how she took him. And yet this time she swallows him deeper, ever deeper, and he wonders if she has been practicing without him.

“My dove,” he says, breathless, his whole body attuned to the heat of her.

“Hm?”

“Cazzo,” he exhales and then his hips buck and he hits the back of her throat, the sensation more than he expected, the word followed by a deep moan and the sound of her gagging. She’s not pulling away, breathing perfectly, waiting it out. His body must have missed her, betraying him once more with the intensity of each little shock that goes through him.

She has to let to go to breathe, then, tears rolling down her face from the sudden movement and mixing in with the drool around her mouth and chin. Secondo pats her cheek for a moment but once he sees she has recovered he pushes her head down again, forcing his cock back into her mouth. She immediately gags as he hits her throat once more but he won’t let her get off completely again.

“You look so pretty when you choke on your Papa’s cock,” he says. “Breathe, my dove. Very good.”

She inhales deeply through her nose, following along with his rhythm and soon she swivels her tongue around him again, doing so well tonight. His fingers are still on her head and he lets them glide over her cheek as tenderly as he can muster, aroused as he is, wiping some of the drool away. She looks up at him, batting her eyelashes, and slowly drags her mouth over him, using the few precious seconds he spends taking her in to recuperate.

“Hmm, mia brava ragazza, taking me so well, molto bene,” he mumbles and she beams at the praise, speeding up slightly as if to prove to him just how good she is. “I do not think you have anything more to learn. Una ragazza perfetta con una bocca perfetta.”

She whimpers at those words, sucking him deep until she can swallow around him, every little gag in her throat gripping him tight. Secondo doesn’t have much left, he knows it, not tonight, not with how she’s moving. And she is a mess, spit and his arousal coating her mouth, running down her hand where it works at his base.

“Stop,” he says, feeling his lower body tighten. “Stop, my dove. Come here.”

A displeased look washes over her face that he doesn’t let her finish but she obeys, as she always does, letting go of him and crawling into his lap. She is breathing heavily, wiping at her mouth, and he pulls off his gloves.

“Come here, let your Papa help you.”

He uses his thumb to clean the mess on her chin only to push it into her mouth. She obediently licks off the fluids, sucking a little longer than necessary. Secondo hums in appreciation, watching with an affectionate, blissful expression he can’t be bothered to hide. His cock is throbbing, waiting to be inside of her, but he can’t just yet.

“We are done,” he says. “I will not teach you how to use your mouth anymore.”

”But–“ Her face falls, her lips quivering. “Papa– I’m sure there’s more–”

“You know what do now,” he continues. “You do not have to worry any longer.”

“But Papa– Secondo–” Her eyes begin to water, not from overstimulation this time. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Then tell me,” he says, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels. “Tell me you do not want anyone else. Tell me you only want me.”

“I don’t want anyone else. I only want you.”

“Swear it, my dove. Swear it, right now, before Lucifer.”

“I swear it. I swear it.”

It is enough. It has to be enough. He inhales a shaky breath, his own eyes stinging as he looks up at her wet cheeks. Without hesitation his hands reach for her, holding her face between his palms, and she doesn’t once glance away. “Stay.”

“What?”

“Stay, tonight. Every night.”

Her eyes widen but she nods a moment later, leans in, and he kisses her with a bruising force that neither of them see coming. Her gasps go straight to his cock and he can feel how wet she is when she grinds down on him, her thighs shaking and tensing. With a tight grasp he holds her hips still, his tongue pushing into her mouth, feeling her, tasting himself on her. It is enough, he thinks again. This is enough.

Even though his knees are weak he manages to grab her hips and get up, dragging her over to the bed and dropping her onto the mattress. It is everything and nothing like he imagined, the image of a divine creature spread out amidst his soft sheets. He hates that he is impatient now, after months and months of waiting, praying, hoping for this, and yet his hunger is that of a starving vulture, waiting to devour.

He undresses her just enough to feel some of her skin, to be able to touch her breasts, her legs.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say it again.”

“I want you,” she chokes out. “I only want you, Papa.”

It draws a moan from him, the absolute conviction in her voice, her gaze never straying from his, her hands on him, roaming his body, desperate, his fingers fully sheathed inside of her, his tongue on her throat, his teeth in her skin. She’s whimpering, clawing, waiting, and he’s had enough.

“I will fuck you now,” he says, a hoarse whisper against her ear. “But there is one condition.”

“Wh-what condition?”

He lines himself up, his tip pressed to her heat but going no further. She cries out in despair like he’s physically hurt her, more cries and sobs. When he looks at her she’s clenching every muscle, her face streaked with tears and ruined make-up.

“You have something to confess to me, ragazza mia,” he says, taking some pity. “Tomorrow night, you will be in the chapel and I expect you to be honest.”

She nods, feverishly grasping at him, a whimpered yes falling from her lips as he finally sinks into her. Deep, slow, perfect. Another tear rolls down her cheek and he kisses it away, holding her face in his hand.

“Promise me,” he breathes, his voice soft now, barely audible.

“I promise,” she whispers and he slowly begins to fuck her. “I promise, Papa. I would do anything.”

He nods, groans, and then the world blurs around him.

V – Confession, Pt. 2

The calming rustle of paper. Secondo turns the page of his book, a paperback copy of –– which he only recently started on her recommendation. The chapel is quiet, the last Sibling left half an hour prior and he has been waiting ever since. He can’t say that he’s nervous, not after last night, and yet a heaviness sits in his stomach like a stone sunk deep into the ocean, the weight of this commitment, equal parts a comfort and intimidating.

When he notices the steps he can tell right away that it’s her, familiar as he has become with her rhythm. The door to the booth opens to a shaky breath and she sits, as she sat all these months ago, shifting around on the worn-down wooden plank that is separated from him by nothing more than a thin latticed wall.

“Sorella,” he says in greeting.

“Good evening, Papa. There is… there is something I wish to confess to you.” The wood creaks, her face closer to the lattice when she continues. “It has been weighing on me ever since I came to you for the first time but I have been a coward. I wasn’t truthful with you and I want to remedy that tonight.”

“I see.” He closes his book, sets it aside. “And have you been repenting for your transgression?”

”To be honest, I thought perhaps you might assist me with that.”

He smiles at the hint of teasing in her voice. “Join me over here, sorella.”

He listens as she steps out of her booth, opening the door to his without hesitation this time. Secondo can’t help the pride he feels at the way she carries herself now, confident in her submission to him, not hesitating to demand what she wants and needs. He’ll take her home with him after this, worship the very essence of her.

“Come here,” he says, patting his cassocked knee.

She sits down, already losing her concentration, her eyes on his mouth, her hands fiddling with his collar. It is just as well, he wasn’t planning on having a fair conversation anyway. His hands work themselves up her legs, dragging the hem of her habit with them, the gloves she so loves toying at her stockings. As expected she whimpers at the slightest of touches, her cunt clenching.

“I know what you want to confess to me,” he says. “You are not a good liar, sorella.”

She smiles at that, biting her lower lip to hide it. “I never said I was, Papa.”

Secondo drags his hands up her body now, groping at her flesh, sighing when he feels her breasts underneath the fabric. She leans into his touch, grinding not quite so subtle on his thigh. His eyes move up to her face and he lets one of his hands follow, tracing the line of her jaw before he grabs it between two fingers, forces their gazes to meet.

“When you came to me, sorella, you told me there was someone,” he elaborates. “A man, to be precise. Now tell me, and do not lie again, did you think of me when you went to confess to my brother? Was it my cock you imagined in your mouth, when you wished to learn how to please a man? Were you shocked when you heard my voice instead? The very man you were speaking of?”

“Yes. Yes. It’s all true.”

His grasp tightens, his eyes narrowed. “Why did you not tell me that night?”

“I was so embarrassed, Papa, I– I didn’t know how.”

“And later, why did you never admit it?”

“I wanted to keep seeing you,” she says, her voice shaking a little, as though she’s not sure if he’s truly upset with her. “I was worried you’d stop if you knew– if you knew how I felt about you. I didn’t think you’d feel the same.”

He lets go of her chin, cradles her cheek instead with his thumb toying at her lips. She relaxes and he strokes her for a moment, unclenching his features, softening his gaze. “That night you called me your friend, sorella. Am I a friend to you still?”

“No,” she says, visible swallowing. “You are still a friend, in– in some ways. But also more. A lot more. I can’t imagine a life without you, Papa.”

He pushes his thumb into her mouth, then, and she greedily sucks it in deeper, her cheek safe in the curve of his palm. “There is no life without me, my dove. You swore it before Lucifer. There is no one else.”

She nods, closing her eyes when he begins to stroke her hair with his other hand, moving down her  jaw, her neck, holding her there, though not squeezing, his thumb against her windpipe to feel every swallow at his fingertip.

“You are mine,” he says. “And I am yours.”

At that she lets go, bringing one hand from his neck to his face, mirroring the way he’s holding her. Her gaze is serious, her eyes staring down at him with an intensity that chills him.

“Will you swear it?” she asks. “Before Lucifer?”

“I swear it.”

She smiles, big, bright and honest, and he breaks the game, returns it, pulling her face down to his until he can feel her breath on his skin.

“This is not a goodbye kiss,” she mimics from the night before.

He scoffs, stopping just before their lips touch. “There will be no more goodbye kisses, my dove. This is forever.”

thank you for reading <3 i know this was long, if you made it hear then kudos to you! as always, likes, kudos, comments and reblogs are appreciated but most of all i hope you had fun reading this story!

Masterlist – my Ao3 – Join my tag list

[the-kr8tor]

Hello! I've just recently found your work and honestly, it's honestly so sweet. You capture Hobie's character and manner of affections perfectly <3 I wanted to request for a Hobie x reader, wherein the reader isn't really one for physical affection but warms up to him specifically? Like, they're close, but reader tends to keep themself at a distance. It goes from an accidental hug to intentional shoulder touches, then hand holding & cuddling ? - 💜💛

Thank you so much!!! I hope you like it! ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, spiderwoman! Reader, loser! Hobie, established relationship, CW drinking mention, fluff!

Navigation

Hobie finds you tucked in the corner of the room. You nurse a half empty glass of champagne while confetti rains down on you. The chatter of the spider society party fades in his ears as his eyes hone in on you, smile appearing on his lips the further he gets closer to you. You meet with his eyes as he dodges fellow spider people, a soft smile unconsciously appearing on your usual stoic face.

“Come ‘ere often?” He sidles up next to you, giving you some space to move away, but you don't. You've come a long way from flinching at every movement that comes close to you. He still remembers that you barely glance his way, now you're gazing into his eyes, not afraid of getting lost in them unlike him, who's drowning from the sight of it.

“I work here too, you know.”

“You get paid for this? Shit, who do I have to talk to to get my money ‘round ‘ere?”

Your laughter is soft amidst the noise of the party. Hobie's smile brightens as you accidentally nudge his shoulder with your own.

“I didn't know you could laugh, love.”

You roll your eyes, face returning to the usual look you have. “I can get angry too.”

“Really? I thought the green hulking man had that patented.”

Poking his bicep, you narrow your eyes at him. Even with the threatening look he still smiles at you, grinning even wider than before as his eyes shine with excitement. “Please, where'd you think he got it from?”

“You tellin’ me that you can get big and green too?”

Your guffaw echoes above the music, a few heads turn towards you and Hobie but they let you be with a few concerned looks at the usual stoic spider. Hobie's chest feels warm and his cheeks feel aflame as he holds onto your shoulder once you're starting to wobble on your feet, and laughing so hard that you're clutching at your stomach.

“Bloody hell, how much have you had, love?”

You chuckle, the smile remaining on your lips as you look at his warm hands on you and over to his handsome face. Plucking a confetti off of his head, you step closer, an unprecedented act from you that has Hobie inhaling deeply.

“Enough to find you funny.”

“That hurts,” you laugh again. “That really hurts, love! I felt my heart breakin’—” you suddenly place your palm on his chest, and his breath gets stuck in his throat.

“It's still beating, Hobie. It means that it's still whole.” Just like how he taught yours was, underneath all the ice and cold façade, he managed to chisel his way into yours. It took some time, but he's a patient man.

Hobie's exhale trembles as his hand inches towards your waist, shaking with trepidation until you wretch his hand towards you, tugging at him until his hand cups your hip. He lets out a whimpered swear.

“You okay over there?” You ask, head tilting teasingly.

“You’re—” he lets out a breath, palm reaching to your cheek, knuckles grazing along your jaw as you lean against his touch.

“Am I what?”

“Stunnin'.” He says breathlessly.

For once, he has you flustered. “How much did you have, Hobie?”

“I didn't drink.”

A grin spreads across your lips. “I didn't either,” you raise your glass. “This is apple juice.”

Hobie chortles, laughing together with him in tandem as you two hold each other in that little corner of the society.

[just-a-sleepy-idiot]

Herbert West Imagine: Being your Roommate and slowly starting to care about you

Why is he so cute it’s so unfair. Shout out to @herbert-west-did-nothing-wrong for being an archive of cool Re-animator content and furthering my hyperfixation hoho hehe

Content/Warnings: Gender neutral Reader, Some fake dating, Violence against Zombie animals, Dr. Hill is obsessed with Reader the way he is with Meg in the movie, Swearing, Herbert being addicted to the Reagent like in the uncut version & Withdrawal, Autistic Herbert West

When his unsuspecting Roommate turned out to be a Insomniac night owl his initial plan of secrecy had to be turned around. Or to be more specific, it was rather the very unfortunate moment when you happened to catch him wrestle the Re-Animated Raccoon that tried to claw through his labcoat in the middle of the night when he realized that he couldn‘t get around some explaining. „Get it off me!! Get it off me!“ He yelled, trying to keep the beasts treacherous little zombie hands away from him. „Fuck! Fuck, Herbert what the hell!?“ You yelled back while hurriedly grabbing a towel and trying to pry it off him with that. The Racoon ended up Re-Dead eventually, after an excruciating fight that showed you the extent to how fucking Undead that thing turned out to be. You stared at Herbert in Horror, he was heaving and leaning back against the Operation table he had set up. He was quick to jump and talk to you, „Listen-„

You were this close to demanding he‘d move out as fast as he had turned up that evening a few days ago, when he knocked at your door with the sign you had posted to the Hospital staff‘s board about looking for a Roommate. You were vaguely aware of what he was studying, at least you witnessed how strongly he defended his opinions about Brain death against Dr. Hill, who was the head surgeon of the clinic but also his teacher. And as such the older man was more than inclined to fail Herbert in class over his upfront disrespect. You were somewhat uncomfortable with Dr. Hill as well for a long time, and maybe the fact that Herbert openly disputed against him was part of the reason why you didn‘t turn him off when he turned up on your doorstep.

But he showed you, he proved to you, that the insane claims he was using as his explanation were actually true. His research has led him to revive the dead, no matter the damage the body has taken before, because soon after the wretched beast you had just thought dead came back to life, if that absolutely murderous state it went into could be called life.

You were sat there, next to him and stared at the cadaver. Blood on Herberts shirt and loosened tie, and you in your silly Pyjamas. „Which is why I need your help Y/n.“ Your head turned quickly, „Help you?“ He scooted a bit closer, „Yes! You are the perfect assistant. You are hardworking, we work in the same Hospital and you have no functioning sleep schedule.“ You frowned at that, but well, he was right. „We could do something great, conquer Death!“ He put a hand on your shoulder and you looked him in the eyes for a very long moment. You let out a stressed out sigh, „for gods sake.. ok, alright. This is.. just insane, Herbert, but it‘s the kind of insane that I can‘t just leave be. I‘ve never seen anything like it.“ Herbert smiled, patting your shoulder enthusiastically.

That is how he got himself an Assistant by chance. As long as he could keep you motivated to keep going and pushing through the Horror his research would really benefit from the help you were providing.

You weren‘t as obsessed about working day and night as he was though, which is why you didn‘t react too pleased when he stormed into your room at nearly 4 in the morning to tell you about a new theory he had. He didn‘t really notice how you were snuggling a plushie, or how you had curled up in the moment as he ranted on and paced your room excitedly. You let out a long stretched moan and grimaced at him, “I was sleeping..!” You complained, but he didn’t really listen. Only when you threw a pillow at him he halted, looking at you in offense. “That was uncalled for.” “Apparently it is! I wanna sleep Herbert now gooo” you stood up and shoved him out of your room. “No bursting into my room while I’m sleeping!” He turned around, getting a last look at your sleepy, disgruntled face before you shut the door on him and went back to sleep. Only when he huffed and puffed, walking back down into the basement, he remembered how you have looked sleeping. Curled up like a Pillbug, he thought.

The next day he found that the lack of sleep had not really made you forgiving towards him when he tried to tell you about his findings. He clenched and unclenched his fists nervously, frowning as he tried to figure out his next step of action. Herbert never needed to prove himself to anyone or be particularly likeable to make it to where he was now, his work spoke for itself. So he genuinely didn’t know how the heck he was going to fix something that was well.. a person. He needed you to be cooperative, and pissing off his only assistant was not very beneficial to his work.

When you came home, Herbert was already sat there and stood up quickly. „Look,“ you already looked at him pretty much pissed, much like this night while you threw him out. He came forward and firmly held out a plastic bag, neatly wrapped inside was a piece of your favorite cake. „No more bursting into your room while you’re sleeping.“ He said, lowering his head without breaking his continuous eye contact. „Is that.. how did you know I liked that?“ He nodded, „See I‘m not always listening but my brain is always taking in information.“

You took the bag and raised your brows, a slight smile on your lips as you took out the cake. „Alright.. I accept.“ you said, putting down the cake to go into the kitchen to get a fork. „So what did you find out?“ He smiled as well, clapping into his hands and starting to explain it all. You came back with two forks. You made Herbert try some too, as it turns out he is more a dark chocolate kind of guy, and he makes a face when he finds things too sweet that makes you giggle.

Herbert was always eager to go back home and experiment after work, the days were Dr. Hill taught were especially agitating to him. „I feel like every minute I am forced listen to this man it’s diminishing my brain capacity.“ He complained every time. Those were days were he stayed in the lab until the sun rose, and listen, throwing stones in a glass house and all but this was too extreme. You noticed he was still up when you woke up to pee. Did he even eat dinner? You spied into the kitchen, no trace of dishes.

He was scribbling down a new variant to his substance he had thought of, it was brilliant! This would solve at least one of the major problems you had been encountering in your experiments, he couldn’t wait to put the chances into action and see how the reagents power changed. Herbert lifted his gaze without fully looking up when he heard the familiar creak of the wooden stairs. „You need to see this Y/n.“ He bickered you closer. He was surprised to find a plate with Pancakes in his field of vision. He looked up from them to you. You were in a different set of silly pyjamas now. „You didn’t eat. How are you gonna save me from Zombie Goldfish if you faint?” You joked and reached for his notebook to read his new results. He stared at you for a while, then said „Why do all of your pyjamas look like that.“ „Hey!“ “Also by now I deem you capable enough to bring down a Zombie fish yourself.” “That is the sweetest thing you ever said to me Herbert.” He shot you a look over his glasses.

