#mea culpa to all my darlings

[jessamine-rose]

⋆‧͙*̩̩͙꒰ Disjecta Membra ꒱*̩̩͙‧͙⋆

*sigh* idk what to say at this point. I’m not even a major simp for the Jester but the Pierro brainrot was very infectious. Y’all can thank @frogchiro​ for converting me and @seakicker​ for inspiring this fic  =_=

As always, thank you to @diodellet​ for suffering with me as my peer reviewer!! I’m also grateful to Kin for helping with my characterization of Pierro. I ended up writing about a very detailed darling, but I hope you enjoy their twisted tale nonetheless :>

Tw:: YANDERE, unhealthy relationships, kidnapping, coercion, blood, violence, death, psychological trauma, self-deprecation, needles, spice, mention of nsfw, MINORS DNI

Note:: Female reader who is a fallen goddess, pre-release Pierro

♡ 14.9k words under the cut ♡

i. memento mori

You cooked too much food again.

You stare at your dinner. Out of habit, you had also set the table for two and filled both plates before realizing your mistake. You can’t finish the cream stew all by yourself.

Great, more stale leftovers.

You shake your head and pick up your spoon.

Old habits die hard. You’d made the same mistake before, but it had taken less time for you to adjust. It was easier when someone was still there to correct you.

The kitchen is too quiet. You can only manage a few bites before you grow sick of the empty chair across from you. Picking up your plate and cutlery, you go outside and take a seat at the temple entrance.

The forest is the same as usual, shrouded in a veil of mist. Through the haze, you can spot a few woodland critters darting to and fro. Somewhere in the trees, a pair of birds are singing a harmonious duet. The pasithea flowers are in full bloom.

You wave your hand and the mist rises. The berry bushes look ripe for picking. You can already imagine the many—no, Oizys won’t be here to enjoy your cooking.

“Help.”

You startle. Has a human entered your territory?

You can sense a distressed voice along with weak movement. From what you can tell, the wanderer must be at the edge of the forest, close enough to reach the mist.

You fix your veil, draping the sheer fabric over your face, and leave the temple.

It doesn’t take long to find him. The human is slumped against a tall tree surrounded by achlys flowers. His breathing feels unsteady.

“Hello?” You slowly approach him, clearing the mist.

He doesn’t acknowledge you. You lean down to examine him.

The poor thing looks close to death. His silver hair is messy and there is a cut on the side of his face. Judging by the weapons on his person, could he be a combatant? No, his torn clothes look too fancy for an ordinary soldier.

You tap his shoulder. “Can you hear me, dear?”

He opens his eyes.

Four-pointed stars.

You draw back. Those diamond-shaped pupils...this human is clearly from Khaenri’ah.

He lifts his head, blinking blearily. Based on appearance alone, he seems too weak to attack you.

You don’t sense anyone else within the forest. You could easily give this person first aid then hide in your temple. It shouldn’t take long for him to find the city once he recovers.

A hand weakly grips your wrist. The Khaenri'ahn dazedly looks up at you.

“Who are you?”

No, that would be absolutely cruel.

You crouch down, touching his forehead with the back of your hand. His temperature is too warm. And now that you’ve taken a closer look, is that blood on his clothes?

“Shh, it’s all right,” you whisper, offering a soft smile. “You’re safe here.”

The Khaenri'ahn stares at you for a few more seconds before his eyes flutter shut. His hand lets go of your wrist and falls to his side—did he pass out already?

You glance at the berry bushes and mutter a silent apology.

At least your dinner won’t go to waste.

ii. mea culpa

Thankfully, the Khaenri'ahn’s injuries aren’t too severe. After treating his wounds, you tuck him in bed and wait for him to wake up.

Even in slumber, his expression is weary. There are faded scars mixed in with his bandages. Has he been wandering Teyvat since the fall of his nation? How did he survive?

What should you do with him?

His expression stirs, followed by a pained noise. The diamond pupils are exposed.

“Ah, you’re awake!” you exclaim, rushing to his bedside. “Do you feel better?”

“What?” He turns his head in your direction, clearly confused.

You raise a cup to his lips. “Here, drink some water first.”

He finishes the entire glass. You point at the pitcher on the nightstand.

“Are you still thirsty? Or would you like something to eat?”

He shakes his head, looking at you warily. “Not now…where am I?”

“You’re in a safe place.” You smile, placing a hand on his bandaged shoulder. “No one will hurt you in my temple.”

His eyes widen. “Your temple?”

He lunges forward. A shocked cry leaves your lips as he sits up and grabs your arm.

“You.” His gaze turns hostile. “You are a god.”

Huh, he found out sooner than intended.

“That I am.”

You might as well reveal your true form. Wispy gray marks spread across your skin.

He holds your arm in a bruising grip. “What do you intend to do with me?”

“Believe it or not, I wanted to save your life.” You hold his gaze through your veil. “Don’t worry, even if my intentions were cruel, I am quite harmless for a god.”

“And who are you, exactly?”

You wince as he strengthens his hold on you. Are humans normally this strong?

“You may call me ______,” you reply calmly. “That is the name I go by nowadays. But since you are asking for my true identity, I’ll be honest: I am █████ the God of Mist.”

He glances at the shadowy swirls on your arm. “I have never heard of your title.”

“That is to be expected,” you reply. “Now could you please let go of me? I understand your aggression, but I can’t properly care for you with a broken arm.”

The Khaenri'ahn’s gaze is clear this time. Those diamond pupils fixate on your face then his bandages. After looking around the guest room, he reluctantly lets go of you.

“There, was that so difficult?” you ask him. “I am sure that you have many questions, and I can promise you my full honesty. But for now, you must rest.”

“I can—”

He tries to leave the bed, only to stumble. You catch him in time.

“Now, what did I tell you? Don’t overexert yourself.” Shaking your head, you help him back into bed. “May I know your name, dear?”

The distrustful look he gives you is an adequate response.

“Not willing? Fine, that is a wise precaution.” You check your arm for lingering marks from his grasp. “Moving on, I cooked cream stew earlier. Would you like some?”

A moment of silence precedes his response.

“Yes,” he mutters sheepishly, “and pardon my hostility.”

You smile at him. “No offense taken. It isn’t everyday that someone treats me this way.”

*✧･ﾟ

The Khaenri'ahn remains cautious. In a few weeks, he regains enough strength to leave his bed and walk around the temple. You regularly change his bandages.

“Good, you don’t seem to be sick anymore.” You remove your hand from his forehead and leave the temple. “But it will take more time for your injuries to heal.”

It would be faster if Vesta were here.

He follows you. Since leaving the guest room, he has been watching you go about your daily routine. Cooking, foraging, doing laundry, cleaning the temple, checking the animal traps.

“For a god, you live quite a humble lifestyle,” he muses. “I assumed that you would have a horde of followers catering to your every need.”

“Hardly!” you scoff. “That isn’t my style of worship.”

The path ahead of you is obscured by mist. You are quick to catch the Khaenri'ahn when he trips on the steep slope.

“Are you all right?”

“I am fine,” he mutters, averting eye contact. “Where are your followers to begin with? I have not encountered any since entering this forest.”

“That is because they are all here.”

You wave your hand and the mist disperses.

The Khaenri’ahn stops in his tracks. “This is…”

The pasithea flowers have overtaken the cemetery. You walk past the gravestones towards a pair of half-broken statues.

“I suppose you’d like an explanation. Do you know about the Archon War?”

A short pause. “I have heard stories.”

Good, you don’t need to explain that far into history.

The pasithea flowers are concentrated around the shorter statue. Deep blue flowers sprout from the cracks, concealing her face.

“This isn’t my original territory,” you explain. “Before, I shared a vast area of land with three other gods. We retreated to this forest with our followers during the war.”

The Khaenri’ahn walks over to the other statue. “They survived as well?”

His face is discolored. A damaged Claymore rests in his hands, never to be used again.

You cover the statue’s eyes with mist. “Yes, but they’re currently dead.”

Silence. Picking up a broom, you sweep the leaves around the statues.