Though, he ate the pancakes when you left and they were good. You didn’t make them too sweet. Judging from the way you giggled at his reaction to the cake you must have had remembered. Hm.

It was another night, another period of labwork he was up to with you. You were replicating the reagent for him into smaller, portable versions you could take into the Hospital to begin and document the reactions to human bodies with low dosages. You poured some of it too quickly and a cloud of poisonous gas errupted from the glass, you nearly fell back trying to evade it- your chair already tipped over and you closed your eyes, but the crash didn’t come.

You looked up, still holding onto the glass for dear life, and saw Herbert looming over you from behind the chair. He had swooped in and grabbed it from the back before you could fall. Why did this somehow feel.. close, the way you looked up at him that way. The way his knuckles turned white from gripping the chair, and the way he frowned down at you. You eyed his face. “You should avoid dying before I perfected my reagent.” He said, still holding you. Your feet dangled in the air, you put your head further back. “Don’t worry, I would come back as a ghost to haunt you.” “Why would you do that?” You raised your hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks, surprisingly gently. “I wanna spook you once, not see you as composed as you always appear to be.” Herbert swallowed, his eyes flickered over you for a moment. Your fingertips were warm against his skin. Why were you.. your lips parted in a smile. He cleared his throat and carefully set your chair down again.

“You really need safety googles, let me see if I have an extra.” He looked through his stuff, finding his thoughts trail off. He paused for a moment without noticing, briefly letting his eyes flicker around without really focusing on something. When he found them he turned around and gave them to you for you to try on. “Do I look good?” “You look safe. That is good.”

A week or so later you were both at the Hospital, working as usual. Herbert went to your station to discuss your next test subject, he happened to find an older man who was sure to die soon of his illness that he intended to try and Re-Animate. If the bodies weren‘t registerested in the Morgue in the first place it couldn‘t be traced back to the few with the authority of entering it, aka you. So if he just waited until the patient died and took his chance before anyone took the body he would make for a perfect test subject. When he arrived at your station he looked around for you, only eventually finding you cornered against a door by none other than the most dimwitted person in the Hospital; „Dr. Hill, I really need to be getting back to work..“ you said and tried to walk past him, but he blocked your way with his body.

„Now Y/n there‘s no need to be in a rush, I‘m sure someone will handle it. Surely you‘ll have some more time for me to discuss dinner.“ „Well.. um, like I said, I‘m sorry but I‘m already getting something with Mr. West tonight.“ The older man rolled his head back for a moment and laughed spiteful at the mention of his name. „Yes but you are rooming with.. Mr. West, so you will have plenty of occasions to eat with him. But you see, I am a very busy man and my company is high in demand. You should prioritize me making time for you.“

Herbert saw the way you smiled, and from what he had learned about body language over the years he would most likely interpret this as a sign that you were flattered and comfortable with his invitation- but there was something that went against that deduction; Your eyes. Either way he didn‘t look people in the eye or he did so to an extent that was considered staring. But he had seen you smile, at him, at the cake he got you, at the note he left on the fridge that said ‚Leftover Dinner left, Bag of Eyes right! Do not accidentally microwave‘ so he knew what you looked like when you smiled. And.. you weren‘t smiling with your eyes right now. You always smiled with your eyes, did that mean that your expression was simulated? Were you in distress?

He approached swiftly, clearing his throat to get Dr. Hill to turn around. „I shouldn‘t be surprised to find out that your ignorance isn‘t limited to your scientific research, Dr. Hill, but here we are. Y/n, I need to discuss something with you.“ You were more than happy to use the moment of Dr. Hill‘s bubbling irritation and slip past him and next to Herberts side. „Mister West.“ He said through gritted teeth, „It seems like you are compensating your inability to surpass me by taking something from me in reach, but let me assure you that a Roommate isn‘t as important as a Lover can be.“ When he said the last words he looked at you with a smug smile, not even hiding that he thought of himself as your suitor. You looked horrified.

„I agree. Now if you‘ll excuse us, it’s 3 PM and therefore Y/n‘s Lunchbreak.“ Herbert held eye contact with Dr. Hill as he put a hand on your back and led you away. The older mans eyes widened in disbelief at the implications of him agreeing, of the way he put a hand on your back when you left. „Are you saying you are-?“ Herbert didn‘t stop to listen and made you follow his pace as well. Did he just hugely imply that he and you were affiliated? Yes. Did he plan to do so? Certainly not, but it just happened to be the perfect split between pissing of Dr. Hill and helping you out of the situation and potentially even future attempts like these. How wonderfully efficient.

„Now, I wanna show you the perfect candidate for our-„ „Herbert“ he looked at you, eyes flickering over your features as he rapidly noticed a change in your expression. Your cheeks were reddened, your lips slightly pressed together. The redness even extended to your ears. „You are embarrassed. Or flustered. Which is it so I know for future reference.“ He observed and you blushed even more.

„Now the whole Hospital is going to think we are a Couple!“ He shrugged his brows and led you further through the Hospital, you whispered as a colleague walked past. „Potentially, since Dr. Hill is more concerned with spreading misinformation anyway than working.“ He paused, „Ah, I did not account for the possibility that you already have a crush on someone here. If they heard about that it wouldn‘t be to your advantage.“ „Yes, I mean, I don‘t but- now we gotta act like it in front of him too.“ He hummed in acknowledgement, well, surely that wouldn‘t be too hard.

He had you meet the man that he meant to Re-animate if everything went according as planned, you inspected him and gave Herbert a look. It was doable, his body was weak so in case of aggression he could easily be restrained for both your safety, and lastly the man had decided to donate his body to science anyway after his passing.

„I think I can ask to switch shifts to his station and make sure the beeper doesn’t go off once he passes.“ You said as Herbert walked you back to your station, „Then you distract the nurses while I get the body out in a Wheelchair.“ Herbert added and you nodded, slightly nervous about the whole thing already. Bringing a full human back to life.. was it even possible to conserve the refined parts of the human brain and personality or would it operate like the animals as well that he brought back?

You reached your station. Herbert surprisingly took your hand in his, your eyes widened yet you didn’t resist the gesture. Reaching out, he did that a lot, he does in when he fails to verbalize what he wants to communicate in an emotional extent. But people usually react with.. a leap of faith, and trust in him when he does this instead. Touch, hold onto their arm for a moment. And he reaches out for your hand now and you trust him, you let him.

„Listen, Dr. Hill is watching us.“ He said, and you blinked, eyes darting to your hands as you suddenly understood his gesture for what is meant- an attempt at portraying romance.

Your hands were warm, almost beaming with heat. It wasn’t uncomfortable.

„Would you consent to me pretending to kiss you for the sake of proving our lie. He isn’t close enough to actually see if our lips touch.“

You squeezed his hand and slightly stepped closer, breath hitching. „I consent.“ He studied you, sighing and wetting his lips. The way he looked at you, if he reciprocated eye contact at all, was always intense and yet this was.. as if he was actually taking in much more of you. Not just reciprocating a gesture to an intense amount, but actually looking at your face, all of it. Why did he feel his pulse raise? He took another step towards you and closed in- until there were centimeters left between your lips. Your noses slightly brushed against each other, your breath gently fanned over his skin. Both of you had closed your eyes, Herbert felt your hand on his chest clenching slightly onto his shirt. You radiated warmth, why did he want to have you even closer than that?

He stepped away again, opening his eyes. For a second he saw you, with closed eyes and a reddened face.

„I think that will suffice for a bit, depending if Dr. Hill has enough audacity to flirt with someone who is supposedly already committed.“ He concluded, straightening his glasses. He felt weird, somehow.. anxious? Anticipating? Frustrated? Disappointed? Hm. Hard to tell.

„Ah.. yup! Um, maybe it works!“ You said, swallowing and bidding him goodbye until work ended. And Dr. Hill actually walked past you that shift without saying anything else, purposefully not acknowledging you as it seems.

You felt anxious about going home that day, not really knowing what has changed exactly that made you feel that way. What did you expect to happen? Nothing actually.. happened! You did not kiss, this shouldn’t feel so Sitcom-ish. And yet-

you came home, the kitchen light was on but you didn’t see Herbert. He must be home, he was always tinkering with something as soon as he was free to do so after work. Sometimes he didn’t even wait until then, but right now there was no light coming from the basement. Only from his door, and that was unusual. You never even saw that man in a pyjama once! As far as you were concerned he had an identical set of clothes to sleep in. ‚I can get behind wanting to revive the dead but that is just weird Herbert‘ you once told him, to which he replied ‚at least I don’t sleep in something that is patterned with geese‘ which really only showcased your point.

„Hey, do you wanna eat something?“ You asked, not straightforwardly showing your concern. „Y/n..“ he muttered, and you frowned, now opening the door. What you saw was a very distraught looking Herbert, rummaging through his things with the small fridge he kept in there open as well. „Fuck- there are no probes in the right stage!“ he howled, hands shaky and room disheveled. „What are you talking about??“ he turned around but didn’t look at you, his eyes darted over the room panicking. „I can’t.. inject any of them at this stage this is..“ his breath hitched, you were putting the pieces together in your head. He was talking about using it on himself, and judging from the erratic state he was in he was physically addicted to it. He was pale too, the withdrawal must have kicked in a while ago. He behaved both impulsive and weakened. There is.. something you needed to do. He sat down on his bed, fidgeting and running his hands through his hair. „It keeps me awake, keeps my mind running.“ That didn’t even sound unlike him, it made sense for him to try and find a way to ditch any kind of the human experience he didn’t like. He did it with death so why not sleep too while he was at it.

„That means you‘ll go to sleep after a while, once your body gets exhausted enough from the withdrawal.“ He nodded, you sat down next to him on the bed. „The Hospital doesn’t have a the tools of dealing with the specific addiction you’re dealing with right now and we don’t have any reagents that are ready to fix either so.. I‘m gonna stay here ok? Monitor you so I know you‘re safe. I‘m gonna fetch that terrible Novel I‘m reading right now to distract you from the pain with a different kind of pain, hold on.“

And he let you do so- listening to you read the book to him while fidgeting nervously and running a hand through his hair or over his arm as he tried to let himself be distracted by what you were saying.

You kept reading to him until 5 AM, Herbert was still struggling but getting more weaker by the hour. He frowned and closed his eyes here and there to rest a bit, visually displeased to be requiring that sort of thing. He muttered that it was wasted time he could use better, but his physical agony seemed to find a bit of relief in this. ‚You were usually asleep now‘, he said when he noted how tired you were at this point, ‚you should just go to bed.‘ He didn’t understand how stubborn you were on staying with him to look out for his safety even though he assured you he was fine. You were nearly drifting off to sleep yourself, resting your eyes as well when he asked „Why do you even care so much?„ Your answer was murmured as your consciousness slipped, „Because I care about you“ your head sunk more against the bed frame behind you since you both resorted to sit at the end of his bed.

Herbert stared at you, frowning once more but slightly bewildered. He was important to you? Personally? Your lips parted as slumber caught you fully in mere moments after those spoken words. If it wasn’t for what you said.. he would have never even thought about wether he reciprocated what you felt, but somehow he found that- he did care about you too. He had cared about your distress earlier and went to resolve it without fully acknowledging why, despite being highly agitated just by the thought of exchanging a word with Dr. Hill. He cared about your opinions on his Experiments. And he even cared about how you felt about him, and it wasn’t even fully based on the necessity of having you as his Assistant. He pressed his lips together.

Herbert straightened his glasses and looked over to you again. With a sigh he grabbed the blanket and put it on top of you, covering you up to your shoulder which made you intuitively sink further into the mattress. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes for a bit as well, fully keeping his stern expression as he slowly fell asleep as well without noticing.

For the first time in a long time he fell asleep again, and for the first time in a very long time he wasn’t alone.

I was literally non stop writing this since I watched the movie a few days ago. I would love to write more for him or maybe even write a part 2 of this? If ppl like this and want me to I‘d love to hear what you have to say. Comments get me motivated and keep the hyperfixation running

[maxwell-grant]

Didn't realize you've read Riddler: Year One, any thoughts on it ? Also, in a more general way, what are your thoughts on the Riddler ?

Someone sent me an ask the past week or so saying that The Penguin is everything that the Joker movies should have been, and I don't think I agree on that in regards to The Penguin specifically. But if we're talking about a "Batman-less Batman villain origin story about a lonely suicidal man struggling with poverty and mental illness exacerbated by child abuse, who is pushed down through the cracks of society deep into the pits of his own mind until he can only save himself by becoming a horrible force of social upheaval and political terrorism, finally discovering joy and a reason to live at the expense of everyone around him, and now he will be Batman's problem someday", well this just completely embarasses Joker (2019) on every level. Impressively drawn, impressively written, impressive on it's own and as a prequel to the movie, WAY better than a movie actor's comic book tie-in has any right to be, and one of the greatest Batman comics ever made. Issue #5 in particular is one of the best and most harrowing comic issues and format breaks I've ever seen in the medium, and even if it's entirely self-contained, it very much belongs in the exact same conversation and should be considered inseparable from The Batman and The Penguin.

We spens 4 issues boiling the frog over every painful corner of Edward's childhood and humanity and misery, taking us through painfully intimate views and perspectives inside his headspace, seeing how and why he justifies his worldview and how easy it even is to do so, feeling truly sorry for this hopeless wretch even though we know he's losing it bad bad baddy bad bad and is going to step off the deep end forever. And then Issue 5 happens and suddenly you are one of the people in Gotham City tasked with sifting through this serial killer's personal diary and you can hear that creep shouting with that distorted voice, you can feel the final death rattle of Edward Nashton's soul ending where The Riddler begins to scream in your head 'I NEVER KNEW I HAD A REASON TO BREATHE", and by Issue 6 you fully understand why and how nobody was prepared for him, and why what he is and does and embodies is going to drag the city into an abyss it may never recover from, and why this was never going to stop even after his arrest, even after his defeat and humiliation in the movie. Everything here adds layers of sympathy and tragedy and heartbreak to the character, while simultaneously making everything he is and does in the movie so much more harrowing and disturbing, holy shit he really staked EVERYTHING, everyone's lives included, on being noticed by his savior.

I was already very much on board with Dano Riddler in the movie, whose execution absolutely sold what should have been, on paper, a storm of unadvisable fandom pitches and uninspired trends and straight-up bad ideas ("What if The Ridder was the Zodiac Killer", "What if The Riddler was a 4chan mass-shooter type", "What if The Riddler was a political terrorist with legitimate grievances but whose final goal was to kill off scores of people for little reason", "What if The Riddler was a creepy fascist responsible for a QAnon cult that ends the movie by metaphorically storming the capitol", "What if The Riddler was really, really, really obsessed with Batman", "What if The Riddler was another Dark Opposite Batman", fucking "What if The Riddler was Hush" even) worked into just this miracle magic bullet of a new take on the guy, fully capturing a lot of the essential bullet points of what makes The Riddler tick as a character while spinning them into new and significant ways befitting this increased role he has in the movie. Rereading the story now, so much of the movie even feels like it's specifically referencing the first Riddler story - The Mayor of Gotham City as a target, Riddler misdirecting Batman with a big target while his real plan involved a flood, Edward putting on a costume and naming himself The Riddler specifically because he wants to get Batman's attention, the glass maze, the written letters to police headquarters, The Eagle's Nest that is a nightclub and also the home of a millionaire with a bird last name (Falcone), a driverless vehicle careening wildly into a public place, even how the very first thing we learn about this fucker is that he cheats to win.

The guy in the movie is a version that fully works on it's own, but it clicks SO much more strongly and cohesively when you read this comic and what it establishes for him. It's the scene in the movie where the section of his diary reads "I must become something more" while Bruce finds the panicked desperate bat rattling against a cage, the thematic parallel between them that is the scariest thing he finds in the entire movie, but developed across six issues. This even begins with Eddie living through his version of the Wayne murders, with the first time he's felt anything other than crushing despair and misery, in part because he's seen the first hint of the puzzle he needs to solve, and where he needs to go. The moment the world stopped making sense for Bruce is the moment that the world started to make sense for Edward.

We understand, around the same time he understands, the childish nightmare that must become the pattern of his entire life from that moment onwards, how Edward Nashton would have killed himself, and no one would have cared, had he not become The Riddler, and how the only alternative to "Hey Edward why don't you crawl into the black hole inside yourself" is to, in fact, find this black hole inside of you and shaped like you and push other people into it instead. Become the creature of the night who can punch crime forever, become the avenging force too great for the Falcones to handle, become the kingpin whose name alone will live forever, become someone that the entire city will never again ignore or forget.

We see how it's less that he's been planning for this for so long, and more that his entire life has been broken and hammered into a Riddler shaped hole, and then when Batman dropped into it, he could start to understand what it is and put a name in it, in the fact that he's been training his entire life for this without knowing. Getting comfortable with flushing rats and making bombs at the orphanage, getting intimately and painfully familiar with self-loathing and alienation and misanthropic contempt for this city and it's people who sit by and allow all of this to happen, surviving his suicide attempts without being able to explain why, searching for answers as to why it hurts so much to live broken and unfulfilled and miserable and why he even bothers to keep on doing so, having nothing to love in his life but numbers and puzzles, spending his entire life invisible while trying to get Thomas Wayne and then his boss to notice and praise him, and then being the wrong man at the right place to begin his campaign, a little nobody accountant who noticed an inconsistency in the numbers, put the pieces together, and then decided he was gonna do something about it because he knew it could be done, because there was someone out there who showed it could be done, and if Eddie joined in, maybe this someone would notice him, let him be his friend.

Batman and R, forever.

(People don't talk nearly enough about how this Riddler's entire life ambition was to recreate Tim Drake's origin story, and they should, it's pretty funny)

And to be honest, I think this is the first Riddler origin story I've ever really liked. Some of the others, particularly the first, have their charms, and this one certainly wouldn't fit most takes on the character, even most of the ones I like, but I've never really been fully sold on the idea of a Riddler origin story until this one, he's always been a very backstory-proof guy to me. This doesn't have any particularly obvious shorthand moment as to why Edward became The Riddler, so much as an entire life twisted and torn and abandoned and rotten in ways big and small until this is what came out of him. No immediately abusive fathers or test cheating scandals or major company backstabbings as defining tragedies, just life for a poor orphan in Gotham City who can't figure out the answer to what's missing from his life until he does.

Still a horrible nerd hopelessly trapped in a life of trying to intellectually one-up everyone as the only thing he lives for and, like every horrible nerd, knowing that one day he will be recognized for what he is and then they'll all see how wrong and stupid and savage these stupid savage idiots all were to look down on him. Still a man driven to impose order on the world the way he believes it has to be. Still a cheater who loves puzzles and answers and the thrill of intellectual stimulation and victory more than anything else (and in this case, having had absolutely nothing else to even love about his life), and still very much this guy at the end:

I do have a lot of thoughts on The Riddler, and I think part of why I might not talk about him as much is because he's not a character I tend to have really exclusive or particular preferences for. There are a LOT of Riddlers out there, maybe more so than there are Jokers out there, and there's not really with him the definitive must-be-like-this that the other Batman rogues have. Everybody approaches the puzzle differently if they do so at all, and I like a lot of these Riddlers! They connect with each other surprisingly well even, in spite of being incompatible as the same person.

He's gone through some real ups and downs over the decades: given stardom in the Adam West show that made him a definitive Batman villain and spread his modus operandi across all the others, sacrificed in the altar of camp insecurity along with fellow snooty oddball Penguin, defanged and turned into a parody of himself, refitted for joke status, re-refitted for surprise baddie status, given a whole new lease on life and his own gimmicks with the arrival of computer puzzles and the internet and given his fangs back and then amplified, pushed back to the big leagues more horrible and topical than ever before and exponentially increasing as such until his next big movie showing, torn in multitudes across multiverses of takes and ideas, almost too many to even consolidate them all.

I like the first Riddler of Bill Finger's original story in Tec #140, this curious satisfaction-seeking master cheater growing exponentially more dangerous and more varied and more assured the more he fades into his endless barrage of traps and toys and puzzles,. I love Frank Gorshin's Riddler, and everybody loves Frank Gorshin's Riddler, he is the reason The Riddler became an iconic Batman villain overnight. I like John Glover in TAS, and I like Robert Englund's cold ghostly showman in The Batman (2002) much more. I love the Arkham games version of Riddler, probably because I never actually played the games and had to collect his dumb trophies. I love Paul Dini's Detective Riddler, and I especially love Brent Spiner's take on the guy for Justice League Action. I LOVE the more classic take on Riddler as played by John Leguizamo in The Batman Audio Adventures, and I LOVE Paul Dano's Riddler in The Batman, and they couldn't be more incompatible with each other.

I love the Riddlers who continuously undermine themselves in the name of criminal artistry and who look down on the profit-seeking rubes who think any of this is about money, and I love the Riddlers who are ultimately con-men doing money heists because they want to be the only crooks in town smart enough to have something to show for all their work at the end of the day. I like Riddlers who are widely despised and regarded with annoyance and disdain by the city and their fellow rogues, and I like the Riddlers who have good professional relationships with the other rogues, and the Riddlers who managed to become darkly inspiring figures in their own right. I love the Riddlers who've subsumed themselves into the mysteries and horror they embody, and I love the pathological pattern-finders trying to find a way out of this weird pathetic life, even if their efforts will be doomed to failure - The Riddler couldn't out-think his way out of Batman's toybox no matter how much he tried, and he has no desire to - where would it leave him? Down there with all the troglodytes? Please.

I can get on board with very human, conversational Eddies, the Eddies that did stints as sideshow carnies, that can tell on some level that they should be doing better things than this, who'll do bored stick-em-ups to fund the attention-seeking tantrums they're actually passionate about, and I can get on board with Eddies who are truly uniquely vile and scary even compared to the other Rogues in the room, who uphold this terrifyingly cold perversion of fairness, imposing a stark and utilitarian worldview on the city by which the penalty for falling short of his games is murder, that sheer calculated murderous menace that Frank Gorshin brought when he ended his first episode leering on a helpless Robin strapped to an operating table. And if I ever thought I couldn't get on board with the Riddler as a major serious scary existential threat to life on Gotham, well, The Batman sure proved me wrong. I may not love him as passionately as I do The Penguin or Hugo Strange, but I love too many versions of this guy to ever be able to narrow them all down, and there are even more still to be discovered.

Endlessly adaptable, able to change and mutate with the times on the same kinds of grand orchestral shifts and minute beats that Batman does, a greater variety of personalities than the Joker if not quite the same versatility (and where would we be without these two always pissing each other off or making out or both, living in each other's respective negative spaces), always an enduring and entertaining opponent regardless of whether he's the most pathetic man alive or a malevolent genius beyond understanding who routinely puppeteers an entire city and it's greatest hero into putting on their greatest performances for him. Always an adapting puzzle box, always leading into the next version of himself, always beguiling, and always becoming the most frustrating thing that Batman has to deal with, whether he's systematically destroying Batman's rationale and will and ability to be Batman or just being naturally the worst guy to deal with at the most unfortunate possible moment, in itself another key to his endurance. The Joker can murder sidekicks and torch the city and routinely try and drive Batman to breaking points of rage and indignity and despair - but sometimes The Riddler can get Batman there just by being himself, as anyone who's had to deal with this asshole in the Arkham games can attest.

It is imperative to believe in and understand Batman's worldview that his villains can be saved because everyone can and must be saved, just as it is to understand that, out of everyone in his Rogues Gallery, if The Riddler was drowning, Bruce would be inclined to throw him a cinderblock, and The Riddler would be glad to receive it, so long as his last gasps of breath could be spent laughing at Batman's inability to match wits with him.

For a villain who is meant to be fixated on knowing the one correct answer to every riddle, he’s uniquely able to be reinterpreted in endless new ways. He’s gone from being a camp and colorful performance artist to one of the most sadistic and sinister villains Batman can ever go up against. There is no one way to write a Riddler. There’s no single solution! And writers will always like the challenge that presents.

Just when readers think they’ve seen everything the Riddler has left to offer us, and the character is finally exhausted… a new lime-green envelope pops through the door of Wayne Manor to challenge us all once again. It seems we’ll never get tired of trying to unravel the Riddler, and writers will never give up on unraveling the character’s fullest potential. It unites readers, writers, and caped crusaders alike: this time, surely, we’ll crack him. - Batman's Greatest Enemy is...The Riddler, by Steve Morris

[inquisitornocturn]

⊱─ 𝕙𝕚𝕕𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝕔𝕣𝕚𝕞𝕖𝕤 ─⊰

➺ 𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘: Ascended Astarion x f!reader the vampire bride

➺ 𝕥𝕒𝕘𝕤: no y/n is used, rating - E, kneeling, fingering, teasing, semi-public sex, creampie, praise kink, vampires being vampires

➺ 𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: why Astarion woke you this early you don't know and he doesn't seem in a mood to give you answers, not right away at least. so you walk with him through the streets of Lower City, wandering what is so important. the Elder Brain is still a threat, everything else can wait, surely? but it looks like Astarion has a goal in mind today and it might not be all that serious in the end.

➺ 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 6,624

𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕣 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖: a little late but happy patch 6! kisses, kisses, kisses! writing about them is just as fun as seeing them in game! enjoy <3

‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎for @mist1e <3

The day was almost disgustingly bright. Despite attack plans being prepared by rest of your companions, today it seems that you have a free day. Saving Faerun can wait, can it not? But why in hells Astarion decided to wake you so early and drag you out of bed to accompany him – you have no idea. You tried asking but it’s like he has something on his mind that is more important than answering your questions. Such you walk by his side, wondering if you should try taking his hand in yours. Neither of you are big into holding hands, but things change. He changed. And so have you. Not so long ago you had warm blood in your veins, but you submitted that to Astarion freely, exchanging the warmth of your flesh for the heat of his touch.

“We’re going to the Counting House, dear.” he speaks up and your eyes snap to him. You have to squint just a little, the early morning sun is bright and his hair is reflecting it in a way it’s almost difficult to look at, like a halo of icy fire.

“What’s in the Counting House?” you ask, forced to turn your eyes away from his face in favor of watching where you step and you hear an annoyed sigh by your side which makes you frown. He was the one to drag you out of bed, now he’s annoyed you’re asking him what was the reason?

“Cazador’s vault. That’s why we’re going there.” Astarion’s tone feels snippy and now you start becoming annoyed in turn.

“Any specific reason we’re going to check it today?” you know your voice betrays your emotion and there’s a brief moment of silence while you two weave among the people hurrying with their own lives.

“I want to know if he had any more secrets I should know about. After all, if Cazador hid the entire dungeon from me and rest of his wretched spawn, what else he could’ve kept from me?” annoyance in his tone again, but this time you realize it’s not about you. Your shoulders relax, you nearly started picking a fight with him.

“Why now? Can this not wait?” you give him a short glance, noticing how his face is as serious as tadpoles in your heads, his crimson eyes focused, his eyebrows slightly furrowed – a man on a mission.

“I see you don’t understand.” Astarion looks at you for a moment, your eyes meet, then you both look ahead once more, avoiding bumping into people or stepping on wayward children.

“No, I don’t, care to enlighten me, oh lord almighty?” you tease him and you can sense rather than feel his smile at your words.

“Anything else I should care doing while I explain the grand plan of mine?” you feel a gentle smack on your rear and you break into a smile of your own, giving him another short look. Yes, indeed he seems more relaxed now, happier.

“Just tell me why you’re dragging me to the Counting House this early in the morning, hm?” you ask and realize his palm remains perched on your rear, then he pulls you a little closer to his side. It doesn’t hinder walking and Astarion’s touch is warm, even through the clothes you wear. Little gestures like that, you know what he’s doing – announcing to the world you’re his.

“You’re such an impatient little brat.” Astarion says and with a corner of your eye you notice his smirk. “But fine. You ask why now? Because I don’t want any nasty surprises after the Brain is gone. Once that is done, I want to proceed claiming my rightful place. Replacing Cazador is not going to be simple, there will be questions, I want to have answers. Mostly I want documents of Palace’s ownership and all other valuables he ever had. They are mine now, after all, by right.” a small chuckle escapes his lips. By right of murder, he meant and you smile at that.

Not like you can argue about that either, it’s just the thought that what was Cazador’s will now be his is a little bit daunting, because it means it will be yours too, but you haven’t even thought about this until now. Yet Astarion did.

“We don’t even know if we’re going to survive the fight.” your voice is hushed when you say that but also glummer and Astarion catches onto that.

Suddenly he stops, stopping you too with a quick grab of your waist and you turn to him, meeting his eyes with yours. You don’t know what you said to make him stop so abruptly and you look at him with a puzzled expression.

“Darling.” your Vampire Lord begins with a self-assured smirk, his hand is still on your hip. “Together united we can beat any obstacle. And I suppose we have those… friends of ours too, to give us a boost if we need it.” Astarion sounds so confident in what he’s saying and you try your best to believe him but the anxiety is still there. What if he is wrong? What if neither of you survive?

You are sure he can see doubt in your eyes so you don’t hesitate.

“A kiss might make me feel better, don’t you think?” you ask almost sheepishly, but you feel like you need it right now - a comfort of his lips, of his arms, of his presence, of him in his entirety.

Astarion pauses, then his confident smile widens.

“But of course, darling, I can’t deny you anything.”

You step towards him with a smile appearing on your face because you’re relieved to have been granted comfort but then his hand leaves your hips and stops you. Palm flat, right in front of your face. Confused you look at him, then his fingers curl and point to the ground.

What?

The look on his face clearly tells you he has something on his mind but surely he is not asking you to kneel in the middle of the city with all these people around you? Right?

Yet his hand does not move and you glance to the ground, uncertain about what to do but you feel your knees bending already. They bend because you trust him just like you trusted him with your life and you know can put that same trust in him right now too. So you kneel and his pointed finger follows your journey down. Before you can ask why he’s making you do this, he suddenly grabs your throat and you gasp. Your eyes widen in shock, you forget everything around you – the people, the noises, the street, the city itself. Astarion’s expression is a mischievous smirk, but your rising panic stemming from your confusion makes you blind to this, and your earlier anxiety only makes you scared.

For just a split second.

Then Astarion leans over you and his lips connect with yours, making the irrational fear melt away as if it was never there to begin with. You respond to his passion with yours, feeling that fire in your stomach burn hotter than the kiss itself. You remember how he made you kneel on the night of your becoming. It tied you to him for eternity, and many nights since then you felt this same familiar grip on your throat as he fucked you silently but relentlessly in that small tavern bed while others were asleep.

And then it’s over.

Astarion pulls back, a smirk on his face but you just look at him with disappointment. That’s all? You wanted more. Then his grip leaves your throat and you feel a push on your chest, making you sit on your heels. This time you frown instead, annoyed that he’s playing bedroom games with you with no intention of continuing them. Not that he should, at least not here.

When you rise to your feet and dust your pants Astarion looks triumphant, his grin wide enough to show his fangs.

“You always taste so sweet.” he exclaims with pride but you’re not as joyous as him. He got you worked up and for what?

“You made me kneel in a middle of this shitty street for this?” you complain and Astarion’s expression changes subtly, now he doesn’t look so sure that you enjoyed what just happened.

“Darling, I just wanted to remind you of your familiar position. On your knees in front of me.” he teases and you would blush if you could. Instead of that you pout.

“So that was your goal? To turn me on only to disappoint me?” you cross your arms on your chest but Astarion steps closer and sneaks an arm around your waist. His confident smile tells you he’s happy with himself after all.

“Distracted you from the worries of the Brain, didn’t it?”

This smug little shit.

“You better make up for this or else.” you grumble again and Astarion laughs loudly, unapologetically.

“Don’t I always make up to you, love?”

You give him a pointed look but Astarion either ignores it or does not see it as he resumes walking, making you walk with him. Out of curiosity you glance around, discretely of course, and notice quite a few residents of Baldur’s Gate watching you. Some of them are even whispering to each other.

“Did you just make me do that so that others see I’m yours?” you whisper to Astarion while still painfully aware of all the eyes on both of you. Astarion just laughs at your words.

“No, little love, I did it because this whole city is mine now. Or will be, once we are done with the trifling matter of the Brain. Why should I hide from the eyes of the masses? I can finally exist without fear. And they will witness me.”

You can’t help it. You laugh.

“Calm down there, big scary Lord.” you glance at him and Astarion smiles at you.

“You like it when I’m a big scary Lord. And that I’m yours only.” he teases and you roll your eyes but can’t help your smile widening at his words.

“So this vault. We have a key for it?” you try to distract yourself, if not him, from what just happened and how it made you feel. And the truth is it made you feel aroused, that’s for sure. Even if it was for a fleeting moment in that small yet confusing play he put on, you still find your underwear clinging to your folds with uncomfortable wetness.

Damn him.

“Yes. We found it in Cazador’s coffin, remember?” yes, you remember and Astarion scrunches his nose at the memory of the blood, the bodies but most likely the smell that was left after the Ritual of Profane Ascension. You can almost read it in his mind - he plans to clear that area the moment he seizes legal ownership of the palace.

You simply nod in response and having nothing else to add you just walk by his side, feeling the reassuring grip of his hand on your waist, watching Counting House getting closer. You wonder if you will find the documents he needs in the vault or not, but above all you are just enjoying the walk with Astarion, letting your mind drift with his words of ruling this city alongside him. It makes you smile. After all, now it makes all the more sense to save Baldur’s Gate – why would you let something rightfully belonging to you be destroyed.

With your hands clasped in front of you, you let Astarion guide you through the streets, enjoying the little display of pride he’s performing right now while you smile to yourself that seemingly such simple things make him happy. And he does look happy. That’s all that matters to you. Better yet, you get to share that happiness with him forever. No - you get to be the source of his happiness forever. He told you as much and you’re not going to doubt his words.

“Ugh, do we really have to stand in line?” you hear Astarion say and that snaps you out of your thoughts. You haven’t even noticed that you’re at the Counting House now, being led over the stone bridge to the open main door. You see many people inside and you sigh.

“We better not. I’m not in the mood for this.” you complain and Astarion gives your side a playful squeeze.

“What are you in the mood for then?” he smirks and you give him a warning glare.

“Don’t start it now, you know very well what you did back there.” you say in a tone that was meant to warn him but instead only makes him chuckle.

“Maybe I do. But if you’re going to be a good girl, maybe I will reward your patience. Just pout a little less, it does not suit you, darling.”

You give him another glare but say nothing else as you both pass the guards at the door and enter the building. The sounds of shuffled papers and people chatting echo off the walls, making you want to leave. This feels like a rat nest and you realize that this is exactly how Astarion feels about the Counting House too. You can sense his tension and annoyance. This place is below him, below you both.

Finally he lets go of your waist and steps forwards, cutting the line of at least six people and walking towards the dwarf manning one of the counters.

“Sir, you cannot-“ the man begins but Astarion just leans on the counter with a single elbow and smiles.

“I need to enter the vaults. You wouldn’t want a man like me kept waiting, would you?”

Something is not right. It’s more than just his regular charm. Your brows knit while you try to comprehend what’s going on. The dwarf relaxes, his shoulders slump and it looks like he cannot peel his eyes off your lover.

Ah, he got Charmed.

Wait, when did Astarion learn to do that? Your eyebrows rise with your surprise while you watch the scene unfold. Astarion telling the clerk that he lost the bank pass and the dwarf giving him a brand new one, behaving as if he’s in a beautiful dream. Other patrons seem not to appreciate being cut off but nobody raises their voices to complain. You can’t help but chuckle and try to silence yourself with your palm over your mouth.

When at last Astarion returns, he looks satisfied with the result and takes your hand, walking you the short distance towards the entrance to the vaults. Showing the guards standing there his freshly inked paper, the vampire opens the door and you both start descending the stairs.

“What was that?” you chuckle while glancing back at the guards like you’re waiting for them to rush after you and stop you but Astarion just smiles.

“Did you really think that it will take me forever to learn some new tricks?” he glances in your direction and you roll your eyes with a smile on your lips.

“Don’t have to show off like this, you know.”

“My treasure, if it were you in these vaults I’d wait even less than what I did just now. Now hush, let’s find where this key fits.” Astarion says, producing the key out of his coat pocket and handing it to you. You take it and inspect it only briefly because it does not stand out in any way.

Stairs and more stairs, more guards, you barely pay them any mind, you just feel your hand in Astarion’s and follow his lead until you’re there, among the rows of vaults. Now you begin paying attention. Some guards are there who look bored out of their minds and another dwarf, standing by the desk and scribbling away with a lengthy quill.

Once more Astarion approaches the clerk and they chat in hushed voices, then you watch the shorter man point at the vault to his right and Astarion returns to you with a smile.

“Lead the way, little love.” he gestures for you to walk in front of him and with only a moment of hesitation you do as he wishes, walking up to the vault door and inserting the key you kept thumbing all the way down here.

The lock is oiled and turns with ease, echoing a satisfying click when the mechanism moves to allow access. You glance at Astarion over your shoulder who’s standing just behind you, suddenly feeling nervous. What if the documents aren’t here? But your lover just nods in encouragement and you pull the door open.