“At first, we defended our territory,” you continue. “That was the option I voted for, but we fled after Vesta was slain. A few centuries later, Pasithea succumbed to erosion. Wait, do I need to explain what erosion is?”

He shakes his head. “I can discern the meaning of the term. You may continue.”

“Okay then. In Pasithea’s case…she went mad and it affected our people. So one of her followers decided to end her misery.”

You sidestep a patch of pasithea flowers. If you try hard enough, you can still recall the lyrics to her lullabies.

“By the time I sensed them, it was too late…her death plagued everyone in the forest with insanity, and only a few survived. And before that, I learned that my friend Havria—she established her own new territory in Liyue—was also slain by her people.”

The Khaenri’ahn remains silent. You move on to a row of gravestones engraved with curlicues.

“Over time, my followers died out. The last ones lost faith in me and left; many switched to my last friend Oizys. I don’t blame them. His fortune, Vesta’s warmth, Pasithea’s dreams…what I gave them was incomparable. All my mist did was hide them from the world.”

“And what happened to Oizys?” he asks tensely.

You hesitate. “He died at the start of the war between Celestia and Khaenri’ah. He was on the gods’ side. A few weeks after he left, I discovered his body near the forest. I…I guess he used the last of his strength to come home.”

Tears prick the corners of your vision. You straighten your veil and walk over to Oizys’s grave, noting the Khaenri’ahn’s wary expression.

“And you do not resent my people for slaying your friend?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I’d rather not cause any more deaths. And I should be asking you the same question, really.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Until now, no grass has grown over his grave. Maybe you should try planting berries.

“I took a neutral stance during the Cataclysm,” you explain, “and that angered Oizys; he always called me too kind for my own good. But if I was truly kind, shouldn’t I have stopped him from joining the war? Shouldn’t I have cared more about his future victims?”

How long will it take for his body to decompose? Is his soul at peace?

“Maybe he would still be alive. Maybe your nation would have more survivors.”

The silence is heavy. You turn to the Khaenri’ahn, noting his solemn expression.

What did it feel like to lose all of his loved ones at once? Is it even possible for him to mourn their deaths?

Finally, he looks up to face you. There is no anger in his gaze, only sympathy.

“I did not advocate for the war, either,” he says, “but I was only a mage in the royal court. For that reason, the previous ruler heeded the sages’ words over my own.”

“I see.” You put down the broom and turn away from the statues. “Let’s go. It will take half a day to clean this place, and you need more rest.”

He follows you. “If you insist.”

The two of you leave the cemetery. The area is once again shrouded in mist.

The Khaenri’ahn meets your gaze. “I am sorry for your loss, ______.”

“I must say the same to you.”

He’s had less trouble walking lately. Soon enough, he will be able to leave the forest.

You walk ahead. “Once you have fully recovered, I expect you to leave. If you don’t have a clear destination in mind, I can guide you to Oizys’s city or draw a map of Teyvat for you.”

He responds quickly this time. “Of course, I would not want to overstay my welcome.”

“Oh, it’s not that.” You turn around to face him, a sad smile on your face. “It’s for your own good, dear. There is no future for you here.”

*✧･ﾟ

After your visit to the cemetery, the Khaenri’ahn begins helping around the forest. You initially disapprove of it but he is insistent on “repaying your kindness.”

He doesn’t divulge any more personal information apart from the fact that he lived with an outlander for some time. You ask him general questions about Khaenri’ah’s culture instead; in turn, he inquires about your glory days.

“Are your old temples still standing?” he asks.

You focus on the chessboard. “The last time I checked, all of them succumbed to the elements. My friends’ temples are more intact; some of my statues are kept there.”

The Khaenri’ahn moves a black pawn. “And they remain in their place, unbothered?”

You make your next move. “More or less. I’ve run into a few adventurers, and they make the wildest assumptions about my images. They would be quite disappointed if they knew what the real thing is like.”

He looks around the temple. Your religious art had been destroyed years ago.

“I can only imagine what it is like to encounter the remnants of your previous existence. It must conjure painful memories.”

You change the topic. “Have you planned your next destination?”

“I am still undecided.”

“Maybe this question will help: What will you do now?”

The Khaenri’ahn doesn’t need bandages anymore. After months of his silent company, his departure will leave a new gap in your daily routine.

“You could start over in another nation. I’d suggest the city of Miseria as a new home; it is still thriving after Oizys’s death.”

He picks up another chess piece, planning his next move.

You continue speaking. “Or you could search for fellow survivors, maybe even preserve what is left of Khaenri’ah. Your life does not end with your nation. After some time…you will eventually move on from the calamity.”

The chess piece cracks in his hand.

You look up immediately. The Khaenri’ahn glares at you.

“Move on?” he asks angrily. “After the destruction I have witnessed, acceptance would be the most humiliating form of defeat.”

The diamonds in his eyes flash. This is your first time seeing him in such a furious state.

You glance at his clenched fist. You will need to replace the black king.

“In that case,” you reply carefully, “is vengeance a preferable option for you? It is one thing to live with resentment but taking action is a different matter.”

He returns the king to its original square and moves his queen instead. “At the moment, I have no concrete plan. But so long as I can remember the flames of Celestia’s cruelty, I would like to see them extinguished.”

“...Then so be it.”

You analyze the chessboard. The Khaenri’ahn turned out to be a formidable opponent. With how he constantly surprises you, you have no doubt that he will do well.

You are absolutely cornered. He topples your white king, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

“Checkmate.”

iii. damnatio memoriae

The remaining weeks are dreamlike. You enjoy more meals, conversations, and chess games with your temporary companion. He has more energy these days, perhaps motivated by your earlier conversation. He even smiles on a few occasions.

It only makes his departure more difficult.

“Do you have everything you need?”

The Khaenri’ahn doesn’t stop to check his bag. “You have already given me more than enough for my travels.”

“Are you sure? Do you need more food? Another blanket?”

“I can take care of myself henceforth.”

How can he be so sure?

The mist swirls around you. You guide him to the edge of the forest.

“Then I guess this is where we say goodbye.”

The Khaenri’ahn steps out of the mist. He looks nothing like the pitiful creature you first met. No traces of sickness or injury. Mended clothes—he even allowed you to embroider stars and diamonds over the holes. A bright, determined gaze directed at you.

“Thank you for everything,” he tells you. “Had you not saved me, I would have lost hope ages ago.”

You smile, shaking your head. “That was nothing, dear. Thank you for your company.”

What will he do now? Will he really seek vengeance against Celestia?

He glances at the expanding mist. “Will you remain in your territory?”

“Of course, someone needs to take care of the cemetery. Oh, and…” Your voice trails off, a pause where his unknown name should be. “I have one last thing to say to you.”

He resumes eye contact. “Yes?”

He will be fine. It would be selfish to keep him here.

The mist recedes. You lift your veil, smiling.

“Your feelings are valid. If resentment is what drives you to continue living, then let it be. What matters is that you are still alive.”

So long as he doesn't give up.

The Khaenri’ahn doesn’t say anything at first. He stares at your face, likely taking in the details usually hidden by your veil. Why, though? He has seen it plenty of times during your meals together.

You clasp your hands around his. “Take care. May you find your new purpose in life.”

That draws him out of his stupor. He nods, standing up straighter.

“Your kindness will not be forgotten, ______.”

With that, he turns around and walks in the direction of Miseria. You remain in your spot, watching his figure shrink then disappear over the horizon. Not once does he turn around.

Back to your old routine.

The temple is too quiet. The dishes are still in the sink, speckled with crumbs of berry pie. The guilt finally sets in as you pick up the Khaenri’ahn’s—no, Oizys’s plate and clean it.

You put your tableware in the dish rack. Oizys’s is transferred to the cupboard, placed beside the three long-discarded sets.

*✧･

Time passes so slowly these days.

Even before the Khaenri’ahn’s arrival, you began oversleeping without Oizys’s wakeup calls. But with the former gone, you have less reasons to leave your bed.

You still sleep on the right side. You fill the left side with pillows to make the bed feel less empty, but there is no replacement for Oizys’s late-night ramblings. After a few more washes, his scent leaves the mattress.