You peer inside, unsure what to expect. At first glance it looks half empty, a bottle of wine or two and rolled up gazettes. Your doubt overtakes you and you look back at Astarion with questions in your eyes.

“Just look inside, maybe it’s somewhere at the back.” he gives you a shrug as if unsure too and you shrug back then get closer, leaning into the maw of the iron cage. It’s dark in there and the candlelight doesn’t reach deep enough to illuminate the back of the vault. You reach with your hand, feeling around with your fingers and then stop immediately.

“Astarion, what are you doing?” you ask because suddenly you feel his hand begin to rub lazy circles on your ass. A subdued chuckle is heard behind you.

“You just keep looking for the documents, dear. I’m sure they’re there.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to decide what to do: maybe you should stop him after all, but the ache you felt in that moment when he made you kneel returns and you just lean even deeper into the vault, your shoulders now passing the frame and you use your palms to search for papers of any sort.

“That’s a good girl, I am confident they are there.” you hear Astarion’s soothing voice that makes your desire rise its head like a snake preparing to strike and you feel his warm fingers trail up to the waistband of your pants, then pull at it.

“Astarion!” you hiss at him and nearly bump your head against the ceiling of the vault but he just smacks your rear with his other hand.

“Quiet now.” he curtly hushes you and you stifle a frustrated moan.

“Really?” you whisper and hear him chuckle, but you can’t even look back at him because vault walls are restricting you.

“Shh.” another soft command and you finally relent, staying as you are, bent over and partially leaning into the mouth of iron. If he wants to tease you this way, well why in the hells not, you deserve a little treat, do you not.

Astarion’s hand slips past your waistband onto your bare skin, getting lower, feeling the curve of your ass and when he pauses for a moment you hear footsteps, but then they echo away and his hand dips even lower, nearly pulling your pants down with it. And then-

“Astarion!” you hiss louder this time but then have to stifle a moan immediately after because his finger dips inside of you.

“Oh you were not lying, my sweet. You truly got in the mood back there, didn’t you?”

“Shut up.” you shoot back, making your lover chuckle. His digit leaves your entrance and you feel it sneak lower again, beginning to rub your clit in almost lazy circles while his finger is still slick with your arousal. “People will see.” your last protest is responded to with a push on your swelling nub that’s growing increasingly more sensitive.

“Do you really want me to stop?” you hear Astarion’s voice closer to you, bent over you like a shadow and you notice the edges of his cloak in your peripheral vision. At least there’s a bit of privacy.

“No, but-“ his finger makes you moan into the vault chamber before you can stop yourself and you hear him chuckle once more, he’s enjoying this maybe a little too much.

“Then try to be quiet, little love. We don’t want people interrupting our fun, do we?” a whisper disarms any other argument you could’ve had because he’s right, the thrill is intoxicating and his finger working in pleasurable rubs makes you want, no – need for him to continue.

You press your palms to the bottom of the vault and close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the feeling that is starting to send shivers down your spine. Astarion’s warm fingers continue rubbing in a pattern he already knows makes your knees weak and you press your lips into a tight line, not wanting to make a single sound.

“Finding those documents in there, darling?” Astarion asks in a louder voice - of course he’s keeping up the charade of nothing suspicious happening and it makes you break into a smile.

“Not yet, but there’s so much in here.” you respond while trying to keep your voice steady and have to immediately swallow another moan when Astarion leaves your throbbing clit alone for the moment and moves his hand slightly up, only to carefully insert two fingers into your cunt. “Fuck…” you exhale to yourself in a whisper, finally letting your head drop in an attempt to make your panting sound not as loud.

“Oh I’m sure there’s a lot in there.” your Vampire Lord teases and you hear a grin in his tone. That cheeky bastard, you’d hate him if you didn’t love him so much.

Your thighs tremble as you press them together but nothing saves you from the feeling of pleasure beginning to wash over you when Astarion begins moving his fingers. Your pants restrict his movements quite a bit but he compensates by gently exploring your core with his fingertips, looking for that sweet spot that makes you shout and your toes curl.

No, he can’t do it here, you don’t know if you can keep silent, not when he’s doing such sweet things to you.

“There’s a good girl, stay just like this…” you hear Astarion croon behind you and you bite down on your lip, trying to keep your voice inside your chest, trying not to move.

It’s difficult and then it becomes impossible. You moan when Astarion finally finds what he’s seeking and it makes your knees buckle, yet miraculously you remain standing. Quickly you clasp a palm over your mouth and tremble at his touch, almost forgetting where you are, nearly succumbing to the pleasure that is now increasing by the moment.

“Are you finding everything you need?” suddenly you hear an unfamiliar voice and your eyes snap open but you are too afraid to move.

“But of course!” you hear Astarion reply with an easy, casual chuckle all the while his fingers don’t miss a beat. You would be impressed if you weren’t trying your best not to react in any way.

Near impossible. His fingers curl and tease, press and slightly circle, not relenting, not giving you a break and you close your eyes again, bowing your head low enough so that your forehead rests against the cool iron. With your palm still on your mouth, you fight with everything within you to not make a sound.

But what a thrill it gives.

You barely hear the rest of this short conversation because you stop paying attention. You are too far gone to care in this moment, your only focus being just on keeping silent and letting the sensations overtake you.

“You did so well, darling. Now for the grand finale.” you hear Astarion whisper again, you can feel his presence bent over you once more and you whine ever so slightly.

His fingers inside of you curl again and you feel the palm of his other hand press between your shoulder-blades, keeping you in place while he works you towards your bliss. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to keep your legs straight but even this is becoming harder by the moment. Suddenly Astarion pulls out his fingers out of your drenched cunt and returns them to your clit, rubbing faster and faster with each small circle. You can’t help it, you mewl louder and bite into the flesh of your thumb, sinking your fangs just to keep yourself quiet. You’re so close, so so close, you can feel your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

And next moment your world explodes. Your orgasm overtakes you and you shudder, your body trembling with pleasure and you squeeze your thighs together even harder. Your nails scrape the iron of the vault while you try to keep yourself up and you bite down even harder, tasting your own blood now, pain giving equal measure of satisfaction to your bliss. Oh it shouldn’t feel so good.

Your body spasms once, twice and after few more seconds your mind returns to you, but not before Astarion’s fingers give one last touch to your overstimulated nub, making your body respond with a jerk. Finally, with a satisfied chuckle he removes his hand from your pants but you remain still for a moment longer, trying to recover and to catch your breath, then finally release your hand from your bite. It throbs with aching sensation.

“Come here, love.” Astarion coos softly and you move to do just that before you realize that you are gripping a cylinder in your other hand. You must’ve grabbed onto it during your rapturing delirium and you hold onto it as you step a shaky step back, then another.

“Ow.” you murmur while rubbing your lower back. Being bent over in this kind of position and for this long made you sore.

Astarion helps you stand straight and you hope that once the tadpole is gone your full vampiric powers will eliminate such mortal pains as this. Finally you turn to him and look your lover in the eyes. You see pride, satisfaction and mischief in them. Oh he is happy with himself about what happened, of that you are sure.

“I think I fou-“

“Hm?” Astarion interrupts and makes a show of holding eye contact with you while raising the same two fingers he used as beautiful weapons against you. They are still slick with your arousal and he puts them in his mouth, sucking them slowly, then pulling them out with a loud pop and a satisfied sigh loud enough to echo through entire chamber. “You were saying?”

You glance at him, feeling slightly embarrassed but say nothing. Instead you show him the cylinder you found in the safe and Astarion’s eyes widen slightly.

“May I?” he extends the same hand he just licked your juices off, his fingers still glistening from his own saliva and you place the metal tube into his waiting palm.

Quickly Astarion opens one end of the cylinder and pulls out a rolled up thin parchment. He tucks the tube under his arm and unrolls the document beginning to read it. You step to his side with curiosity, feeling calmer now after what happened just earlier and eye the text yourself.

“Kozakuran?” you raise your eyebrows and Astarion frowns.

“Of course. What a bastard.” he grumbles but then closes his eyes for a moment and lets out a deep sigh. After he calms his sudden annoyance, Astarion rolls up the parchment and stuffs it back into the cylinder, closing it. “Does not matter. We have the dictionary, we can translate it later. But I’m sure it’s what I wanted.”

Vampire Lord shoves the cylinder in his pocket and finally looks at you, his unhappy expression immediately changes into a smile.

“Look at you, precious thing. Even with all of that being done to you, you still manage to do your task beautifully. I’m lucky to have you as my consort.” Astarion’s eyes sweep down your face and your breath catches in your throat. A feeling of anticipation takes a hold of you. And then he suddenly grabs your jaw with a familiar grip.

“Astarion…” you whisper softly. You’re not scared of him, but you don’t want to cause a scene when you just barely avoided getting caught with his fingers in your pussy.

However, Astarion doesn’t seem to be in a mood to listen to your gentle protests. He turns your face to the left, his eyes greedily devour the eternal bite marks he left on your neck on that faithful night, after a moment he makes you face him again, a smirk pulling at his lips.

Then he presses his lips against yours, deeply and passionately. You grab onto the front of his coat, leaning into the kiss eagerly. This alone is enough to rouse your passions again and you slightly open your mouth, touching his lips with the tip of your tongue, wanting to make the kiss deeper. Yet your Vampire Lord has another idea. Suddenly you feel him bite your lower lip and your eyes snap open in surprise, then you feel his fang break the skin and you begin tasting your own blood. Of course.

You relax again and close your eyes, then with a small smile you kiss him again. He’s done this before, this isn’t new. It’s like he’s addicted to you, to your blood, and when Astarion’s desire arises to taste it – he does so no matter where you two are. Seems this time it simply happens to be the underground vault of the Counting House that becomes the stage for his display of love.

You feel your lover pull back and you look at him, immediately noticing the blood trickle on his chin and begin feeling the stirrings of desire even stronger, you are sure your feelings are reflected in your eyes and maybe that’s why Astarion now playfully shoves your face away with a grin.

“Naughty. I see how you look at me. You want more, don’t you?” Vampire Lord quickly wipes away the blood trickle from his chin with a finger and licks it, his eyes not leaving yours. “You think you deserve it?” his tone of voice is suggestive and you don’t need to feel him up to know that he’s hard for you already. Most likely have been hard before he even slid his hand down your pants.

“I found what you were looking for, didn’t I?” you smile to him and gently tug at his coat. “Come on, didn’t you just say you’re lucky to have me? How about making me feel lucky to have you?” you tease and Astarion raises an eyebrow at you.

“Perhaps I will. But not here.” he smiles and raises his hand, this time wiping blood from your bottom lip too, making sure you’re presentable before the eyes of strangers can find you, then he offers you a lick.

You don’t look away from his eyes when instead of giving his thumb a lick you take it into your mouth and suck on it, slowly moving your tongue around it. You feel pride when you see a moment of surprise on Astarion’s face but it quickly gets replaced by a smug smile.

“Ah, I see how it is.” he pulls out his thumb from your mouth and you let him, enjoying the sensation of him rubbing your bottom lip with the same digit. “Let’s go. I think a reward is in order after all.” Vampire says calmly but you recognize the look in his eyes – passion and need. And that need is for you only.

Quickly now Astarion closes the vault, locking it and pocketing the key. He takes your hand and begins walking towards the massive steel door leading outside of the chamber. As you walk by you notice the clerk eyeing you both, and some guards seem to give curious looks as well but that only makes you want to giggle before you realize Astarion’s steps are becoming faster, yet you easily keep up with him.

Your footsteps echo off the walls as you both hurriedly get up at the stairs and you can’t help but break into a smile. Here’s that feeling of anticipation again and you feel the fire burn hotter inside of you. You need him, want him, as soon as possible and from how Astarion nearly drags you after him, rushing to the massive steel door, you know he feels the same.

He pushes the door open, just enough for you both to get outside and you pause, letting him push it closed, then turn and keep going but only for one step. You feel Astarion tug at your hand and with a graceful twirl you are spun around, forced against the door and being kissed passionately.

Your response is immediate. You kiss him back with everything you have, pushing your fingers into his silver locks, tasting his tongue on yours, feeling your body heat up from the sheer idea of having his cock inside of you. When Astarion pulls back he can see your dazed eyes and the lustful craving etched in your face like a beautiful picture. It makes him swear under his breath.

“Fuck. I can’t wait any longer.” he whispers before his fingers trail down your stomach to the laces of your pants.

“Here?” once more you are not sure if you two should be this intimate when you can get caught any moment but Astarion doesn’t seem to care in the slightest.

“Here. Or else you’ll be responsible if I stain my pants, darling.” Lord’s eyes are focused on his fingers that are hurriedly pulling at your laces and you can only slowly exhale in response. He wants you this badly. It turns you on more than anything else could in this moment.

So you follow his lead, glancing down to find the laces of his breeches and you swallow hardly because you can see his erection stretching the fabric so tightly it must make him uncomfortable.

“Less staring, little love.” Astarion’s words are snippy, he’s impatient and already done with his task. He pulls your pants down your hips and with two fingers he reaches between your thighs to rub your cunt, exhaling. “You’re so ready for me. Delicious.”

“So are you.” you whisper back with a smile after your put your hand down his pants and pull out his already weeping erection. You give it a few slow strokes and Astarion’s eyes rise to meet yours.

“Turn around.” he commands and you smile wider, not moving just yet but he gives you no choice when Vampire Lord’s hands move to your waist and turn you around with ease.

He presses you chest-first against the door and with your cheek you feel the steel. Astarion pulls at your hips just enough to get your body at an angle he desires.

“You’re so bratty. If I didn’t need to fuck you right now I would keep you wanting until you’re silly with lust.” you hear Astarion mumble behind you and feel the heat against your inner thigh where the tip of his length presses for a brief moment, then gets aimed at your drenched core, nudging your folds. “Now be a good pet and take my cock like I taught you.”

You smile and with your palms pressed against the cold door you remain still for him, just like he wants you to. You let out a small gasp when you feel his dick slide into you with ease and you can’t help but moan loudly when he thrusts himself into you completely, claiming his rightful place.

“You’re going to alert everyone.” Astarion snaps at you with frustration and he pauses, rummages in his coat’s pocket then takes out the cylinder out of it. It comes into your vision when he presents it for you. “Bite onto this and don’t let go.” he instructs and you don’t argue, opening your mouth and letting him place the tube between your teeth horizontally. You bite down.

Without another word your Vampire Lord begins thrusting, his fingers gripping your waist to keep you steady while his hips snap against you relentlessly, already powered by his desire to cum quickly, before anyone interrupts. You close your eyes and try not to moan. You thought you had enough practice already by secretly doing this same thing during all those nights at Elfsong, but it doesn’t seem to get easier for you. Yet you try, not letting your moans leave your throat while Astarion grunts behind you, his cock easily filling you with every push, stretching your walls in a way that makes you dizzy. He’s perfect.

Then you feel a bite on your ear that makes you gasp and nearly release the cylinder from your lips. Astarion nibbles for a bit, his pumps not slowing even for a moment and you hear him panting heavily.

“I’m so close already, fuck, you feel too good, my love.” his whisper is strained as if he’s trying not to moan himself and you mewl silently because he’s driving you crazy. Your pleasure is building fast too, what he did earlier was not enough for you. You hunger for this sensation of fullness that only he can give you.

As soon as Astarion leans back from your ear you hear him let out a muffled groan and his thrusts change from controlled to increasingly erratic as he chases his orgasm and you’re not far behind him. You try to breathe through your nose and it’s becoming more difficult by the second since your own bliss begins to quickly overtake you.

Few more pumps, deep and driven by passion, are what it takes to make Astarion bite down a moan that you hear so clearly. That’s enough to make your body spasm in response to your orgasm. Couple more thrusts while your cunt clenches around his cock, milking him for all he’s worth and you feel Astarion’s fingers dig deep into your soft waist until he finally stops.

For a moment you both remain like this, trying to recover but you feel the cylinder being tugged from your mouth and you let go with relief, finally being able to breathe through your mouth, although for a moment you forgot you were even biting onto it.

“We should go.” Astarion mutters and pulls out of you, then gives your bare ass a playful smack. “Come on now, little treasure, I can’t let anyone see you like this. You’re mine to enjoy.” Vampire’s voice is playful and you smile, gathering yourself from against the door and you pull up your pants. With him filling you so thoroughly as he did just now the walk back to Elfsong is not going to be the most comfortable one, but oh was it worth it.

You spend only a short time to make yourselves look presentable and when you lift your face to him Astarion surprises you with a kiss. You smile against his lips and he pulls back with a smile of his own.

“Let’s not idle.” he gently brushes a strand of hair from your sweaty forehead and you give him a short peck on the lips then nod.

“I’m sure you’re eager to see what’s in that document.” you say and Astarion offers you his hand. When you take it he begins to lead you out of the vaults.

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll allow you to distract me again.” a short glance from him is all what it takes for you to want to be his biggest distraction.

“We’ll see.” you smile while walking with him and Astarion sighs loudly, happily.

“Maybe I don’t dislike Counting House after all.” he says and you both laugh in unison.

[lynnlyrae]

The Devil, the Scientist, and the Most Beautiful Creature 

This is my attempt to analyze the connection between the Teacher, Faustina and Luna through the lenses of Goethe’s “Faust” and determine the origins of the “cursed moon twins”. There’s also alchemy.

This text will consist of four parts. And yes. It is long. Reader, you are warned.

Enjoy!

PART ONE: PARACELSUS, THE FATHER OF BABEL 

What do we know about Paracelsus:  

Lived in 15-16 centuries; 

Was a scientist;  

His actions led to the Babel Incident. 

The real world Paracelsus was “the father of toxicology”, our Paracelsus is The Shapeless One. Alright, this is a bold statement, but why not. 

The twin six-pointed stars above Paracelsus head (Ch. 7) have always stood out to me. Guess who else has exactly same two six-pointed stars as well? Teacher/Saint Germain (Ch. 55)! 

Some other similar motives: 

Paracelsus’ face is always obscured, we never see his eyes, only vague shadows. Teacher’s face was always drawn without eyes before the Big Reveal Moment in Ch. 55. He’s also known to frequently change his name and appearance, to the point where it’s not always possible to determine whether one’ve met him before (Vanitas has met him in another form, but has no idea when and how it happened). 

Paracelsus wanted to save the world from sufferings and guide people to happiness (Ch. 7). He also assembled a team of scientists to conduct a research. Teacher/Saint Germain is referred to as savior by Misha, and he also saved Noé from human traffickers. He also claims his ultimate goal is world peace (Ch. 61). But the goal is shared with someone (he says “our” wish specifically). 

And honestly, their vibes just fit so well. Paracelsus and Saint Germain, two mysterious figures who are renowned scientists and alchemists with ambiguous lore — why wouldn’t they be the same person?  

Since I want to use “Faust” as base for analysis, let’s assign him a role – Mephistopheles. I mean, just look at this (Ch. 61). It’s as devilish as it can get! The free force in s shape of a fine gentleman that ultimately creates destruction. 

Mephistopheles also claims to be an observer: 

“I’m so involved with Man’s wretched ways,

I’ve even stopped plaguing them, myself, these days”. 

And look how well it fits to Teacher, who left the Court to enjoy his little things in a secluded mansion (manipulating kids and raising pawns) and also claims to be an observer!  

Alright, I’d like to keep this part short because my main focus here is Faustina-Luna situation, so let’s move on. We’ll get more bits of this manfailure there anyway. 

PART TWO: FAUSTINA, THE QUEEN OF THE RED MOON 

What do we know about Faustina: 

she’s a Queen and the first vampire of red moon to ever exist, while Teacher was by her side the longest; 

she has a special power to control other vampires as herself, not as Naenia; 

she’s mostly active as Naenia and was likely cursed in 17 century; 

there are two physical bodies that are stated or hinted to be her: one in her bedroom in Carbunclus castle and one in Ruthven’s lab. 

Now let’s take a look at Faustina’s bodies (Ch. 13, Ch. 26). I briefly mentioned in one of my recent posts that I think Faustina changed bodies at least once, possibly due to them being damaged by curse. I believe these pics support this idea: the body in the castle looks like that of an adult person, with limbs and fingers much longer than those of the body that was seen in Ruthven’s lab and reacted to Naenia’s name (Chloe also summoned Faustina in the same body of a young girl). 

Additionally, when Ruthven talks about her connection with Saint Germain, she is portrayed as having adult-like proportions (Ch. 19). And when Naenia takes more human-like shape, it also has adult-like proportions (Ch. 9). So I think she was cursed as an adult, and her original body is the one in the bedroom, but her soul went from one vessel to another, while her cursed form remained more like her original body. 

While we are on the topic of bodies, I’m going to show you this. Thankfully, the moment when Luka stayed at Faustina’s bedside wasn’t omitted from the anime — and the queen’s skin looks quite the same color as Luna’s. I’m not sure what to do with this information yet, but it creates another link between them. It’s quite interesting that Faustina’s corrupted form looks a lot like Luna’s normal form.

Ok now that I’m done with this idea, let’s move on to something more interesting: Faustina’s role in the story. 

Right now her position is not really active: she steals true names as part of the Charlatan, but it’s unlikely that she in control of the organisaton (at least in present time), and Ruthven leads it. She obviously can’t fulfill her duties as a Queen either: they’re taken over the Senate (which again includes Ruthven) and a puppet-on-the-throne Luka (who is, again, under Ruthven’s control. Ruthven, what kind of power play is that?).  

But I think it’s wasn’t always like this. After all, she was an absolute monarch with magical power to make every vampire fall to her feet! And, well, she had to do something even before that, right? 

I believe that prior to becoming a vampire she was involved in Paracelsus’ research, possibly even as an alchemist. While the majority of well-known alchemists were male, there were some cases of women conducting and publishing researches in this field as well. A notable example are Sophie Brahe (1559-1643), who studied astronomy and was also well-versed in Paracelsus’ medical texts, and Isabella Cortese(fl. 1561), who was the first woman to publish a book on alchemy, titled The Secrets of Lady Isabella Cortese. Tbh I just really hope that Paracelsus team (Ch. 7) will include women in general…

Of course, my desire to see Faustina as an alchemist is not enough to claim that this is a credible theory. So let me elaborate on that a bit more (and we’ll get to Luna right after that). 

Her name derives from the name of a Ghoete’s character Faust, a man who makes a deal with the Devil to exchange his soul for fulfilling his desires of knowledge and pleasures. Faust is deeply dissatisfied with his life: 

“He drives his spirit outwards, far,

Half-conscious of its maddened dart:

From Heaven demands the brightest star,

And from the Earth, Joy’s highest art,

And all the near and all the far,

Fails to release his throbbing heart”. 

… And Mephistopheles offers him everything he wants. 

I think she literally is Faust. And her Mephistopheles wanted to grant her wish that they probably shared (Ch. 61). 

Faustina (well-educated person dissatisfied with reality) met Paracelsus (who offers a way to change the entire world). Perhaps he plays both the role of God and Devil in this version, since Paracelsus is described as someone who actually wanted to help people, but his action led to a literal apocalypse. Way to go, Paracelsus! 

Anyway, in my theory, she joins the research and becomes the first vampire during the Babel incident. Perhaps all other scientists, except for her and Paracelsus, died during the incident (but the research itlsef survived and was later used by Chloe’s family). Faustina was reborn as the Queen and Paracelsus as the Teacher. 

Why only Faustina is considered to be the first vampire and not both of them? Well, they didn’t necessarily fully awake as vampires at the same second of the same day. Or maybe the Teacher hides his identity and true powers this good… After all, he is known to mess with history (for example, he removed everything about Ruthven from his books, leading Noé to being completely oblivious about his existence). But honestly the parallel between vampires reacting to presence of Faustina (Ch. 38.5) and Teacher (Ch. 55) are interesting… 

PART THREE: LUNA, VANITAS OF THE BLUE MOON

What do we know about Luna: 

they’re the only known vampire of the blue moon and are considered abnormal and dangerous; 

Naenia is the one who steals vampires’ true names, but it’s believed to be the fault of the first Vanitas;

they’re told to have created the Books of Vanitas (it may of may not be true); 

they’re canonically agender, neither male nor female, and regret knowing what they are (Ch. 51).

I mentioned here that Luna is a Homunculus. Now it’s time to explain what led me to this idea.

Noé points out that Luna and Faustina look alike (Ch. 49) Is it connected to whatever knowledge Luna regretted having? Considering Luna’s unique blue skin, blue blood and their statement “I’m not like any other living thing in the world”, I don’t really think Luna could be Faustina’s human twin. Or rather, it’s not my first guess. I’m inclined to believe that Luna was an artificial being whose creation was connected with Faustina. 

In “Faust II”, the theme of artificial human, the perfect creature that surpasses humanity and yet serves their creator, is also present. Faust’s student, Wagner, works on a project when Mephistopheles visits him. Wagner claims: “A Man is being made!”, Mephistopheles jokes about a “loving couple hidden up the chimney”, but Wagner pronounces this way of creating life “unfashionable” (🤝) and delivers a beautiful speech: 

“The tender moment from which life emerged,                                      

The charming power with which its inner urge,

Took and gave, and clearly stamped its seal,

First in a near, and then a further field,

We now divest of all that dignity:

Though the creatures still enjoy it, we,                                                   

As Men, with all our greater gifts, begin,

To have, as we should, a nobler origin”. 

The interesting thing here is that Wagner’s creation is alluding to Paracelsus’ recipe of homunculus in Of the nature of things, 1537 (I found this in an article which referenced a publication by R.D. Gray Goethe the Alchemist. A study of Alchemical Symbolism in Goethe’s Literary and Scientofic Works.) Paracelsus called the creature “chemisch mensch”, but Goethe adapted that to Homunculus, an alchemical term. 

The Homunculus desires to become fully created: “Since I exist, I must find things to do”. He (this character is referred to as a male in “Faust”) seeks “the beginnings of creations”, to “reach at last the human state”. In order to achieve it, he wants a connection with the sea goddess Galatea (here a version of Aphrodite), but his brittle flask hits her chariot-shell and breaks. He spills in the sea and dies, but he also merges with the sea itself. 

Now that I’m thinking about it… Painfully familiar… Blink if you too were forever traumatized by “I won’t die, Noé. Even if I’m no longer here…” in Ch. 1… 

Well, back to Luna. Just like Goethe’s Homunculus, Luna was created in a certainly unique way. Here it’s time to remember the fairytale about Vanitas, told by Noé to Amelia (Ch. 1). Granted, it’s something he learned while under Teacher’s care, and we know he isn’t above censoring of wildly retelling anything, but Amelia doesn’t correct him on anything, so let’s accept this fairytale as it is. 

Perhaps the “birth” of the first Vanitas on the night of a blue moon refers to the artificiality of their creation? Artificiality can be equalized with “unnatural” birth of the Moon in the fairytale version. Even if the concept of homunculus will not be directly named in VnC, we already have the idea of an artificial being that differs from all living things in this world, is nonbinary and possibly agender and is able to perform unique functions — to control the book of Vanitas. 

Interestingly, our Vanitas and Misha are also to some extent “artificially created” – without experiments of Moreau and Luna’s bite they wouldn’t have been able to control the Books. It’s possible the reasons for the existence of Luna and both their children were somewhat similar – it was merely an experiment conducted in order to change the design of the world. (Ch. 48) 

Perhaps those “reasons to exist” are also the reason of Luna’s regrets and the reason to forbid Vanitas to allow Archivists to read his memories. We don’t know why it’s so. Maybe Vanitas learned something about Luna, and now those memories are meant to be hidden carefully. Maybe Luna just wanted to find out about themselves, asked an Archivist to read their memories (Machina, perhaps), and was so traumatized that simply wanted their children to never go through this kind of pain. 

And the knowledge that traumatized Luna? It could have been knowledge about the purpose of Luna’s existence. I don’t think Luna was created by accident. They were meant to do something or to be something. The Books are said to be created by the Vampire of the Blue Moon, but they could have been created for them as a tool to rewrite the world once again. 

In “Faust” Mephistopheles tells to the audience: 

“In the end we’re dependent on

The creatures we’ve created”. 

What if Paracelsus and Faustina needed someone else to fully realize their plan? And that someone was Luna, “the most beautiful creature in this world” (Ch. 55) (he’s so real for this). 

Saint Germain, the president of Luna fan-club, everyone!

Oh, one more little thing. The “perfect creation” of alchemy is the Philosopher’s stone.

Carbunculus is one of many synonyms for Philosopher’s stone, which may be anything from a rock to a human-like being (waving at fellow FMA fans); 

It’s also the name of Queen’s castle;  

And Goethe uses this word to describe how Homunculus looks: 

“The deep alembic now has passed, 

And like a living coal at last 

A fine carbuncular fire is glowing 

Into the dark it’s brilliance throwing”. 

No way it’s a coincidence. Just. No way. C’mon, it is Jun. So… Luna is the “ultimate creation” of alchemy, VnC’s version of Philosopher’s stone and Homunculus at the same time. 

PART FOUR: THE THRIAD 

Now that we’ve assigned roles to all of them, let’s go deeper in another rabbit hole that is alchemy. This one is hella hard to research because of the amount of extremely different modern occult groups. But alchemy was my childhood hyperfixation, so… let’s do it. 

Together, Faust, Mephistopheles and Homunculus form a triad. (Yes, Wagner created Homunculus, but he kinda disappears from the plot afterwards and Homunculus goes on a journey with Faust and Mephistopheles). This is kinda relevant, because Goethe actually researched the topic and it’s not unreasonable to connect his characters (and their VnC analogues) to certain alchemical symbols.

The triad is Salt, Mercury, and Sulfur. Here we can see irl Paracelsus at work again, because he was among the alchemist who popularized this theory. In alchemy, the idea of “feminine meets masculine” is pretty common, but unfortunately, different sources assign these qualities to different elements in the triad. That being said, the common point is that one is “female principle”, one is “male principle” and one is “neither, or the spirit itself”. The most common division of that in the triad is: 

Sulfur — the active male principle. Causes change. Brings an object to be changed. Associated with fire and sun. Red King. 

Mercury – the passive female principle (it’s just how medieval occult stuff is I’m sorry). Needs something to give it shape and change it. The chaos of creation. Associated with earth or water and moon. White Queen. 

Salt – pure and undivided salt is the result of the interactions between mercury and sulfur. Such perfect things are the purpose of alchemy. 

Here are illustrations from Splendor Solis, which was also written under the influence of Paracelsus. Really can’t get away from this man… The first one is the Chemical wedding, the second one is… also that. Just in a fusion way I guess. Here the result of the Wedding is portrayed as a Hermaphrodite with two heads (like in the myth, where human souls were originally of dual nature, but got divided into two parts that are men and women), but sometimes it’s a child or a person with both male and female features. Hermaphrodite can also be called Rebis (which means “dual matter”, aka Philosopher’s stone) or Androgyne (hello Luna).

I don’t expect Faustina, Saint Germain and Luna to fulfill this specific roles just like that. Rather, I think their roles would be mixed a bit, like how Saint Germain is both God and Devil. Still, the idea of the first one providing an idea, the second one helping him work on it and a third one being born out of it all as a perfect creature is intriguing to me. 

The three of them are the oldest, most ancient and perhaps the most mysterious vampires in VnC, and I’d love to them connected in such a way where one can’t exist without the others.

In conclusion: tragic ancient vampires own by brain.

[babyrdie]

[All excerpts used are from E.P Coleridge's translation]

Okay, I've talked about the romantic dynamic between Iphigenia and Achilles in a less popular tradition (compared to the tradition that's all farce and nothing but deception), but I also like their dynamic in Iphigenia in Aulis because I feel like it, to some extent, has to do with the way Iphigenia is both humanized and objectified by the context that's imposed on her. I usually see their relationship being used to make a point about Achilles, but I think it's possible to make a point about Iphigenia as well.

Achilles is willing to cooperate with Clytemnestra from the beginning after they both discover Agamemnon's plan, and he doesn't need to be convinced to help. But they don't have the same goal, not really. Clytemnestra wants to save Iphigenia, but Achilles doesn't seem to be thinking about Iphigenia specifically. In fact, he seems to be thinking about his honor. When Clytemnestra begs Achilles to help her, he responds:

Achilles My proud spirit is stirred to range aloft, butI have learned to grieve in misfortune [920] and rejoice in high prosperity with equal moderation. For these are the men who can count on ordering all their life rightly by wisdom's rules. True, there are cases where it is pleasant not to be too wise, [925] but there are others, where some store of wisdom helps. Brought up in godly Chiron's halls myself, I learned to keep a single heart; and provided the Atridae lead well, I will obey them; but when they cease from that, no more will I obey; [930] no, but here and in Troy I will show the freedom of my nature, and, as far as in me lies, do honor to Ares with my spear. You, lady, who have suffered so cruelly from your nearest and dearest, I will, by every effort in a young man's power, set right, investing you with that amount of pity [935] and never shall your daughter, after being once called my bride, die by her father's hand; for I will not lend myself to your husband's subtle tricks; no! for it will be my name that kills your child, although it does not wield the sword. Your own husband [940] is the actual cause, but I shall no longer be guiltless, if, because of me and my marriage, this maiden perishes, she that has suffered past endurance and been the victim of affronts most strangely undeserved.

So am I made the poorest wretch in Argos; [945] I a thing of nothing, and Menelaus counting for a man! No son of Peleus I, but the issue of a vengeful fiend, if my name shall serve your husband for the murder. No! by Nereus, who begot my mother Thetis, in his home amid the flowing waves, [950] never shall king Agamemnon touch your daughter, no! not even to the laying of a finger-tip upon her robe; or Sipylus, that frontier town of barbarism, the cradle of those chieftains' line, will be henceforth a city indeed, while Phthia's name will nowhere find mention. [955] Calchas, the seer, shall rue beginning the sacrifice with his barley-meal and lustral water. Why, what is a seer? A man who with luck tells the truth sometimes, with frequent falsehoods, but when his luck deserts him, collapses then and there. It is not to secure a bride that I have spoken thus—there are maids unnumbered [960] eager to have my love—no! but king Agamemnon has put an insult on me; he should have asked my leave to use my name as a means to catch the child, for it was I chiefly who induced Clytemnestra to betroth her daughter to me; [965] I would had yielded this to Hellas, if that was where our going to Ilium broke down; I would never have refused to further my fellow soldiers' common interest. But as it is, I am as nothing in the eyes of those chieftains, and little they care of treating me well or ill. [970] My sword shall soon know if any one is to snatch your daughter from me, for then will I make it reek with the bloody stains of slaughter, before it reach Phrygia. Calm yourself then; as a god in his might I appeared to you, without being so, but such will I show myself for all that.

That is, Achilles openly admits that if Agamemnon had asked to use his name and justified it as necessary for Troy to be taken, Achilles would have accepted. He would have been willing to deceive Iphigenia, an innocent maiden who was eager to marry, if it meant that he would go to Troy to achieve his beloved glory. He himself makes this clear in “he should have asked my leave to use my name as a means to catch the child, for it was I chiefly who induced Clytemnestra to betroth her daughter to me; [965] I would have yielded this to Hellas, if that was where our going to Ilium broke down; I would never have refused to further my fellow soldiers' common interest”. Achilles, in literature, is usually presented more as strength than cunning and, in fact, tends to oppose deception. But the Achilles of Iphigenia in Aulis, when he says that he would collaborate with this cunning plan, immediately argues that the reason is that he would be motivated by “my fellow soldiers' common interest”. Sure, one might think that Achilles doesn't seem like someone who would do something he doesn't want to do for the sake of his soldiers, but this Achilles is young and inexperienced (see how he interacts with Clytemnestra in their first meeting, he is even shy to be alone with a woman). He's not the same Achilles we see in The Iliad, an adult in the last year of the war. The Iliadic Achilles is already established in the army, the Euripidean one isn’t and he needs to secure his position. I can believe that he would actively participate in this deception.

Achilles isn’t helping Clytemnestra because he would never sacrifice an innocent maiden, he is helping Clytemnestra because he has been insulted —“Agamemnon has put an insult on me.” It isn’t the aggression directed at Iphigenia, but the insult directed at him that angers him deeply. Because by disregarding Achilles’ consent to the plan, he feels as if he is ignored, as if he doesn’t matter enough to be considered, as if he has no identity at all: “So am I made the poorest wretch in Argos; [945] I a thing of nothing, and Menelaus counting for a man! No son of Peleus I, but the issue of a vengeful fiend, if my name shall serve your husband for the murder.” And if there is one thing that Achilles values, it’s his identity. For it is this identity that brings with it his glorious and famous lineage (so much so that, when denying his identity to himself, he says “no son of Peleus”), that makes him the infamous son of Thetis the Nereid, that makes him a prince, that makes him a descendant of the mighty Zeus, that makes him a pupil of the wise Chiron, that makes him the prophesied warrior. The honor that he values ​​so much is linked to his identity as a person because the achievement of this honor has as its reward the immortalization of Achilles in future generations. A name — one of the strongest identity characteristics — that will be remembered, as well as what comes with it. And what does Agamemnon do when he uses it like this, without considering how he might feel? He transforms Achilles into a tool, a passive object.