On Vesta’s birthday, you leave the forest and return to your old territory. Their temple is still standing, but the fire has been extinguished.

At first, you think the empty hearth is a hallucination. You can still vividly recall the moment Vesta’s mangled body burst into fire. Even in death, their soul sought to provide warmth for their followers through everlasting flames.

Even in death, they provided more than what you could ever give.

The statues haven’t fared any better. Your friends’ icons have all crumbled into shards and dust. You don’t care to look for your own scattered fragments.

You visit Sal Terrae next. After greeting Havria’s remains, you run into Morax and exchange a few words with him. You leave immediately afterwards—he is busy overseeing Liyue’s recovery from the Cataclysm, and his nation only reminds you of your once-thriving territories.

That visit is what convinces you to rest. Back home, you clean the entire cemetery; the task takes an entire day without Oizys’s help. You go to bed and only wake up months later for your religious festival.

The forest is the same. Oizys’s grave remains barren.

You greet your followers’ graves. The temple is cleaned and decorated with your old tapestries. As you pick a bouquet of achlys flowers for yourself, the Khaenri’ahn comes to mind.

Is he doing well?

What a stupid question. The fact that he hasn’t returned is a good answer.

You bake a small cake this time, just enough for one person and topped with a ring of candles.

The fire is much dimmer than Vesta’s. What else is different? Your followers would return your greetings. Havria would visit to join the celebration. Pasithea would sing your hymns. Oizys would gift you another blessing of happiness.

You blow out the candles. Smoke curls into the air and mixes with the mist.

“Happy birthday, █████.”

*✧･

You sleep for longer intervals, dedicating a few wakeful days to your friends’ birthdays and the cemetery’s maintenance. The Khaenri’ahn doesn’t return.

Years after his departure, another human wanders into the forest. Her presence awakens you early, and you bring her to your temple upon sensing her wounded state.

Her injuries are severe, and you get blood all over your robes while stitching her wounds. After a brief introduction, she explains her situation.

“Your coworkers did this to you?”

“Yes,” says Alyona. “I tried to leave our organization and was branded a traitor.”

You look at the broken mask in her hands. “Where are you from, dear?”

Her eyes are glossy with tears. “Snezhnaya. Have you heard of the Fatui, miss?”

“I haven’t.”

“That makes sense; it is the new political department of my nation. They aspire to fulfill our Archon’s vision of a perfect world, but the things I’ve seen…”

She stares at her bandaged legs. You pat her back.

“It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

Her expression turns fearful. “No, even if I—the director of the Fatui personally recruited me! He knows who I am. Once he hears about this, he won’t let me escape so easily!”

Poor thing. “And who is he, may I ask?”

She visibly shudders. “I know nothing about him but he called himself Pierro, the Jester. His gaze is terrifying; I’ll see those diamond pupils in my nightmares.”

You stare at her. “His pupils were diamond-shaped?”

“Diamonds,” she confirms. “He doesn’t look like a native of Snezhnaya, but that doesn’t matter. He is devoted to the Tsaritsa; he said it himself.”

She continues describing him. Strong build, pale blue irises, silver hair with a dark streak in it, a refined way of speaking.

“Where is she?!”

You startle. Someone—no, two people have entered the forest. One of them mentions Alyona.

“Miss?” She tugs on the hem of your veil. “I should leave. I can’t put you in danger.”

“The same can be said for you, little one.”

Outside the temple, the mist thickens. You sense the reactions of Alyona’s pursuers.

“Katya? Where did you go?!”

“How did I end up back here?”

There, she should be safe now. You smile at Alyona.

“Don’t worry about me; I’ll keep you safe until you recover. Afterwards, you can take refuge in the nearby city. The locals are kind.”

“Thank you so much, Miss ______!” She wipes her tears and looks around the temple. “Who is this temple dedicated to, anyway?”

“A nameless god,” you reply nonchalantly. “She died a long time ago.”

“That’s too bad. She must’ve been a splendid being if her priestess is this kind.”

“Not really. The world has no more use for her.”

iv. oderint dum metuant

In the years following Alyona’s departure, more Fatui defectors wander into your territory.

You help all of them. In your human guise, you treat their wounds and guide them to Miseria. Their pursuers give up after spending hours lost in your mist.

A few have stories about their leader, be it hearsay or personal anecdotes. Their narratives only provide more evidence that he could be the Khaenri’ahn you saved years ago.

Pierro, the Jester.

So it seems that the Cryo Archon took him in. He must be doing extremely well if he now holds authority over Snezhnaya. Could the Fatui’s objective align with his grudge against Celestia? Is that why he swore loyalty to the Tsaritsa?

You don’t visit Snezhnaya for confirmation. If Pierro is truly your old companion, nothing good will come out of your reunion. You are better off as a memory.

*✧･ﾟ

You sleep for an entire year this time.

Your solo celebrations have become unbearable and none of your friends will call you out for skipping their birthdays.

You do wake up for Oizys’s death anniversary. His grave remains a barren bed in the cemetery; not even your achlys flowers could flourish. The eyes of his statue have cracked, so you cover them with thicker clouds of mist.

Hunger eludes you. After greeting Oizys, you go to the kitchen and keep your tableware in the cupboard. It will only erode if you leave it in the dish rack for another year. Or what about two? Ten? A century, even?

No one will wake you up, anyway.

“______?”

You almost drop your plate. Is that an ex-Fatui acquaintance? You already forbade their visits. Before you can reinforce the mist, the person speaks again.

“█████.”

The plate shatters into pieces. You run out of the temple.

They know your real name.

The voice is familiar. And their location…

The edge of the forest has less achlys flowers these days. Someone is standing under a dead tree. Before you can call out to them, they turn in your direction and make eye contact.

Four-pointed stars.

He is the first to speak. “______, you haven’t changed at all.”

Before you know it, you are running towards him. “It’s you!”

The Khaenri’ahn gives you one of his rare smiles. “It appears that you remember me.”

“How could I not?” You stand in front of him, taking in his appearance. “Wow, I almost didn’t recognize you.”

He looks so different. Neat hairstyle, elegant Snezhnayan clothing, a black mask over the right half of his face. Has his posture improved? His demeanor is dignified, imposing even.

You unconsciously fix your robes. “It’s been so long. What happened to you?”

“I have found a new home in Snezhnaya,” he explains, “and devoted myself to Her Majesty the Tsaritsa. I believe you already know of the Fatui.”

“I’ve heard rumors,” you reply carefully. “You are the first Harbinger, correct?”

His expression turns serious. “You are not mistaken. Along with the title of Jester, I took on a new name. You may address me as Pierro.”

Was his gaze always so intense? It feels as though he is sizing you up.

You look away. “Then I can finally put a name to your face. If I may ask, why the Tsaritsa? I don’t know her personally, but the last thing I expected was for you to pledge loyalty to an Archon.”

“Neither did I,” says Pierro. His voice takes a reverent tone. “Her Majesty understands my pain. Through the Fatui, we will rebel against Celestia and create a new world.”

Your mind flits to Alyona and her successors. How many people will be sacrificed for such a lofty goal? And why do you feel so conflicted? Isn’t this what he wanted?

“I see. Your plan sounds outrageous but it must be promising if you are the one in charge,” you reply, smiling. “You’ve come so far. You should be proud of yourself.”

There is a faint glimmer in his eyes. “Your recognition is paramount.”

A heavy silence hangs in the air. What else can you say to him? Should you invite him to your temple? Why is he taking time out of his schedule to visit you anyway?

Pierro looks around the forest. “Have you been doing well?”

“More or less. Never mind me, I’d like to hear more about your new life.” You lean against the dead tree, twirling the hem of your veil. “So, a rebellion against the divine. How does one go about doing that?”

He takes a step closer to you. “Naturally, it will take years of preparation. In the present, I can see to it that our smaller objectives are accomplished.”

“All right, so what will you do now?”

“I shall overthrow the gods of the Old World, starting with you.”

Pierro slams his hand against the tree, cornering you. His other hand seizes your arm, holding it tightly enough to crush the bones.

“Pierro!” You bite back a cry of pain. “I—what are you doing?!”

Any and all traces of familiarity have left his face.

“█████, you have officially been recognized as a threat to the Fatui,” he declares. “Had you taken a neutral stance, we could have sought diplomatic relations. The assistance you have provided for the Tsaritsa’s traitors, however, cannot be overlooked.”

Of course he knows about Alyona and the others.

The mist swirls around you. Just before you can create a diversion, Pierro strengthens his grip on your arm. An unspoken warning.

You can’t keep the fear out of your voice. “I…what will you do with me?”

Overthrow the gods…will he kill you? But wait, your death could end up like Havria’s or Pasithea’s! You should warn him—

“Nevertheless, your punishment has been reduced by the mercy of Her Majesty.”

Don’t relax yet. He is still holding you. “What do you mean by that?”

Pierro puts his hand under your chin, tilting your face upwards. “What you are, truly, is an archaic god who poses little threat to the Fatui. I inferred as much from my time spent with you. For that reason, I personally pleaded your case.”

You can’t look him in the eye. “Then what exactly is my punishment?”

“I promised the Tsaritsa that I would oversee your subjugation by my side.”

“…Excuse me?”

The look on his face is completely serious. “I came here to bring you to Snezhnaya.”

Your arm shakes within his grasp. “And if I refuse?”

Pierro’s gaze pierces through your veil. “I advise you to be tactful in your decision, lest the city of Miseria be implicated.”

The mist rises.

“What do you mean?! Oizys’s people have nothing to do with this!”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are they wholly innocent? They have accepted numerous Fatui defectors regardless of their circumstances. We have yet to deliver retribution to the traitors.”

“No!” You shake your head, tears filling your eyes. “Please don’t—I’ll do anything!”

Your knees hit the ground. You bow your head, allowing the mist to disperse.

“I’ll listen to you! Just don’t hurt them, I beg of you!”

This whole time, you have endangered Oizys’s followers.

Pierro’s voice cuts through the fog clouding your thoughts.

“You astound me, ______. Your compassion knows no bounds, even for those who do not worship you. I now understand why your friend had deemed you soft-hearted.”

You remain in your servile position, staring at the ground. Pierro’s hand returns to your face, gripping it roughly under your veil. His thumb strokes your cheek and catches a stray tear.

How pathetic you must look in his eyes.

It is his next words, spoken in a soft tone, which make you shudder.

“That means you are a worthy soul for the New World.”

*✧･ﾟ

You give up your territory shortly thereafter.

Pierro doesn’t let you return to your temple for any belongings. He simply guides you to the waiting carriage, keeping his hand on your back. The only thing more humiliating than your earlier display of submission are the chains cuffed to your wrists.

You take down the mist before you leave. Without its veil, the forest looks small and unremarkable. Whatever the Fatui does with it, you hope the cemetery will be preserved.

The trip to Snezhnaya is quiet. You say nothing to Pierro when he gives you a coat for the cold climate, neither when he escorts you to Zapolyarny Palace, not even during your introduction to the Tsaritsa.

You understand why he would serve her. The Cryo Archon is a sacrosanct figure and her mere presence makes you shiver. While she regards you with a cold gaze and some curious words, she clearly doesn’t perceive you as an equal.

Neither do you miss Pierro’s reverent attitude towards her. When the Tsaritsa demands your utmost loyalty, it is his gaze which scares you into bowing before her.

Never mind your pride, you are dealing with the god who made his goal possible.

After the tense meeting, you return to the carriage. Snezhnaya is a far cry from your old territory, but the people seem capable of enduring the harsh environment. They have no trouble finding their way in the snow.

Your final destination is Pierro’s estate. You give him a confused look when he identifies the grand manor, but he leads you inside.

The foyer is lined with masked servants. They silently greet Pierro; some curiously glance in your direction. Before anyone can ask, Pierro’s hand moves to your shoulder.

“This is ______,” he announces. “Henceforth, she is the lady of the estate.”

What?

The gasps that echo across the foyer aren’t yours. You can only stare at Pierro, your chains clinking with how quickly you turned to face him.

The serious look on his face is what silences everyone.

Pierro continues speaking but your mind is too foggy to process his words. His hand is still on your shoulder, a visible confirmation of his earlier statement. The unanimous “Yes, Lord Harbinger!” is what draws you back into reality.

The servants disperse. Only two women remain.

Pierro lets go of your shoulder. “I expect Lady ______ to be ready by dinnertime.”

They bow. “Yes, Lord Harbinger!”

He lightly pushes you in their direction. You hesitantly follow them, feeling his gaze on your back until you disappear up the stairs. The handmaidens lead you to a lavish bedroom.

Your own chambers. How considerate.

The shorter handmaiden takes out a key and unlocks your chains. They work quickly, cleaning you in the en suite bathroom then dressing you up. The wardrobe is fully stocked with elegant dresses, all in Snezhnayan fashion. The blue diamond jewelry looks familiar.

You don’t protest as they alter an ornate gown and help you into it. Neither do you cast a glance at your old robes discarded on the floor. They let you keep your veil, at least.

*✧･ﾟ

Pierro is already seated at the dining table when you enter.

“Your new attire befits you,” is all he says.

The handmaidens close the door behind you. You walk over to the empty chair.

Fancy tableware, gourmet food, a banquet table with more distance between the chairs.

“Thank you,” you reply bitterly, sitting down. “Is that all you have to say? Because I have so many questions for you.”

His gaze is still trained on you. “You may speak.”

“All right, where do I start?” You lift your veil, exposing your face. “I didn’t expect this kind of prison. And what did you call me earlier? I’ve had my fair share of admirers, but none were so brazen as to pursue a god.”

Your jewelry twinkles under the bright light. It matches Pierro’s diamond accessories.

His face betrays no emotion. “Make no mistake, your previous act of kindness had no bearing on my decision to save your life. You may find it to your benefit to respect your savior.”

What a charming word. “Of course, I’d hate to be a nuisance.”

You sample your soup. It tastes like borscht.

Pierro just watches you. The tension in the room is thick, so unlike your previous meals together. You aren’t in the mood for any idle conversation.

“Why am I here, Pierro?” You put down your spoon and sit back in your chair. “I can’t imagine why a prisoner of the Fatui should have such luxurious accommodations or a status like the Jester’s…partner.”

“And what were your expectations?” he asks.

“To be kept in a cell. To have my powers utilized for your organization. To be, I don’t know, treated like a pawn.”

His gaze remains unfathomable. “Was I not clear with my intentions? You are meant for the New World, so I intend to keep you safe until our objective is achieved.”

“And it just so happens that only you can fulfill the role of my warden.” You rest your head on your palm, eyes wide. “You have truly surprised me.”

What use could the New World possibly have for you?

Another uncomfortable silence. Both servings of soup are left untouched.

It is Pierro who speaks again.

“You will not be without basic needs, so long as you listen to me. Regarding your current lodgings, I will confess that it is a reciprocation of your kindness. But that is all there is to it—never forget that you would be dead if not for me.”

The diamonds in his eyes shine bright with resolution.

“Rest assured, the Fatui will not make a pawn out of you,” he continues. “From this day forth, you are liberated from your divine burden.”

You belatedly realize just how far you have fallen. Stripped of your divine attire, trapped in a foreign nation, left to the mercy of a powerful human.

Likewise, any act of defiance would only make the Tsaritsa doubt her trust in him.

“I see. Thank you, I think I have a clearer idea of my situation.”

Your appetite is nonexistent, but you force yourself to eat. The sound of metal scraping against porcelain comes only from your side of the table.

“Is the food to your satisfaction?”

You stare at your bowl. “The borscht is too sweet.”

“I will tell the chef to rectify their mistake.” After a short pause, Pierro adds, “Are you still fond of cooking?”

“Not really. I lost my passion for it a long time ago.”

“That is a shame,” he says. “You were quite adept with the knife.”

v. nitimur in vetitum semper, cupimusque negata

Pierro wasn’t lying about the reality of your prison. It takes a while to adjust to your new routine, however.