But while Achilles is offended by the idea of ​​him as a person being disregarded and instead used as a tool, he unconsciously does something similar with Iphigenia. To him, she initially has no identity. Throughout the play, before the end, several characters interact with each other, but Achilles and Iphigenia aren’t one of these pairs. He hasn’t spoken to her, he doesn’t know her. To him, there is no “Iphigenia the person” there is “Iphigenia the tool in the plan”. He only knows her in the capacity of a passive object, and in this imagery there isn’t enough in Iphigenia to be a motivator for Achilles any more than his wounded honor is. Even when he talks about the sacrifice, Achilles talks about how it affects him “never shall your daughter, after being once called my bride, die by her father's hand; for I will not lend myself to your husband's subtle tricks; no! for it will be my name that kills your child, although it does not wield the sword”. Even when it comes to Iphigenia, Achilles seems to be motivated primarily by himself. Iphigenia is almost like a footnote, just a motivating object of his narrative.

In contrast, when Iphigenia refers to Achilles, she is seeing him as a person. More specifically, she sees him as a potential fiancé, even after she knows about the deception, so much so that she refers to the plan as “our marriage.” One could perhaps say that Iphigenia also doesn’t attribute an identity to him, since she sees him only in the role of this scenario (i.e., fiancé) in the same way that Achilles saw her as “bride”, but I don’t think that’s the case. She is embarrassed by the possibility of seeing Achilles, and why would she be embarrassed if it weren’t because she fears his reaction? And for Iphigenia to fear Achilles’ reaction to the discovery that Iphigenia genuinely thought they were going to get married is because she considered him enough of a person to assume that he might have conflicting feelings about the situation. Iphigenia could have just thought “he was deceived too” and that was that, but implicitly she also thought about how the deception would affect him:

Iphigenia calling into the tent. [1340] Open the tent-door to me, servants, that I may hide myself Clytemnestra Why seek to escape, my child? Iphigenia I am ashamed to face Achilles. Clytemnestra But why? Iphigenia The luckless ending to our marriage causes me to feel abashed.

At the end of the play, however, Iphigenia subverts the passive position imposed upon her. She accepts being sacrificed and, in a way, does so in an attempt to regain her agency. Rather than it being something that was done to her, it’s something that she did. Speaking about her decision, she says:

Iphigenia Mother, hear me while I speak, for I see that you are angry with your husband [1370] to no purpose; it is hard for us to persist in impossibilities. Our thanks are due to this stranger for his ready help; but you must also see to it that he is not reproached by the army, leaving us no better off and himself involved in trouble. Listen, mother; hear what thoughts have passed across my mind. [1375] I am resolved to die; and this I want to do with honor, dismissing from me what is mean. Towards this now, mother turn your thoughts, and with me weigh how well I speak; to me the whole of mighty Hellas looks; on me the passage over the sea depends; on me the sack of Troy; [1380] and in my power it lies to check henceforth barbarian raids on happy Hellas, if ever in the days to come they seek to seize her women, when once they have atoned by death for the violation of Helen's marriage by Paris. All this deliverance will my death insure, and my fame for setting Hellas free will be a happy one. [1385] Besides, I have no right at all to cling too fondly to my life; for you did not bear me for myself alone, but as a public blessing to all Hellas. What! shall countless warriors, armed with shields, those myriads sitting at the oar, find courage to attack the foe and die for Hellas, because their fatherland is wronged, [1390] and my one life prevent all this? What kind of justice is that? could I find a word in answer? Now let us turn to that other point. It is not right that this man should enter into battle with all Argos or be slain for a woman's sake. Better a single man should see the light than ten thousand women. [1395] If Artemis has decided to take my body, am I, a mortal, to thwart the goddess? no, that is impossible. I give my body to Hellas; sacrifice it and make an utter end of Troy. This is my enduring monument; marriage, motherhood, and fame—all these is it to me. [1400] And it is right, mother, that Hellenes should rule barbarians, but not barbarians Hellenes, those being slaves, while these are free.

So Iphigenia is actively trying to gain an active role — I am resolved to die; and this I want to do with honor, dismissing from me what is mean“. She doesn’t want to be Iphigenia, the object, she wants to be Iphigenia, a person with an identity. In the same way that soldiers are motivated to fight out of pride in their Greek identity, Iphigenia is motivated to sacrifice herself out of pride in her Greek identity — “and my fame for setting Hellas free will be a happy one“. Not only that, but her action is motivated by glory to some extent, in a similar way to how Achilles himself is motivated — “I give my body to Hellas; sacrifice it and make an utter end of Troy. This is my enduring monument; marriage, motherhood, and fame—all these is it to me“. In the same way that Achilles will have his identity immortalized, so will Iphigenia, and she knows this when she says “to me the whole of mighty Hellas looks; on me the passage over the sea depends; on me the sack of Troy”. By equating her voluntary sacrifice with the sacrifice of soldiers who are willing to die in the field, Iphigenia regains her autonomy by getting closer to their imaginary. Indirectly, Iphigenia secures her identity in a way that makes her close to Achilles, since, after all, he also accepted death.

And it’s in this identification that Achilles begins to see that Iphigenia isn’t just someone he needs to protect, but someone who has desires of her own. Desires that he admires, in fact. He didn’t admire her before because, before, Achilles didn’t know her…but now that he feels he knows her, he thinks she is worthy of it. Iphigenia, then, takes on a humanized role in his mind:

Achilles Daughter of Agamemnon! some god was bent [1405] on blessing me, if I could have won you for my wife. In you I consider Hellas happy, and you in Hellas; for this that you have said is good and worthy of your fatherland; since you, abandonIng a strife with heavenly powers, which are too strong for you, have fairly weighed advantages and needs. [1410] But now that I have looked into your noble nature, I feel still more a fond desire to win you for my bride. Look to it; for I want to serve you and receive you in my halls; and, Thetis be my witness, how I grieve to think I shall not save your life by doing battle with the Danaids. [1415] Reflect, I say; a dreadful ill is death. Iphigenia This I say, without regard to anyone. Enough that the daughter of Tyndareus is causing wars and bloodshed by her beauty; then be not slain yourself, stranger, nor seek to slay another on my account; [1420] but let me, if I can, save Hellas. Achilles Heroic spirit! I can say no more to this, since you are so minded; for yours is a noble resolve; why should not one speak the truth? Yet I will speak, for you will perhaps change your mind; [1425] [that you may know then what my offer is,] I will go and place these arms of mine near the altar, resolved not to permit your death but to prevent; for brave as you are at sight of the knife held at your throat, you will soon avail yourself of what I said. [1430] So I will not let you perish through any thoughtlessness of yours, but will go to the goddess with these arms and await your arrival there. Exit Achilles.

Achilles describes her as someone who has a “noble nature” and a “heroic spirit,” thus acknowledging Iphigenia’s autonomy. For Achilles, Iphigenia is “noble” and “heroic” because she chooses to sacrifice herself for the sake of the Greeks, something that requires courage from her, and if there is anything Achilles admires, it’s this. She takes an action worthy of recognition. Iphigenia is no longer passive, she is active, and Achilles’ attitude changes to match. Throughout the play, whenever he talks about saving Iphigenia, he negotiates this with Clytemnestra. Before Iphigenia declares that she will be sacrificed, Achilles is actually talking to Clytemnestra and in fact doesn’t even address Iphigenia directly, even though she is there. After her declaration, however, even though Clytemnestra was present and disapproved of Iphigenia's thinking, Achilles addresses Iphigenia (and not Clytemnestra) directly, and although he tries to convince her to give up (claiming that he would try to protect her), he still respects her decision. In fact, he puts the decision in her hands by saying that he will wait for Iphigenia to decide whether or not she wants him to intervene. Thus, Achilles acknowledges Iphigenia as not only someone with an identity, but someone with desires that he cannot override [note: I obviously don’t think that Clytemnestra's disapproval of this is the same as her overriding Iphigenia's desires. Since Achilles isn’t intimate with Iphigenia, it’s certainly much easier for him to accept her decision to die than it is for Clytemnestra, the mother who loves her immensely. But Clytemnestra's taking revenge, however, was overriding what Iphigenia would want].

Of course, one could argue that Achilles accepts Iphigenia's decision because her being sacrificed is to his advantage, as it will allow him to go to Troy. But I disagree. After all, he literally offers to try to prevent this, if Iphigenia so desires. He is willing to go against the will of a goddess, Artemis, and the entire army (as Achilles makes it clear that they tried to stone him for speaking in favor of Clytemnestra and Iphigenia) if Iphigenia wants, and indirectly, he is willing to delay his achievement of glory (since the sacrifice is necessary for him to go to Troy). In fact, Achilles explicitly states that he has come to be seen as someone who is enslaved by marriage. In other words, his reputation has been damaged and he has been viewed in a pejorative manner, but that still doesn’t stop him from offering Iphigenia the option of rebelling against the will of the majority:

Clytemnestra In danger of what, stranger?. Achilles [1350] Of being stoned. Clytemnestra Surely not for trying to save my daughter? Achilles The very reason. Clytemnestra Who would have dared to lay a finger on you? Achilles All the men of Hellas. Clytemnestra Were not your Myrmidon warriors at your side? Achilles They were the first who turned against me. Clytemnestra My child! we are lost, it seems. Achilles They taunted me as the man whom marriage had enslaved. Clytemnestra And what did you answer them? Achilles [1355] Not to kill the one I meant to wed— Clytemnestra Justly so. Achilles The wife her father promised me. Clytemnestra Yes, and sent to fetch from Argos. Achilles But I was overcome by clamorous cries. Clytemnestra Truly the mob is a dire mischief. Achilles But I will help you for all that. Clytemnestra Will you really fight them single-handed? Achilles Do you see these warriors here, carrying my arms? Clytemnestra Bless you for your kind intent! Achilles [1360] Well, I shall be blessed.

Even Achilles’ marriage proposal is different. Previously, he had constantly thought of Iphigenia as a “bride” and had taken the marriage for granted if he could handle the situation. And since Achilles hadn’t even met Iphigenia at the time, his motivation for the marriage wasn’t her per se, but rather to reverse the plan into which he had been unwillingly included. And how can a false marriage be reversed if not by making it genuine? In a way, marrying Iphigenia would also be placing himself as responsible for her, in the ancient view of husbands as responsible for their wives. In this sense, Iphigenia was once again passive. But after her declaration, Achilles, instead of taking the marriage for granted, proposes to her. He leaves the decision to marry Iphigenia up to her—“Reflect, I say; a dreadful ill is death”— and if she doesn’t want it, he will accept. And now he desires Iphigenia as his wife in a genuine way because he recognized in her someone with an admirable personality— “But now that I have looked into your noble nature, I feel still more a fond desire to win you for my bride”. Achilles no longer wants “Iphigenia, a passive object” that he needs to protect if he wants to protect his honor, he wants “Iphigenia, a person with an identity and an active one” because he thinks that having a wife like her would be a blessing — “some god was bent [1405] on blessing me, if I could have won you for my wife”. Achilles even talks about a possible marriage as he serves her in “Look to it; for I want to serve you and receive you in my halls”. She is no longer a symbol of his wounded honor, she is a symbol of glory and if there is one thing young Achilles desires it is glory. She's not a part of the scenery, she's a character.

But Iphigenia chooses to sacrifice herself and Achilles clearly doesn’t contradict her on, as a Messenger actually makes it quite clear that Achilles had an active role in the sacrifice as he spread the water and referred directly to Artemis:

Messenger [1540] Dear mistress, you shall learn all clearly; from the outset will I tell it, unless my memory fails me somewhat and confuses my tongue in its account. As soon as we reached the grove of Artemis, the child of Zeus, and the flowery meadows, [1545] where the Achaean troops were gathered, bringing your daughter with us, at once the Argive army began assembling; but when king Agamemnon saw the maiden on her way to the grove to be sacrificed, he gave one groan, and, turning away his face, let the tears burst [1550] from his eyes, as he held his robe before them. But the maid, standing close by her father, spoke thus: “O my father, here I am; willingly I offer my body for my country and all Hellas, [1555] that you may lead me to the altar of the goddess and sacrifice me, since this is Heaven's ordinance. May good luck be yours for any help that I afford! and may you obtain the victor's gift and come again to the land of your fathers. So then let none of the Argives lay hands on me, [1560] for I will bravely yield my neck without a word.” She spoke; and each man marvelled, as he heard the maiden's brave speech. But in the midst Talthybius stood up, for this was his duty, and bade the army refrain from word or deed; [1565] and Calchas, the seer, drawing a sharp sword from its scabbard laid it in a basket of beaten gold, and crowned the maiden's head. Then the son of Peleus, taking the basket and with it lustral water in his hand, ran round the altar of the goddess [1570] uttering these words: “O Artemis, you child of Zeus, slayer of wild beasts, that wheel your dazzling light amid the gloom, accept this sacrifice which we, the army of the Achaeans and Agamemnon with us, offer to you, pure blood from a beautiful maiden's neck; [1575] and grant us safe sailing for our ships and the sack of Troy's towers by our spears.” Meanwhile the sons of Atreus and all the army stood looking on the ground.

[But the priest, seizing his knife, offered up a prayer and was closely scanning the maiden's throat to see where he should strike. [1580] It was no slight sorrow filled my heart, as I stood by with bowed head; when there was a sudden miracle! Each one of us distinctly heard the sound of a blow, but none saw the spot where the maiden vanished. The priest cried out, and all the army took up the cry [1585] at the sight of a marvel all unlooked for, due to some god's agency, and passing all belief, although it was seen; for there upon the ground lay a deer of immense size, magnificent to see, gasping out her life, with whose blood the altar of the goddess was thoroughly bedewed. [1590] Then spoke Calchas thus—his joy you can imagine—“You captains of this leagued Achaean army, do you see this victim, which the goddess has set before her altar, a mountain-roaming deer? This is more welcome to her by far than the maid, [1595] that she may not defile her altar by shedding noble blood. Gladlyshe has accepted it, and is granting us a prosperous voyage for our attack on Ilium. Therefore take heart, sailors, each man of you, and away to your ships, for today [1600] we must leave the hollow bays of Aulis and cross the Aegean main.” Then, when the sacrifice was wholly burnt to ashes in the blazing flame, he offered such prayers as were fitting, that the army might win return; but Agamemnon sends me to tell you this, [1605] and say what heaven-sent luck is his, and how he has secured undying fame throughout the length of Hellas. Now I was there myself and speak as an eyewitness; without a doubt your child flew away to the gods. A truce then to your sorrowing, and cease to be angry with your husband; [1610] for the gods' ways with man are not what we expect, and those whom they love, they keep safe; yes, for this day has seen your daughter dead and living.

Thus, I genuinely think that Achilles' change in thinking in relation to Iphigenia follows her characterization in the narrative, which changes from passive to active, from a narrative motif to a structured character. This post is, of course, purely my own interpretation, but I feel like Iphigenia is rather unfortunately ignored among the interactions/relationships Achilles has and I don't understand why. I think it's important! Not only is Iphigenia important to Achilles' character, but Achilles is also a narrative element in Iphigenia's character.

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Mr. Egg, Mr. Pickle, and Mr. Hot Dog

Debut: BurgerTime

BurgerTime is one of those retro games and that's about it. It existed, and it's Retro!, and I feel like people don't really care about it aside from that. It never even got an awkward attempt at a scrimblo adventure reboot, like Frogger did! Poor BurgerTime.

Anyway, my first time playing BurgerTime was not by playing BurgerTime at all, but a SpongeBob Flash game clone of it. I have no personal connection to BurgerTime itself... but I know it has some enemies that are living foods! I always get a kick out of that! So I'm going to talk about some of the various design incarnations of them!

These original designs are exactly what you would expect from a 1982 arcade game. I feel like I've seen Pac-Man ghosts drawn EXACTLY like this. I like how Mr. Egg has the strangely realistic crispy bubbling detail around his edges. They're all fine.

...is what I felt before I noticed their elbows and knees! Ew! Bones! Wretched creatures!

Ohoho... now what have we here? The in-game sprites are delightful! The simplicity makes them very cute! Their feet are interesting, being just little floating lines, except for Mr. Egg's, because his legs are made of amorphous albumen! Mr. Egg is really the breakout star here. Look at his yolk! That's his EYE! This is so awesome! That's such a rare design choice to see, especially since egg creatures that are not of the "creature hatching from them" variety are pretty rare themselves.

Mr. Pickle is no slouch either! I appreciate him being specifically a pickle slice, often portrayed as nicely crinkle-cut. I just have to question why he is a villain! Pickles are one of Burger's best friends! This is like if Cheese was a villain! I think if anything Mr. Pickle should be a cute little sidekick on the side of burgers, and in his place can be, I don't know, Mr. Olive? Of course, pickles are much funnier than olives!

Mr. Hot Dog is not as interesting as the other two, but a simple sausage with eyes and feet is still cute. He is like the leader of the bunch, the main antagonist of our hero, Peter Pepper, who I do not really care about. I like that it's him! Burgers and hot dogs are like counterparts, but in no way equals. Hot dogs are easier to hold and eat, but burgers are just Better. And hot dogs have finally decided to give burgers a piece of their mind!

This flyer art is funny. I don't LIKE any of the designs showcased, but they're funny! Faces are moved around on the foods, noses are introduced to the series, and Mr. Egg is now a slice of a hard-boiled egg. You will also notice the elusive Mr. Lemon! Mr. Lemon is not real! I don't know why there is such an emphasis on lemon here. Finally, of course, you will notice the personified Cheese, as she noselessly beckons Peter to recline atop a beef patty. Ooh la la! Don't you wish you were invited to hang out with such a beautiful female cheese who is a girl woman?

Really, the designs of the core food fiends never diverged much from the classic cartoon-style versions they started out with, appearing like that in pretty much every sequel. Except...!

In BurgerTime World Tour, which was not a good game at all, these guys have been utterly rebooted! Now known as Frank Furter, Ruthless Dill, and Sonny! Are these their real names? Or just some similar guys?

The designs are rather basic, as to be expected from Foods With Faces, but it IS interesting seeing them generally made so much more monstrous. Something ESPECIALLY interesting is that Sonny the egg is the only one with limbs, reminding me of how Mr. Egg is the only one to have actual legs in the original sprites!

Ready for the SCARIEST redesign from World Tour?

This game's version of Peter Pepper is this horrible gentrifying millenial and I'm glad his game was prematurely delisted. I hope he got eaten by an egg and chewed by teeth made of yolk. I hate him!

[gunnrblze]

Have you read Rorke’s book, Devil’s Breath? If so, ur thoughts on it? 👀

I’ve read devils breath about three times, I have many thoughts. Below the cut since I yapped🗣️

First, I do wish it had served more of a narrative purpose. It’s essentially just Rorke detailing his torture, which I do like so that we can have an understanding of what exactly he went through by the Feds hands, and to give us an idea of what Logan may have been subjected to.

But I would’ve loved to have more background information though, especially post torture/brainwashing, and possibly more info about his pre capture days with the ghosts (that’s just me being self indulgent lol, it was obviously just supposed to be about the brainwashing/fed torture, but we’ve been fed scraps with this goddamn game😭).

The details of the torture/brainwashing are quite graphic, which I oddly appreciate because I think it really drives home the reasons why Rorke did what he did. He was manipulated and brainwashed beyond belief, expertly so, and it’s one of the main reasons I have so much empathy for his character. He quite literally got plucked out of the river in Caracas and held on to his sanity for as long as he could. But as he said in the game, “everyone breaks” (which I also think is interesting, how does he cope with knowing that the Feds broke him down successfully? Does he have any resentment? How does he juggle his newfound loyalty to them and also the fact that they did such horrific things to him? He has to know, through it all, that they still hurt him, even though they saved him too). I also appreciate the backstory behind his (totally uncool and unsexy) facial scar.

And maybe it’s just the yaoi shipper in me…💀but his boatload of references to Elias specifically throughout the book stick out to me too. This is part of the reason I ship them anyways, because the way he talks about his second in command is giving me more than “he was just my second in command” vibes. Elias being in his head for days on end, trying to keep his rationality and lucidity alive by thinking of the man, wondering what he’s doing, where he is, his boys, etc, well…it’s gay to me lmfao. I also think it helps give some more (largely unsaid) perspective as to why exactly he’d not only make it his personal mission to kill Elias second (after Ajax, who in his mind wronged him first by “shooting him”), but why he’d take Logan too. There’s a lot behind that (imo), but taking the man’s youngest son was a very personal choice to make, and I think it has something to do with their prior bond (whether they were actually homo soulmate lovers or not, Elias was an extremely important friend to him at the very least, and the entire thing was personal between the two of them specifically).

Also, the way they brainwashed him into believing that Ajax shot him as he was going down, is insane to me. I think that arguably took some of the most work. Understandable why Elias would drop him, he had to, but why one of your own men would shoot you? That’s hard to convince someone of, the senselessness of it. It’s intriguing to see how they did it, with the reenactment of it.

I generally enjoy the prose of the book, it sounds exactly like how I imagine his character would speak. It’s also fun to see his intelligence at play (“fun” is an interesting word choice here but you get it lol), how someone of his caliber would handle one of the most godawful wretched situations imaginable. The things he says really detail his intelligence, both through the military knowledge he obviously has, but just generally speaking. Overall, yea the book falls a little flat to me but i don’t think its purpose was to be some grand piece of literature for the game, its a nice insight and I love to pick it apart.

Some quotes from the book I like, for no particular reason:

“I’m the reason I ended up on the edge of that helo, and if there’s a regret, something I think about down here, it’s that I hung on for my life instead of doing the honorable thing, which would’ve been to let go, eat a grenade on the way down.”

“I’ll wait until tonight, track Orion’s Belt, his sword.”

“Passive, pensive Elias”

“Conclusion: this is no rag-tag jungle nonsense. The Feds are fairly elite. But the Ghosts define elite.”

“Elias should be here. I’d have been here. I’d have torn down the whole fucking forest to be here”

“I stare skyward for the faint flicker of sunlight-on-drone. For helos. For Elias”

“I snap back to reality less, lose my day count, my momentum, begin calendarizing existence by shifts in technique and tenor. Which doesn’t mean I lose…”

“I wonder who Elias has and where he has him. Maybe caretakers son. An El Mozo cousin. I wonder how far Elias is taking his own interrogation to find me. What kind of leader he has become. I conjure up this man, this invisible informant, and beat him senseless with Elias’s arms. I stick tubes down his throat with Elias’s fingers. I hear the screams of the man whose teeth Elias yanks out, who gives up molars for safe houses emptier than his mouth. I urge Elias: push on, pull the nails from this man’s fingers, trace the man’s smeared blood across the map. I tell Elias not the punish shit leads by breaking more broken bones but by setting the broken bones wrong so the informant lives out the rest of his life in agony” - “The sign of a pro: when you can hurt someone simply by letting them heal.”

(Not gonna put the whole passage, but I love the part where he gives himself an interrogation serial number to keep himself sane too)

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 36 - Closer

The rogue gets a taste. 😈

On AO3.

Astarion pulls the last out of the drow he can manage. The man is starting to cool in the fingers and face. He’s been struggling to get a mouthful the last few times. Finally, regrettably, he has to declare the wretch entirely drained and let the limp body slide off to be left behind.

His leader considers her own, empty potion bottle, but tucks that into the saddlebag.

Her soul flask is once again looped around her neck and tucked away into her cleavage. From what he’s gathered, the priestess took direct ownership of that and tucked them away into her bag, still strapped to the magnificent lizard they sit atop.

The drow had also stashed the foreign phallus in there. He’d teased his recovering leader about that as best he could through the tadpoles (after she finally opened the frazzled and sparking connection to the others to assure them all of her safety).

Astarion had taken his time draining that drow. The man fought at first. Astarion’s bite hurts, at first. He’s felt his dearest leader wince. But where she volunteers herself and lets herself sink into his embrace (pulling her close, she would feel so good held tightly to him), this one hadn’t wished to depart with his blood.

Which had ripped his neck open more than what Astarion would have preferred. Still. He hadn’t died quickly. Or easily. Judging from the over the shoulder glances his leader shot back at him, Astarion was correct in his deduction on identifying her tormentor.

So he let the drow fight a little, as he fed. Just so he would know how useless it was. Let him have the full cognizance of what was happening to him.

His leader had merely turned and left him to it.

But now that’s done and their lizard has slowed and his recovered leader starts to fidget. They’ve found the stream again. She’ll likely follow it; all water leads to the same place, and all.

“Are you alright?” he says. She doesn’t answer. He starts to reach for her, but then she pulls the lizard to a stop. Slips one leg over the side. Staggers as she lands.

He’s off and after her before she can fall. Grabs her arm to steady her, but she yanks free, jerks away.

They stand there as her heart races.

Her eyes are wide. Astarion knows all the ways a person can be afraid. All the tells, big and small, and the flash of terror in her eyes he’s seen in his siblings countless times. She smothers it swiftly. Straightens herself, points to the river, and mimes splashing herself.

“A bath,” he says.

She repeats it, waits for him to nod.

Blood wasn’t the only thing he’d smelled on her. Sometimes, after a correction, that bastard let him wipe himself down with a wet cloth. Only when there was time enough for Astarion to go lure back some pretty thing. Only so as not to spook them (though sometimes, as extra punishment, he was put out as he was specifically to try to lure the exact type of person who saw a broken and bleeding man wandering the streets and saw an opportunity).

“Of course,” he says.

She nods to the lizard. He’ll need to, what, secure it? Somehow? At least this beast doesn’t spook as he steps close. It only stares at him with one eye.

His leader makes her way over to the stream. Starts unlacing her stays. Her hands are still mottled, fingers puffy. They move stiffly as she undresses herself. She’ll need a new set of stays. A new outfit entire. Between the flood and the rivers and the cave mud—to say nothing of what she’s acquired in the last two days—that outfit of hers really ought to be burned.

He wishes he could have found that birdshark sooner. Ran just a little faster. That it did more damage before it retreated.

Then, as she reaches to pull her tunic over her head, his leader stops. Glances back to him and blinks owlishly.

“Um,” she says.

He waits.

“Astarion’s eyes,” she says.

“Yes?”

“Astarion’s eyes. Good eyes. No bad here now. Um, is well.”

The same “well” used to ask if someone is injured. She must mean healed?

It’s not until she makes a twirling motion with her hand that it dawns. He can see her now, and she doesn’t want an audience.

He has a notion—small though it may be—to tease her again (listening to her and imagining the water sluicing over her bare skin is fine, but gods forbid he actually sees it). But she still wears that hint of…broken openness. So he gives her a small bow and does as she asks.

She moves quickly. Strips efficiently, from the sound of it. He can imagine her face blank and focused, tossing her clothing into a ruined pile as water sloshes around her legs. She swears—the water is no less cold closer to the lake than it was in the tunnels. Astarion studies the lizard. Wanders along its side—keeping it between him and his bathing leader, and he stops at the saddlebags.

Drow, like their elven counterparts, tend to be of slim build. Nothing in that pack will likely fit her. He can modify any trousers he finds, and far better this time, but he finds nothing in there to suit her for now. Save a chest piece of light armor. He’ll have to loosen the straps, but he may be able to open it up enough to awkwardly fit her for the time being.

He knows how badly he wished for armor after bad nights.

Perhaps their wizard—should they ever find a bleeding waypoints stone—can enchant it to resize for her.

Though part of him does think to swap it for his own. It has a delightful spider motif along the collar and centered on the chest, and it would look quite handsome on him. But he manages to squash that (barely). She might not even catch the difference, but he’d wager the gold in his bag that this armor belongs to the priestess herself, and if she ever learned that not only a surface-dweller, but a non-person surface dweller wore it…

Priceless.

He finds a few more potions—ooh, drow poison, excellent. Among them is a greater healing potion. She’s going to drink that next.

Soon the splashing stops. He shakes out a spare tunic he finds. Probably too skimpy for what he knows of her, but she might appreciate wearing something not crusted in blood?

No more water splashes. No wet feet patter on stone.

“Darling?” he says.

No response.

If he were still blind, he could tap his way over to where he last heard her. Now?

He taps gently at her mind. And out loud, she sniffles.

No question to it. He pops up just fast enough to locate her, and then slaps a hand over his eyes and marches down towards her. This time, he’s careful to make noise so she doesn’t startle.

“Darling,” he says.

She takes a shuddering breath. Then comes a large splash. A gasp and a sputter. Did she just submerge herself?

She says something. Nudges across that she wants him to wait.

So he does. For a long, long moment. Lets her gather herself. And finally, she sloshes back and he holds out the tunic he found.

She takes it. Pauses for a few heartbeats. It’s small and won’t fit her (the image of a strange, paper tube splitting along the side and dough bursting out along the seams).

“No blood,” he says in Chondathan. “And I have this.”

He’s never seen her in armor. He’s not sure it’s something her world even uses. At least, not in a way that’s familiar (how could earthenware stop an arrow).

Cloth rustles. She grunts. The fabric stretches alarmingly, a few threads snapping. Then she moves past him to gather up her castoff hip wrap.

He did not find any of the panties he made for her. She must be lacking in that area again. As soon as they’re clear of the drow, he’ll fix that, and much better than the last time (well, one of them might be embroidered with a suspiciously phallic mushroom, best not disturb tradition too much).

He can open his eyes, now. Just as she all but snatches the chest piece from him. She’s got it over her head before he can really catch so much of a glimpse of her (save for one flash of cleavage pressed tight and shoved up). Then the collar of the armor covers all that from view as she slips her arms under the shoulder straps and fiddles with the sides.

Her face is puffy. Not from injury—the lesser healing potion took care of that. No, it’s not from physical injury. She’s careful not to make eye contact as she tries to lace up the first side. Keeps her face turned from him.

“Allow me,” he says. Comes up behind her and takes the leather cording from her fingers.

Her hands fall to her sides. Until he taps the left one, signals her to lift it so he can get her secured.

He works in silence. She stands in silence.

She’s tense. Shifts her weight back and forth. Water drips from her shaggy hair to run in rivulets down the back of her neck, and he has thought to lick it. Lick a whole stripe up to her ear and nuzzle his face into her warm skin just to bury his face in her scent. Safe and alive.

He must still be hungry (he’s always hungry). She’s so full of delicious blood.

He finishes. Shifts to reach the other side and she obediently lifts that arm without him asking. Yes, he’ll need to see how useful their wizard can truly be, because once he finds a full kit for her (and for him), they’ll both be stunning in this outfit.

Then he’s done. Clears his throat. Expects her to step away, only she doesn’t. She just stands there, hands clenched but for her pointer finger tracing a pattern over her thumbnail.

“I,” she starts. “Thank you, Astarion.”

“Of course.”

She still doesn’t move. He taught her that phrase, didn’t he?

“Er, you’re welcome,” he says in case he didn’t.

And then, slowly, she turns.

He’s seen her up close. When they first met and he had a knife to her throat and she stared up at him so blankly he thought she was a simpleton.

The night he fed from her, her heart racing, blood pumping hot and thick and so, so rich into his mouth as she shivered under his tongue.

The night he seduced her. Nearly seduced her? The disastrous seduction. When he had her against a tree and he started to remove himself from his own body, but not before he did, truly, appreciate how her body felt against him. What a novel change.

In all that, he’s never really looked at her this clearly. She has the faintest freckles dusting her skin, invisible until he’s close enough to count her eyelashes. And one eye looks just a touch paler than the other, until he realizes she has the tiniest band of amber around the pupil. The smallest sliver of sunlight caught in her dark gaze.

She stares at him, perhaps an inch shorter with her bare feet and him in boots. She still has that air of…vulnerable about her. Brow furrowed slightly. Gaze darting about. But she inhales and squares her shoulders and forces herself to look him in the eye. Down to his mouth. Her gaze flits about his face.

“Astarion,” she says. Oh, her heart thunders in her chest. And his lips suddenly feel too dry. “Astarion kiss?”

He blinks. Oh yes, he’d taught her that, hadn’t he? Before the drow took her. She’d stood there, speckled in gore in the soft, blue light of the magical tree that returned his sight, and he’d ached to lean in and taste her lips.

“You and I kiss?” he says. Taps his lips. Reaches across the narrow space dividing them and carefully, a hummingbird alighting on the edge of a night flower, touches her bottom lip.

“Yes,” she says.

He moves in. Slowly. Gives her time to stop, to step back, to change her mind. But she, the walking contradiction, the bold virgin, she leans in and meets him halfway.

He’s kissed her before. The disastrous seduction. And then she revealed that he had been her first. But that kiss doesn’t matter. Chaff in the wind. This, this is a first kiss proper.

It’s slow. Soft. Incredibly chaste. The kind of kiss he dreamed of receiving when he was a thirteen-year-old boy.

He hadn’t known, that night. He would have altered his approach. Taken his time and eased her into it. Made it memorable for her (though he supposes he did just that) (his guts slither in his belly).

He leans back and opens his eyes, a little amused she follows. Quite the greedy thing, he’s learning. Fish and potions, gold and weapons and magic scrolls. She hoards them all.

Then she blinks her eyes open. Stares at him rather dazedly.

Doesn’t move away. Just watches him, takes in all of his face.

He knows this. Finally, territory he can navigate.

He takes a half step closer. Reaches up with his very naked hand and brushes the tips of his fingers over her cheek.

“Kiss?” he says, voice low and breathy.

She nods.

Her lips are on the thinner side, but no less warm or soft for it. He keeps it innocent. No tongue. Just the brush of lips. Lets her feel him as he feels the shivers racing through her. One of her hands comes up to latch on the edge of his shoulder piece. Such a shy creature, even now. He nearly guides it up to his neck, or encourages her to bury her fingers in his hair. That can feel quite nice.

She mimics him as she did that first time. Clever thing. She has the sense to breathe through her nose, until he eases back to let her catch that breath more properly. Notices she exhales to the side, as if she doesn’t want to bother him.

Then he hooks the fingers of his other hand into the lacings he just tied up the sides of her armor, and guides her closer. Not quite pressed to him. And she makes a soft sound against his lips.

He almost bites her then and there. Almost cradles her head in his hands so he can open her mouth and properly taste her.

But he retrains himself. That’s not the script for someone this new.

But what would it be like to teach her? To feel her improvements—she’s hesitant and a touch clumsy, but committed to the deed. What would it be like to taste her increasing boldness as he worked confidence into her? Coaxed her to bloom against him, beneath him, around him? Untouched but for him. Something of his own after so, so long.

Gods, he wants it. Wants her. Finds himself pulling her the last distance against him. Flicking at her mouth with his tongue, because he has to taste her, wants this for himself. Something of his own before he has to take her back and hand her over to—

Something sours in his gut. He pulls back. Wants to fling himself away from her, but that spooks the mark and he must not, must never do that. He manages to keep his face soft. Barely. Fingers loose and jaw unclenched.

She comes out of it slower. Innocent thing. Trusting thing. Looks up at him and blinks slowly, as if she’s drunken another bottle of wine on her own.

“Sorry,” she says.

That must simply be an instinct for her.

He forces on an easy smile. Brushes some of her hair out of her eyes. “No sorry.”

She blushes. Not out of awkwardness as she did that night in the clearing. This is a proper flush running from her cheeks, down her neck, probably all down her hidden cleavage.

(Would her skin taste differently flushed like that? All the blood so close to the surface?)

He should shove her away. Rage at her. Bare his fangs and command her to run as he could never do after that once.

He should keep her against him. Bury his face against her and hold her tight and never, never let her go.

“Come, darling,” he says. Motions to the lizard watching them in the bored manner of farm beasts.

She nods. Starts to follow him.

He catches the smallest flicker of movement as she touches her fingertips to her own lips.

***

Notes:

A ha ha ha! It only took like 200k to get to a real first kiss!

I'm gonna take Wednesday off, because I need to catch up on typing out the next chapters, and the later ones start getting long again. But I'm currently drafting the last chapter of this fic, and plotting out the next part. See y'all next Saturday.

[madness-combat-confessions]

Homeboy let me tell you on this one, I didn't know there's a madcom specific confession blog out here its quite surprising which. oh brother (gender neutral). you would loooovvveee this particular gossip that had been navigating its way to the dark tunnels of my mind back and forth like a wandering ghost about to get fucking tazed by someone who's reeling in power trip in the distant northern region of britain because buddy, do you know that feeling of self discovery plundered about with self resignation? I've been WAITING to confess this my whole life, I'm like a sinner in one of those confession box and you in your awesome fit is listening to a year long obsession crumpled into few paragraphs with no way of knowing who I am or where to exorcise me. ehhehehehe. AHAHAHAHHAHA.

I FUCKING HATE PHOBOS. IHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIM—

OBSESSION SO FIXED IT IS A BLESSING IN FORM OF FAILED LOBOTOMY. HE'S BEEN ON MY LIFESPAN UNBEARABLY WELCOMING LIKE THE GRIP OF AN BOXER,

I HATE. HIM.

HIS EXISTENCE IS NOTHING SHORT BUT AN MIRACLE TO MY BLEAK EXISTENCE, OF WHOM HAD FILLED MY TORMENTED COMPLEX WITH A LITTLE BIT OF JOY THAT IT. HURT. IT'S A SENSATION OF RETURNED LOSS WHENEVER HE MADE HIMSELF AT HOME WITHIN MY TORMENT NEXUS AND IT SPEAKS OF AN UNSPOKEN RESIGNATION TO A DEATHLY WORSHIP, A FIXATION SO BOUND SO BLINDING ITS LIFE RUINING YET SO FUCKING REWARDING. MY MUTUALS, MY DEAREST BELOVED MUTUALS WHO HAD KNOWN ME FROM MY MADCOM PHASE (if y'all see this and recognize me somehow, hey man), SEES ME AS— you know what they see? THEY SEES ME AS T.H.E PHOBOS ENJOYER. THEY CAN S E E ME SCRAPING HELL TO BACK FOR A REMINDER OF HIS IMAGE ON THEIR WINDOWS AS IF I WAS THEIR NEIGHBOR GOING MAD AND DIGGING A HOLE OVER IT BECAUSE I HATE HIM SO MUCH

HOWEVER... I LOVE HIM AS A CHARACTER TOO BECAUSE OF HOW MUCH HE HAD OFFERED ME TO GROW AS A PERSON AND THAT UTTERLY WRECKED ME.