Each morning, your handmaidens wake you up early for breakfast. Your meals with Pierro remain tense; he initiates most of the conversations.

After breakfast, he leaves for Zapolyarny Palace while you remain in the manor. You have no one to interact with, given the servants’ fearful dispositions, but he is gracious enough to give you a new pastime.

“You expect me to study?”

Your desk is stacked high with books. Judging by the titles, most of them pertain to the history and culture of Snezhnaya.

Pierro takes another book off the shelf. “Did you expect a life of nothing but luxury? You have lived an idle life for the previous centuries, ______, but your archaic knowledge will prove irrelevant for the New World.”

And to think you had originally been in awe of his private library. You slump in your chair, frowning at the written worksheets.

“You are absolutely cruel.”

He gives you a stern look. “Do not think you can feign studying. Your handmaidens will supervise you to ensure your proper education.”

You glance at the two women standing by the door. What must be going through their heads right now? Did their job description prepare them for sights like this?

“And do you expect me to study all day?” you ask.

“Once you finish your studies, you may do whatever you like so long as you do not leave the estate. You need only read the introductions today.”

Honestly, he should’ve just left you to rot in a prison cell.

Pierro’s hand rests on your shoulder. “Your mental enrichment will be instrumental to your adjustment.”

He leaves the library.

Shaking your head, you open the first book. The history of Snezhnayan technology turns out to be an interesting topic, and you quickly move on to the corresponding worksheet. Aside from an enumeration quiz, there is a section for subjective questions. You mull over your answers and explain your stance.

An opportunity for psychoanalysis, perhaps. At least the political propaganda is tolerable.

Most of your free time is dedicated to naps. The manor is too warm for the natural formation of ordinary mist, while the outdoor mist is quick to freeze. The only personalized item in your bedchambers is an embroidery kit.

So he remembered another hobby of yours.

You think of Pierro’s finely-tailored suits. The style is a world away from his old Khaenri’ahn attire. Has he disposed of his old garments?

Pierro usually returns from work in time for dinner. After another tense meal, he retires to his private office. Unless he invites you over for conversation or chess games, you return to the solitude of your bedchambers.

You sleep in the middle of the bed.

*✧･ﾟ

After a few months, Pierro allows you to leave the manor for the first time.

Zapolyarny Palace is as chilly as you remember. You don’t know why he brought you with him to begin with—he just banishes you to the sofa with your books and embroidery.

…He looks hard at work. Every time you peek at him, he is writing reports at his desk or speaking with a subordinate.

Thankfully, you don’t have to greet the Tsaritsa. You do pass by the Doctor’s laboratory on the way out, only to be startled by a chorus of crazed screams and hypnotic singing.

You stop in your tracks but Pierro quickly leads you away from Dottore’s wing.

Your next destination is a town square. The visit is more of a formal tour than a leisurely stroll, and the bustling activity ceases upon Pierro’s arrival. Still, you obediently walk by his side.

“Is that the Jester?!”

“Who is his companion?”

“Their veil suits the Fatui’s masks, doesn’t it?”

“Her expression looks quite solemn.”

He doesn’t pay the whispers any attention, so you do the same. The Snezhnayan crowd isn’t here for you.

A few people catch your eye. You pause and wave at them, offering a friendly smile.

Pierro’s hand presses down on your back.

The smile leaves your face. You don’t need to turn around to know that he is glaring at you—or is it the people you’d waved at? They look frozen with fear.

“Sorry,” you mutter, looking ahead.

The both of you continue walking.

*✧･ﾟ

Pierro leaves for a mission in Mondstadt. You remain in the estate.

Without him, the days are monotonous but easygoing. You eat your meals in peace and accomplish your studies. In your second week, you make an unlikely friend.

“My lady?”

You look up from your embroidery hoop. “Yes?”

The shorter handmaiden points at the half-finished design. “What flower is this?”

Where is her coworker? This is the first time a servant has approached you on their own volition.

“Pasithea,” you reply, tracing the blue and violet threads. “It’s…a special flower which grows in only two areas of Teyvat.”

“It must be beautiful.” She glances at your finished pieces. “Your needlework is exquisite, my lady. Are you preferential to any designs?”

“Not really. Would you like to suggest one?”

She smiles. “What about a snowflake?”

Her change in disposition is welcoming. She almost reminds you of your last priestess Charis. She was always quick to suggest designs for her new robes.

“What is your name, dear?”

“Eva,” she replies brightly, “and my coworker is named Anya. Please excuse her absence today; she caught a cold.”

“Send her my regards.” You smile, straightening your veil. “And thank you for your earlier compliment. It’s been a while since someone has praised my craft.”

She tilts her head. “You are quite nice, my lady. No offense but given your introduction, none of us know what to think of you.”

“None taken,” you laugh. “Honestly, I was just as surprised as all of you.”

How long until Pierro returns? Didn’t he say two months at minimum?

“I’m suddenly craving Brightcrown tea. Could you please prepare some for me?”

“Oh, sure!” Eva walks over to the door. “I’ll be right back, my lady.”

You might as well take advantage of this opportunity.

The needle pricks your thumb. You wave your hand, allowing the blood to evaporate into mist. It swirls around the room and dissipates into the air.

One room down. It would be more effective if you use your thurible, but you shouldn’t doubt the staff’s perceptiveness. You’ll have to settle for just a little blood and dominion.

If only this territory was meant for their safety, not yours.

“My lady? Your tea will be brought here shortly.”

Eva is back. You hide your thumb, squeezing the wound to extract more mist.

“Thank you, dear. May I have a tour of the estate later?”

vi. amor et melle et felle est fecundissimus 

The remainder of Pierro’s mission is enjoyable. Eva and Anya are wonderful companions, and they introduce you to a few other servants. You chat with them often.

Your mist only claims part of the estate. Several rooms are locked with no gaps under the doors, including Pierro’s personal quarters. You do manage to sneak a few drops of blood through the keyhole of his private office.

The information gained is useless. You can only hear fragments of the servants’ chatter, mainly gossip about you or praise for your captor. They keep talking about the many benefits the Fatui provided for their hometowns, from new technology to public hearths.

At least he has made their lives easier.

You do hear about Pierro’s return ahead of time. The servants are agitated but not so much as you. You remind Eva and Anya to keep your camaraderie a secret.

He finds out, anyway.

“Your handmaidens have been terminated from their position.”

“What?”

You look up immediately. Pierro remains focused on the chessboard.

“I also dismissed two other servants,” he says, moving a pawn. “Starting tomorrow, their replacements will attend to your needs.”

“But why?”

His gaze is sharp. “I was informed that they had overstepped their boundaries. It is unprofessional for a servant to be overly friendly with the lady of the estate, much less request embroidery pieces and assistance in the kitchen.”

“That—I insisted on it!” Your hands shake, chess game forgotten.

Eva, Anya, those young cooks. All jobless because of you.

Your vision turns blurry. “Could you at least transfer them to another building or give them letters of recommendation?”

He sighs. “You are too kind for your own good, ______. What would you have done if those servants sought to take advantage of you?”

“They’re good people,” you insist, blinking back tears.

“Perhaps you are right. To which their own righteousness could have been manipulated for your personal gain.”

You glare at him. “I don’t plan to escape if that’s what you are thinking. I have nowhere to go and Miseria would be in danger.”

“Even so.” Pierro glances at your clenched fists. “Remember where your loyalties lie.”

You glance at your thumb. The wound has long healed, and your mist is currently down. You’d take this opportunity to claim Pierro’s office but he would surely notice.

“So what do you expect me to say? I understand? I’m sorry? Thank you for looking out for my safety?”

He remains unfazed by your anger. “Whatever you’d like to say. Your countenance already reveals much of your sentiments.”

“Well then.” You stand up, adjusting your veil. “What would you like to hear from me?”

There is a new medal on the wall, another personal accomplishment on display.

“Shall I sing you praises?” you ask, bowing. “Show my utmost gratitude?”

Pierro just watches you, a judgemental look on his face.