THIS VISAGE OF A BARREN EMPIRE, HE HAS BROUGHT ME TO TEARS AS MUCH AS HE HAD MADE ME BARKED. HE HELPED ME UNLIKE ANY OTHER IN MY FUCKING LIFE AND ISN'T THAT JUST DISSAPOINTING YET BEAUTIFUL? ITS HIM. HIM THAT MADE ME REALIZE MY HUMANITY.

He's a reminder of what I could've be if I don't step up to care for my mental health, and as hot as the idea of me being a CEO there's no fucking way I'll fucking bootlick the horrors beyond my comprehension especially when I have the corporate power not to. I wanna fight those thangs, I want a war not power. Its because of this very reason that he's my existential horror that I don't mind worshiping. A welcoming hand to my new world as a human being instead of a piece of nothing, and I don't know if I should be thankful or be angry that it was him instead of tha hottie sweetie Sanford. But. Its undeniable of what he had done to me. There's a piece of me in that wretched soul, I can't help but to care but for the HATE I have for him this care has been translated in the same manner of how people treated Spamton G Spamton. Violence all the way, a beautiful blend of loving violence. I'll worship him from hell to back if it meant that I could beat the ever loving FUCK outta this mf, I want his blood in my kidneys and for it break down the animalistic copper from my taste buds into nutrients so that my arteries can intimately understand how much I have come to HATE him since he decided to break into my psyche all those years ago. He made me understand myself, I find that beautiful.

Its been one year since the obsession wore off you know? I don't gone mad no more baby, the sin of gluttony and wrath no longer traced the ceiling of my mind because all is there is ORDER. A calm acknowledgement of what he had done to me as a person. But no laws can tame the most shitheads of them all, you won't hear me saying this if it had won the internal war back here in my frontal cortex.

I love him, your honor. And because of that I desire so greatly for the act of violence both to him and in his name as a honor to myself, whole and bare, which eventually circles back to him again.

The complexity of my opinion on him were a beautiful tapestry of my own personal growth, a careful blend of colorful care. I no longer feel indifferent towards myself and its all thanks to him. He's my most beloved blorbo, he saved me from a life of neverending agony. I pray every day that I could get a job just so that one day, ONE. DAY. our lord Krinkles turned him into a marketable plushie. Just so that a visage of him can complete the shrine I'm about to build for him as I whisper promises of violence for him and to him.

Yeah... He's my blorbo ♥

I'm gonna start getting therapy appointments for you guys../j

[hermiola]

My GO Fanfic Masterlist

Growing on Me (M, 120K, 15/15)

Human AU | Rockstar Crowley | Writer Aziraphale

Anthony J. Crowley isn’t up to much these days. In fact, you could almost say his days as a rockstar are pretty much behind him. Rotting in bed all day, with half-written songs plaguing him and no lyrics to speak of, everything points to his career being over for good. That is until Maggie, his manager, claims to have found him the perfect lyricist to get him out of his slump. And what better way to get the creative juices flowing than spending a whole month together in a secluded cottage on the Isle of Skye? That is, provided Crowley’s attempts at making the man run for the hills aren’t successful…

Take a Little Love From Me (M/E, 80K, 12/12)

Human AU (Pretty Woman) | Bickerflirting | Happy Ending

“How would I go about persuading you?” The stranger tilted his head to the side, considering. “For starters, you’ll have to pay me.” Aziraphale scoffed. “You can hardly charge me for directions.” “I can do whatever I want, angel. I’m not the one who got lost, now, am I?” * After fleeing a disastrous work event masked as his 50th birthday party and getting lost in a car he can’t seem to drive, Aziraphale Eastgate, CEO of Eastgate’s Booksellers Ltd., meets the mysterious Anthony, who offers to help… and not just with directions. Things escalate as they are wont to do.

Crazy Little Thing (Called Love) (T, 9K, 1/1)

Silly Misunderstandings | First Kisses & Love Confessions

Aziraphale can’t actually be suggesting what Crowley infers he’s implying… Satan bless it, he can’t even bring himself to think the thought without discorporating on the spot. “On a what?” he chokes out, because there can be no room for error here. Aziraphale glances away, then opens and closes his mouth multiple times before whispering: “On a date.” “Which date?” he asks dumbly, hands desperately itching for his sunglasses. He’d break eye-contact and look for them if he didn’t suspect he was hallucinating the whole thing. “Like… like a specific day?” Aziraphale’s expression, a heady mix of hopeful and anxious, melts once again into haughty annoyance. “Goodness gracious, no. I meant on a date. Like… like, you know, romantically,” he clarifies, fidgeting. “With another person.” Whatever excitement Crowley was starting to feel dies a very sudden, very depressing death... * (Or: Aziraphale tries to ask Crowley on a date, but they misunderstand each other. So Crowley agrees to help Aziraphale pick up someone in a bar while secretly trying to sabotage him; little does he know that the angel is also trying to sabotage the whole thing. Shenanigans ensue. And kisses too.)

Let There Be Rock (T, 6K, 1/1)

First Meeting after 1967 | Bittersweet Ending | Misuse of AC/DC songs

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to expect, and to be quite honest with himself, he doesn’t even care, curiosity having already been replaced by sheer annoyance. The excited shrieks have turned into something awfully resembling howls and the last thing he wants to do with his afternoon is stare at a wretched rock band signing records for dreamy-eyed admirers. Music is now playing in the background and Aziraphale, who has spent millennia reporting to Gabriel and has become quite adept at blocking out irritating noises, wouldn’t even notice it if the lyrics didn’t catch his attention straight away. Well I met her in the garden, underneath that old apple tree... * Or: The year is 1979 and The Small Backroom is hosting a record signing event for a band called Let There Be Rock. Aziraphale has opinionsTM about it, especially when he reads some of their preposterous lyrics about angels and demons. First of all, angels cannot, under any circumstances, be tempted. Secondly, he has no idea who this mysterious Angel is even supposed to be... nothing to do with him, of course.

Final Breakthrough (Now!) (T, 10K, 1/1)

Post-Season 2 Fix It | Angst with a Happy Ending

“Aw, what happened? Bad day at the office?” He’s both very proud and very ashamed of the whiny voice that comes out of his mouth. “Did you suddenly realise your esteemed coworkers are a bunch of tossers?” Aziraphale keeps looking at him in a way that makes him feel exposed even behind his sunglasses, and he doesn’t waver. He just… stares. No, glares. And he doesn’t move either, doesn’t even breathe properly. The angel slowly wets his lips like he’s tasting a subpar chocolate mousse, tilts up his chin and says: “No,” like he’s stabbing the air with it. Crowley laughs, a short, ugly thing that quickly turns sour in the back of his throat. “Of course you didn’t.” --- Or: 5 times Aziraphale and Crowley don't talk + 1 time they finally do.

When Hell Freezes Over (T, 22K, 3/3)

Human AU | Illusionist Crowley | Critic Aziraphale | Ace Crowley | Pan Aziraphale

“Not afraid at all” the angel finally says. “I mean, maybe slightly afraid. You see, my editor-in-chief doesn’t know I’m here.” “He doesn’t?” “I was supposed to review the new production of Hamlet…” “The one with Ian McKellen?” “Yes, exactly, but Eve – Miss Gardner, that is – she’s been working so hard and she would love nothing more than to be taken seriously, and she thought Gabriel gave her this assignment for all the wrong reasons, you see – and, between us, knowing Gabriel, I’m quite sure she was right – and, and I realized she needed my assignment way more than I did. So, if you really must know, I just… gave it away.” “You what?!” “I gave it away!” the angel repeats, slightly distressed. “Let me get this straight: you traded the chance to review one of the most anticipated shows of the year to interview… little old me?” - (Or: Crowley is a magician with a new Inferno-inspired show opening in London, Aziraphale the angelic-looking journalist who's supposed to interview him. Crowley immediately tries his best to ruffle his feathers. Much to his surprise, though, Aziraphale isn't as pearl-clutchy as he looks. Things go as you'd expect.)

[the-saltiest-saltine]

Enjoy this heartwarming fic about the importance of having reliable nondescript friends in the face of a scary situation. You and her can totally fight off a prospective attacker together, you’re sure - after all, you’ve got the power of friendship!

Yan!Chrollo x Reader

Word count: ~ 1.9k

Warnings: Yandere, stalking, implied voyeurism, implied torture

You’ve got a stalker. You know this for sure.

Wherever you go, you can feel a gaze. 

Your train rides and walks through some of the dodgier parts of the central business district after a busy day have always had their fair share of sketchy characters - it’s been a near-daily part of your life since you first came here several weeks ago - but this feeling was different. It wasn’t some junkie looking for a punch-up, no. It was specific. It was targeted.

What started as a feeling of slight watching in public, became a metaphorical spotlight in your apartment, blinding and irritating. You keep your windows shut and locked, not wanting the biting chill of the smoggy winter air to creep its way inside your residence. This doesn’t stop you from constantly coming home to find your kitchen window wound open, all these stories up. You know it’s definitely impossible for a regular man to get up here from the outside, since your front door is always locked and there’s no balcony.

You wish he’d leave you alone at the library, at least. It’s nice and relatively quaint, a much-appreciated juxtaposition from your otherwise industrial setting, and the least your stalker could afford is some privacy so you can enjoy it to its fullest.

The stare is intense, filled with neediness and darkness. You’re sure the eyes of whoever is creating it are a void, the most unusual colour of emptiness and depravity. You can’t pinpoint any particular reason why this is happening - generally, you’re pretty quiet and unassuming. You have no rich family to pay a ransom, and your organs wouldn’t be worth much. Simply put, a person like you is not worth the trouble.

Your best cure for this feeling so far has been to simply sigh, and open up your latest novel, indulging in a few chapters. The feeling subsides after a little while. Perhaps he gets bored of watching you partake in an activity so unappealing to an outside viewer. Perhaps he grabs out his own book and indulges himself, though you doubt that’s the case (-but that would be a nice thought, wouldn’t it? Imitation is, after all, the sincerest form of flattery).

Tonight, you found a card on your kitchen bench. By the looks of it, it’s not a parting message, rather the opposite. The intricate red pattern on it is almost enough to be considered romantic, but you’re hardly feeling the charm. It’s unsettling, to say the least, but you can’t even bring yourself to be scared. 

If anything, this issue annoys you now. It’s been a long, exhausting day at work. It gets uncomfortably cold if the window's left open. If someone’s going to kill you, they might as well just try already. Being stalked is so tiresome.

You don’t have enough tangible evidence to file a police report, simple sensings of a watcher not nearly enough proof to have police aid you. Funnily enough, this takes the bottom rung on the ladder of reasons why you can’t contact them. You can almost laugh at the thought of even trying. If this persists, you’ll call your friends instead.

Unfortunately, your welcome to this city has been anything but warm. 

Luckily, you’ve got one modicum of hope.

There’s a woman in your life.

She’s beautiful, inside and out. Her smiles are a breath of fresh air in this wretched city. You can’t say you’re exactly dating yet, but whatever tier below it you’ve got now is certainly better than whatever was there before. Something like gratitude, as much as you’re naturally inclined to overlook it, hits you like a truck whenever you’re together.

Unlike you, she’s not new here. She’s been a great tour guide so far, introducing you to practically every street corner, every Indian restaurant, every speck of dirt and faeces on the wrecked footpaths that the slimy Mayor neglects. It’s hard to worry about a stalker when you’re being bombarded with random questions and consumed by her laugh, echoing between the skyscrapers and into comforting mugs of hot chocolate.

The time you spend with her is precious, sacred even. You won’t let the mystery man get in the way of that.

Long before that card made its way to your residence, you did call a friend, the friend, about your problem, getting a response within two rings. You told her about your stalker, sniffling and regularly hiccupping, telling her about how you think there’s someone after you. She was practically frantic, demanding that you come over to her apartment right that instant, barking out her address without hesitation. It’s only fifteen minutes away, she assured. You got there in seven.

She flung open the door at the first knock, saying your name with relief and letting you in. You spared her most of the details as you sat on her couch, not wanting her to put herself in harm’s way. Despite your shaky insistence that you’ll be fine regardless, she gave you some pepper spray to help defend yourself, and some tips on how to hold your keys between your knuckles most effectively.

I’ll protect you if anything happens, she says, her support of you positively admirable. You know she’d try and fight him off if you were together when he strikes. 

You’re certain that your combined forces are enough to fight off a fully grown man, you declared in response - and you meant it. In fact, you added, scratch that, you’re absolutely convinced that your cumulative strength - consisting of four arms, pepper spray, and her high-pitched scream - is enough to fight off a bodybuilder pumped full of anything and everything you can get in the alleys behind the city’s numerous smoke shops. She laughed at that, but you know she still worries for you.

You can come with me anywhere if you’re uncomfortable, she said. Really, if you’re worried, just call me up. I can leave work early if you think you’re in danger, honestly. My manager is flexible enough.

Appreciation swirls around you in waves again. Naturally, you have your scepticism. It’s almost too generous, too forward, something you’re certainly not accustomed to. But alas, you’ll firmly grip whatever opportunities present themselves. She offers you what she can, and you don’t hold yourself back from accepting it with open arms.

You’ve accompanied her to the bar, to the library, to her favourite café. It’s pleasant. It’s peaceful. You’re still being watched for certain, but the ability to have a brief moment of levity whilst in her presence, something to help you forget about work and responsibilities and stalkers, is something to be treasured.

She’s so calming, so sweet, so caring…

And so, so oblivious.

You’ve accompanied her to the bar, to the library, to her favourite café. However, if you were to ask, she’d say with the utmost conviction that you were never there (and that she’d love to show you). You’ve accompanied her on her commute home, made cups of tea in her kitchen, folded dog ears in the untouched novels on her bookshelf, hoping she’ll note the romantic scenes and lines you’ve kindly bookmarked for her. 

She’s promised to protect you. She never questioned why your little whimpers died down so suddenly after she gave you her address. She never questioned how you got there so fast. If she’d been wary enough to use the location services on her phone, she would’ve been able to see that seven minutes was actually a while to arrive, considering you were a twenty-metre walk down the hallway when you’d called.

She simply ate up your little performance over the phone, and in her apartment. And, soon enough, she’ll be coming to yours. 

Yesterday, she told you about the new exhibit at the city’s museum - she went to get a glimpse of it the other day, and it looks promising.

You went to get a glimpse of it too, twenty metres behind her.

The day before, she told you about how she ordered a new drink at a café- it was absolutely to die for, and oh, by the way, did you know that café is her favourite in the city?

You inferred that much from her frequent visits there, following her routine so effortlessly that it became your own. You tried the drink out too, taking sips in time with hers, admiring her profile as she scrolled through her phone. She was so pleased to finally have an afternoon to herself, after a week of hectic shifts.

Something unfamiliar stokes inside of you as you make your observations. Perhaps it’s comparable to a parent seeing their child grow and develop, or a botanist seeing rare flowers bloom, or an astronomer observing the most uncommon and exquisite of meteorological events. It’s something like happiness, something like attachment, something like wonder, something like pride.

On the other hand, you must admit, you’re a little disappointed. She lied to you.

She didn’t tell you about the man she slept with from the bar last week. Technically, you never asked about it, considering that you weren’t supposed to be there, but you’re a man who considers lying by omission to be on an equal plane as wholehearted deception. She promised to never lie to you, but now she has. What should she have to do to earn your forgiveness?

Although, perhaps this encounter was no matter, the sounds she made being enough fuel for your frantic stroking outside her bedroom door, her whines teaching you what to do when you would be in the stranger’s place, a point in time that won’t be too far from now. For the sake of equality, though, you’ll let this one slide. After all, you didn’t tell her about the man’s fate after that night, about your other friend who’d assisted you, about the teeth scattered on the cold basement floor, about the strips of flesh that hung from his back and how you’d apathetically tugged on them.

She’s a very good source of information for you. Truly, you hadn’t expected to spend so long in this city, nor had you expected for the museum to open up again so quickly since your heist two months ago only a few towns over, locked down for precaution (a laughable concept, really). Without her, you wouldn’t have anyone to debate the validity of the Old Testament, the extent that Raskolnikov can be justified, or theories on what happens after death. Also, without her, you wouldn’t have found out about the museum’s new exhibit of Goya paintings so soon, teasingly left out in the open, ripe for the plucking mere minutes away from your penthouse. It’s a temptation you’ve never bothered resisting.

Despite being a Nen user, whoever’s stalking you doesn’t care to hide himself properly. His perfect Zetsu is rendered useless from his other behaviours. You can hear his footsteps outside of the window, see his shadow in your periphery, hear his heavy breathing and salacious groans as he watches you.

If you were more dramatic, you’d roll your eyes. With Skill Hunter available on command, you have no doubt that this fool would lose to you in a fight. You’ve been observing his patterns, feeling his aura, preparing yourself for the inevitable.

You’ve been doing the same for your friend, however loosely you may use the term.

Whatever the man following you wants, you’ll take from him tenfold. You pick up the playing card from the bench, a queen of hearts, and regard it between your fingers.

You’ve got a stalker. She’s got a stalker too. But, unlike you, she won’t have the means to counter his next move.

[tysonfurybattlepass]

Tell us more of the wretched beast Meg

TRULY THE MOST WRETCHED OF BEASTS

for all his blustering about predation as a way of life and a badge of honor, meg is ironically more of a trophy hunter than anything. he has a very specific demographic that he preys on, and that demographic is people who think they’re at the top of the food chain.

typically, the confident and unafraid attitude he resents so much is associated with adult men of highly social species who are in good physical condition. he finds the tendency of people to lean on Society to protect them from interpersonal harm to be extremely shortsighted and frankly insulting to the Natural Order. take away a man’s street lights and guns and emergency response institutions, and what does he have? is it enough to reposition himself above the true apex predators of nature? meg thinks not. humanity ought to be reminded of where they stand.

the fact that he’s of the megantereon genus is very much relevant to this anarcho-primitive mindset of his. it draws on real life ecology. in a study done on bone isotope samples taken from pliocene big cats, it was found that the genus megantereon and the genus panthera (specifically leopards) were the ones who preyed upon contemporary humans with the most frequency and consistency. (NOT dinofelis, btw. that genus has been unfairly typecast as a maneater despite evidence to the contrary.) just a fun little tidbit that i alone find amusing, much like his full given name.