How did your last followers act in their throes of madness? It was sickening to witness.

You kneel on the floor, hands clasped together. “O, Lord Pierro, I humbly thank you for saving an undeserving creature such as myself! Had it not been for your benevolence, I would have been doomed to a life of sorrow. Your greatness is unparalleled. You have brought glory to Snezhnaya. The Tsaritsa—”

“That is enough.”

The anger in his tone is undeniable. You almost flinch from his glare.

“Cease these foolish theatrics at once,” he snarls. “It would do you well to remember that Her Majesty’s name shall not be disrespected.”

“My apologies.” Despite the shiver running down your spine, you bat your eyelashes innocently. “Shall I exclude her name and continue?”

His eyes flash. “Even a court jester has more wit about them. Sit back down.”

“Gladly.” You return to your chair, wiping the dust off your skirt. A smug smile crosses your face as you analyze the chessboard.

Your king is in a tight spot. Pierro meets your gaze, challenging you.

“Draw?” he asks.

You shake your head and make your next move.

*✧･ﾟ

Pierro wins the chess game. Nonetheless, you are quite satisfied with the results.

Your new handmaidens are more formal with you. For their sake, you avoid any sort of unnecessary interaction with them. The estate is rife with gossip following the dismissal of the old servants, and you disperse the mist. You don’t want to think about them.

With no one to appreciate your embroidery, you take to roaming the estate in your free time. The manor is extravagant for two residents and most of the rooms are vacant. During one stroll, you find a half-open door near Pierro’s bedchambers.

Isn’t this room usually locked?

“My lady, where are you going? We’re forbidden—”

You smile at your handmaiden. “Did the Jester permit you to restrain me, Esfir? If he finds out about this, I’ll gladly vouch for your innocence.”

She turns to her coworker, exasperated. “Karine, call Alec. That careless idiot…”

You go inside.

The room is dark. Opening the curtains, you find what looks like several furniture pieces covered in sheets. The locked bookcase holds ancient books and scrolls.

You uncover one item and promptly lock the door.

“My lady!” Esfir bangs on the door. “What are you doing?”

You return to the unveiled statue, hands trembling. The figure’s translucent veil and swaying thurible are flawlessly sculpted. The marble is cracked but polished to perfection.

Isn’t this your statue from Vesta’s temple?

You uncover the other items. To your horror, all of them comprise your old religious art. Broken statues, deteriorated paintings, ceremonial relics. So many images of you.

Calm down, it could be worse. The items are hidden in this room, not displayed for worship. Pierro probably stole these to erase your remaining influence. But why didn’t he just destroy them? Why is the artwork well-preserved? Why are there so many?

You can’t stand looking at those faces. They are too serene, too divine, too deceptive.

You cover the items and leave the room. Esfir and Karine surround you, along with a terrified-looking servant.

“My lady, did you—!”

You close the door behind you. “Alec, dear? Do you normally clean these items?”

He tenses. “I only dust the covers and the room. Lord Pierro forbade me from unveiling the items, lest I be…laid off like my predecessor.”

“I see.” You smile at him through your veil. “Lock the door properly next time, okay? If you aren’t careful, these items could be destroyed beyond repair one day.”

Pierro makes no mention of his secret collection later that evening, but you notice more locks installed on the doors. Despite your best efforts, Alec is fired.

*✧･ﾟ

Oizys’s birthday rolls around.

You sit by the window overlooking the garden. The estate grounds are a paradise of white snow and Snezhnayan flora. There are no berry bushes in sight.

At this hour, his festival in Miseria must’ve begun. You should be preparing for his private party right now. He always came home early for your berry shortcake.

The curtain is pulled over the window.

“How long do you plan to stare outside?”

Great, he’s here.

“Good morning.” You make no move to leave the armchair. “Why are you here?”

The door to your bedchambers is open. Esfir and Karine are gone.

Pierro rests his hand on the back of the chair. “Breakfast should have begun ages ago. Your handmaidens claim that you refuse to cooperate.”

They must be terrified right now. “I’m sorry, they tried their best. I’ll go now.”

“Are you thinking of the Child of Night?”

“...How do you know?”

He evades your question. “Your sorrow has not diminished in the slightest. Grieving his loss will not bring your friend back to life.”

You grip the armrest. “Do you think I don’t know that?”

“I can imagine what other thoughts are plaguing your mind,” he replies. He turns to face you, gaze somber. “However you may spin his tale, what remains certain is that you were faultless in his death.”

He’s wrong. “I know.”

Your doubt must be obvious because Pierro wraps his hand around your arm.

“What killed the Child of Night was his own foolishness,” he insists. “You may call yourself weak, unkind, cowardly even, but it was your conviction that spared you from his fate.”

Is he trying to make you feel better or worse?

“Will you please stop it?” you whisper. “I don’t want your pity right now.”

His grip on your arm tightens. “You misjudge my sentiments.”

“Really now?” You raise your head, glaring at him. “Because you have been doing a fine job at courting me, assuming that I have not misinterpreted my new title.”

Someone like you has no place by his side.

“It would be easier if you just hated me,” you mutter, blinking back tears. “At least then I would have a proper punishment.”

An audible sigh. “Such cynicism is rather unbecoming of your kindness.”

He lifts your veil.

Your eyes widen. “What are you—”

“Silence.”

The air feels cold against your face. The hand on your arm moves to your chin, tilting your face upwards. Pierro leans closer and you can only stare back at him, frozen in place.

Nothing about his gaze is condescending.

His lips press against yours.

Your breath hitches in your throat. Mist rises from the corners of the room and you hastily disperse it. Before you can fully process the soft sensation, he pulls away.

“Y-You…” The words won’t leave your mouth. “How dare…!”

“Are my intentions clearer?” Pierro gently brushes his thumb against your cheek, wiping away your tears.

You can’t answer. Your heart is racing and it takes everything to hide the mist from him. You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping the armrest with all of your strength.

Just as abruptly as he kissed you, Pierro lets go of you and lowers your veil.

“I must leave for work,” he says. His voice resumes its authoritative tone. “I will tell the chef to cook a warm breakfast for you later.”

With that, he leaves the room. The door closes behind him.

How dare he.

Mist swirls around the bedchambers. You wipe your mouth and cover your face, bunching up your veil in your hands. The warmth in your cheeks is internal.

…Despite your mortification, the fluttery feeling in your chest is not unwelcome.

vii. dulce est desipere in loco

Pierro doesn’t acknowledge his kiss later that evening.

In the subsequent days, he works longer hours. The two of you eat separate meals. Your conversations and chess games are halted. The servants’ gossip provides no insight into his change in behavior.

What is he up to?

You answer another worksheet, taking note of the date written on the top corner. Has it been this long since your capture? Since moving to Snezhnaya, the days have felt longer.

“______.”

“Oh, why are you here?”

This is the first time he has visited you during your study sessions. Judging by the clock, he must have finished work early.

Pierro picks up one of your finished worksheets. “What an interesting opinion.”

You tilt your head. “You think so? I just wrote what was on my mind.”

In all honesty, the subjective portion is quite engaging. Occasionally, the questions are direct responses to your answers from previous tests, as though your tutor—Pierro himself?—is indirectly challenging you.

He turns to Esfir and Karine. “Lady ______ and I will eat an early dinner. You may tidy up the library and retire to the servants’ quarters.”

“Yes, Lord Harbinger!”

You hesitantly stand up. “What is the occasion?”

He places his hand on the small of your back. “Why don’t you find out?”

The hallway is quiet. You match Pierro’s pace, casting a few glances at him. He stares ahead with a neutral expression, intentions hidden. What is so important about this dinner that he must personally escort you?

He opens the double doors.

Achlys flowers.

Every vase in the room is filled with white flower spikes and large trifoliate leaves. Tapestries hang from the walls, restored to their vibrant colors.

“I…” You clap a hand over your mouth. “What is…?”

Pierro silently takes hold of your wrist and leads you inside.

Your chairs are positioned side-by-side this time. The table is set with familiar food—your favorites, all cooked and presented in your usual style. A large bouquet of achlys flowers rests on one placemat.

You lift your veil. “My eyes aren’t deceiving me, right? How did you find out?”

He pulls out the chair for you. “Why not take your place at the banquet?”

Words fail you. You sit down and pick up the bouquet. The achlys flowers are perfectly fresh, tied with ribbons in your religious color.

In the center of the table is a large cake topped with glowing candles.

“It pleases me to see that my research was fruitful.” Pierro takes his seat and faces you, a familiar smile on his face. “Happy birthday, ______.”

That is the last straw. You burst into tears.

You can’t stop crying. Tears roll down your cheeks, drip onto your skirt, soak into Pierro’s suit when he hugs you. He feels warm.

“I suggest that you cease your crying,” he murmurs. “The food will go cold.”

“Quiet,” you sniffle. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer. Making sure that this is real. “You can’t just surprise me like this and expect me to react calmly!”

It takes a few more minutes for the tears to stop. You reluctantly let go of Pierro, closing your eyes when his fingertips brush against your damp cheeks.

To think that he of all people would be the one to make you this happy.

The birthday candles are still lit. The flames dance in the air, brighter than any fire you’ve seen before. You blow out the candles and the flames extinguish into thin curls of smoke.

“It’s been so long since I last enjoyed my birthday,” you mutter. You slump in your chair, watching the last traces of smoke disappear. “I almost forgot just how old I am.”

What kind of life have you been living up to now?

Pierro cuts the cake and gives you a slice. The flavor is bittersweet yet familiar. It brings to mind a memory of you chastising him in your kitchen for messing up the same recipe.

You put down your spoon, feeling more tears spring to your eyes. “This is all too much for one person, you know.”

He side-eyes you. “I believe that such splendor is to be expected for a god’s festival.”

“Oh, please.” You shake your head, smiling. “You deserve a grander celebration for your own birthday. If there is one thing you humans have over us gods, it is your ability to accomplish so much within your short lifespans. Compared to you…I never did enough.”

“I care not for such festivities,” he replies, holding your hand, “and I must say that you are gravely mistaken regarding your own personal significance.”

There is something so tender about his words. His other hand cups the side of your face, beckoning you to meet his gaze. Those four-pointed stars seem to peer into your soul, shining brighter than any celestial being in the sky.

“If there is one good thing which came out of your life, it was saving mine.”

Your heart twists in your chest. Try as you might, you can’t look away.

“I…I see.” Your hand shakes within his grasp. You want nothing more than to pull your veil over your face.

He knows just the right words to win people over.

This time, it’s you who prolongs the chaste kiss he gives you. It’s you who intertwines your fingers together. It’s you who whimpers when he pulls away. To your frustration, he remains mostly unfazed but the look in his eyes doesn’t lie.

How long has it been since you last enjoyed physical intimacy? What about him?

Oh well, you could play the fool for one night.

“Well, Pierro, this has been an impressive festival,” you tell him, smirking. “But where is my offering? Did you think a paltry kiss would suffice?”

“Oh?” He holds your gaze, eyes darkened. “According to the ancient records, only the divine friends of the God of Mist were expected to provide gifts. I presumed myself to be an exception to this tradition.”

“You disappoint me. But don’t worry, you can make up for it right now.”

The corners of his mouth tilt upwards. “And what exactly do you desire from me?”

You lay a hand on his chest. The pale blue diamonds of his necktie twinkle under the light, dimmer than his eyes.

“I believe you know exactly what I want,” you reply. Wispy gray marks travel up your limbs and around your eyes. “Are you up for the challenge?”

You aren’t even given a few seconds before Pierro clutches your waist and pulls you into another kiss, stealing your breath. His other hand cups the back of your head and pulls off your veil.

“Very well,” he says. “I might as well oblige you.”

*✧･ﾟ

You are never underestimating humans ever again.

The room is dark. If you close your eyes, you can imagine yourself within a void. The Abyss, maybe. Any lovely dark place where your debauchery could go unacknowledged.

Offering? You were referring to your own birthday gift, right? So why did you end up feeling like one for your captor?

Pierro lightly shakes you. “______, have you fallen asleep?”

“No, I haven’t,” you reply quickly. You turn your head in his direction, chest heaving. “I’m just exhausted.”

The complacent gleam in his eyes is absolutely maddening. Even with his mask off, his face is both familiar and different. The way he looks at you is earnest yet far from reverent.

Is this the same person you saved all those years ago? How can the voice which once weakly cried for help whisper such degrading things in your ear?

You raise your arm to inspect your wrist. Dark bruises mix with the wispy marks, from when he pinned you to the bed. Combined with the warm ache in your abdomen and knees…

You feel utterly desecrated.

Pierro holds you tightly, turning your body to face him. Loose strands of silver hair fall over his face. Familiar scars litter his bare skin, including those you’d healed.

“We missed dinner,” he murmurs. “Would you like to eat something later? It would be a waste of the banquet preparations.”

His gaze makes you shrink. Where in the world is your veil?

You sit up. “No, I’m fine. We can eat it tomorrow.”

Somehow, the thought of your party leftovers doesn’t feel unappetizing at all.

Pierro’s mask and your veil are on the night-table, along with your diamond jewelry. Your dress should be somewhere on the floor.

He grips your arm. “Where are you going?”

You sheepishly face him, wincing at the light pressure. “Going to my room. To sleep.”

He sighs, pulling you closer. “Stay.”

“...All right.”

His bed is soft. You return to his arms and rest your head on the pillow, giving in to your exhaustion. He’s saying something. Something kind, judging by his tone. Your name.

The left side of the bed is comfortable.

viii. flectere si nequeo superos, acheronta movebo

Your relationship has improved since your birthday.

As much as you hate to admit it, you’ve become more resigned to your captivity. It’s so easy to ignore the reality of your situation when you feel so happy.

Pierro has been kinder to you. Beneath his strict exterior, you’ve been seeing more traces of your old companion. The proximity between your chairs remains close and you permanently move to his bedchambers. Your conversations have become more intimate.

“Am I allowed to be this happy?”

“What do you mean?”

Pierro looks up from the chessboard. You move another piece.

“I don’t know,” you mutter. “It’s just…you really don’t want me to do anything for you? You’re just going to keep me around for the New World?”

He moves a black queen this time. “I told you before: Your former status is no longer a concern. There is no need for you to question your place by my side.”

“I know but—” You shake your head and focus on the game. “Never mind.”

Pierro clearly isn’t satisfied with that response. Feeling the weight of his gaze, you adjust your veil. He didn’t suspect anything from your recent Flower Ball embroidery, but your puffy eyes will be an obvious hint to Havria’s birthday.

Your king is cornered again. As you move a pawn, the door slams open.

“Lord Harbinger! There has been an emergency!”

A Fatui officer rushes inside, followed by two frantic maids. Surprised, you slide the pawn to the wrong square and knock over a few chess pieces.

The air grows cold.

“I do not recall permitting an audience with you, Lieutenant Dominik.”

Even you flinch in response. Despite his composure, Pierro’s irritation is evident. The fearful “We tried to stop him!” of the maids affirms that.

Dominik kneels on the floor. “Forgive me, my lord! But this is an urgent matter!”

Pierro turns to the maids. “Escort Lady ______ to our bedchambers.”

“Yes, Lord Harbinger!”

“Pierro.” You turn to him, hesitantly leaving the sofa. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“I will see you once this matter is settled,” is all he tells you, staring down your unwelcome visitor. “I expect more competence from an informant of your ranking, Lieutenant.”

Dominik shudders, remaining in their kneeling position. You follow the maids out of his private office and into the hallway. Just as they close the door, you hear their voices.

“The Child of Ni—”

“Silence.”

What?

“My lady?” One of the maids—Sofia, you think—turns to you. “We must go.”

“Of course.” You cast a final glance at the door before you begin walking. “Thank you.”

Were they going to say ‘Night’? They couldn’t possibly be talking about him, could they?

The bedchambers are quiet. The maids leave you inside and close the door. You lie in bed, staring at the empty space next to you. You can trust Pierro…right?

Just in case, you wave your hand and imagine the private office. Soon enough, you hear two voices. Soft, fragmented, but audible.

“...divine karma…many afflicted.”

“...send more troops…Miseria.”

Did Pierro just mention Oizys’s city? Why would he still care about Miseria?

You continue listening.

“Bad…cursed. Misery, misfortune…”

“...remains? Dispirited soldiers…assured victories.”

Misery, misfortune…why are they discussing Oizys’s divine ability? What does it have to do with warfare? And what did they mean about karmic debt?

Your nails dig into the mattress.

“...others? Archon Residue…”

“The Doctor sent a report…early stages.”

“Inform me…public hearths were…exceptional fire.”

“...singing. Hallucinations have…”

The taste of metal invades your mouth but you continue to bite down on your lip.

They could only be talking about Vesta and Pasithea. And what’s this about Archon Residue and the Doctor’s involvement?!

Vesta’s extinguished fire. The strange singing you heard from the Second Harbinger’s laboratory. Their discussion of Oizys’s curse and victory.

…

Has the Fatui been using your friends’ remains this whole time?

Blood trickles down your chin. With a shaky hand, you wipe it clean and turn to the right side of the bed. Would he really do this after everything you told him?

The voices suddenly sound clearer. Have they moved closer to the door?

“Where are you going, my lord?”

“I will summon a maid. The humidity level in the room has suddenly risen.”

Pierro leaves the office.

*✧･ﾟ

“It appears that my suspicions were not unfounded.”

Pierro is straight to the point. You rise from the bed, glaring at his figure in the doorway.

On the blanket, a smear of blood evaporates into mist.

“How long have you known?”

“I’ve had my suspicions,” he replies, glaring. “How much of our conversation did you overhear?”

“Enough to give myself away, clearly,” you reply, gripping the bedpost. “So tell me, what is so urgent about Miseria that Lieutenant Dominik came here without permission?”

They specifically mentioned divine karma. Does this mean that Oizys…?

“There is no use in concealing information from you,” he sighs. “In summary, your former territory and the city of Miseria have been beset with curses in the previous months. We presume it to be the lingering resentment of the Child of Night.”

“And why is that?”

Pierro crosses his arms. “There have been sightings of a demon in your cemetery. It bears a striking resemblance to the religious imagery of your deceased friend.”

“I see,” you reply, gritting your teeth, “and what will you do to him?”

“That is confidential information.”

“Oh, really?” Your voice rises in volume, as does the mist on the blanket. “I think I have every right to know about Oizys and your other secrets. Tell me, what have you done with my friends’ remains?”

There is zero remorse on his face. “If you are pertaining to the Lord of the Hearth and the Goddess of Consciousness, then you can already deduce my answer.”

“How dare you!”

Mist swirls around the room, heavy and thick, but Pierro manages to cross the room towards you. You raise your arm but he catches it quickly.

“I advise you to be rational,” he snaps. “The Child of Night is dead. Whatever is prowling in your former territory is no longer your friend.”

“Don’t touch me!”

Your attempt to raise the mist is dashed as Pierro pins you to the bed. He grips your wrists with enough force to make you panic.

“Is this what you will do with me eventually?” you shout. Hot tears flow down the sides of your face. “Do you intend to make an instrument out of me as well?!”

Stupid. Not even Havria was this trustful.

“You already know how their deaths affected me, that their graves were still important to me! How could you—”

You struggle some more, only to shriek when Pierro strengthens his grip.

“I advise that you remember your place,” he says coldly, removing your veil and setting it aside. “Though your soul is worthy for the New World, even you are not safe from my scorn.”

“I don’t want to hear that right now! I’ve had enough of you and the Tsari—!”

A resounding pop interrupts you, followed by your pained scream. The only thing more excruciating than your sprained wrist is the sensation of Pierro’s fingertips wiping your tears.

“As I said, no harm will come to you so long as you are loyal to Her Majesty,” he tells you. “Your friends have long fallen, and your personal sentiments offer little insight into the importance of preserving their memory.”

“You…” Your voice is reduced to pathetic whimpers. “I…I thought I…”

Those diamond pupils hold your gaze, cold and unforgiving. “That is final.”

You should have left him to die that day.

The mist recedes.

*✧･ﾟ

You return to your old bedchambers.

The doors and windows are locked. Your embroidery kit is confiscated along with the needles. Esfir and Karine visit you with your study material and meals on a tray, but you reject most of them. It takes a while to readjust to your empty bed.

You don’t see much of Pierro in the following days. He spends less time in the estate to evade your supervision, and the servants’ gossip is hushed. You receive no more news on Oizys and your friends’ remains.

Your wrist is treated. The ice pack numbs your pain but it barely helps. You can’t forget the ruthless look on Pierro’s face when he hurt you.

You’ve never felt more angry with yourself.

Why did you let him do all of this to begin with? Out of fear or pity? Because his dreams of the New World trumped your own worthless existence?

You could spite him. Fall asleep for a century…or more? As the Tsaritsa’s underling, he is probably granted immortality. Perhaps you shouldn’t wake up at all.

But Oizys is still out there.

“Karine?”

She puts down the breakfast tray. “Yes, my lady?”

Esfir also turns to you, bandages in hand.

“When is the Jester returning from his mission?” you ask.

They exchange looks. “We are not allowed to share that information.”

“All right. Could you at least give this to him when he returns?” You give Karine a signed envelope, wincing at the pain radiating from your wrist.

“Of course, my lady. We will do so immediately.”

“Thank you for everything,” you whisper, “and I’m sorry.”

A ball of mist hovers under your palm, accompanied by flecks of light.

“My lady, what are you—!”

Your thurible is pristine from years of disuse. You quickly open it and swipe your palm through the built-in blade. Blood spills into the censer.

Dark clouds emanate from your Catalyst, obscuring the room and filtering through the keyhole. Esfir and Karine rush towards you, only to disappear into the mist. You raise the mist in the manor, hearing their screams in the hallway along with their coworkers’.

“Where am I?”

“How did we end up in the kitchen?!”

“I can’t reach the foyer!”

“Inform Lord Pierro at once!”

Their panic is unbearable. You can sense every scream, every frantic movement, every cry for help. But this time, you must resist the urge to help them.

The window is next. It takes a few tries but your thurible finally smashes the glass.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat to the empty bedroom.

The servants will be fine. The mist will disappear in a few days, or perhaps earlier if you are slain first. Then the manor will be free from your dominion. Your signed letter will prove their innocence.

You swing your thurible, smiling. What will the Fatui make out of you, you wonder? A special weapon? A tool to spy on their enemies? Or maybe they will keep you alive to harvest your blood for the rest of eternity.

That doesn’t matter. It is only fair after all that you’ve survived.

ix. memento vivere

Miseria has fallen.

Your brief inspection is devastating. The Fatui has taken control over the city. The historic temple has been replaced with a church for the Tsaritsa. The people are consumed with misery and anxiety, likening their misfortune to a divine curse.

You almost cannot believe it. Oizys’s punishments were never this harsh.

You advance to your old territory before any Fatui officers notice you. After subduing so many pursuers, you already feel the strain from using your powers. Your thurible had to be refilled numerous times.

Your territory is even more unrecognizable. In your absence, the forest has been converted to a facility site. A Snezhnayan-style building stands in the place of your temple. The pasithea flowers have died out.

Surprisingly, the achlys flowers have multiplied. Fields of white flower spikes grow amongst the remaining flora in stark contrast to the unburied corpses.

So many masked humans. Did Oizys kill all of them?

A thick miasma of divine karma permeates the area, growing stronger as you approach the cemetery. Several graves have been excavated, leaving gaping holes in the ground. The two statues are missing.

A dark figure stands over an empty grave, holding a bloody Claymore.

“Oizys?”

He turns around. “█████?!”

The divine karma is so oppressive. You remain in your spot, but Oizys closes the distance and captures you in a tight hug. You nearly collapse from the miasma.

“It’s…is it really you?” you whisper.

A large smile cuts his shadowy face. “Who else?”

He feels so cold.

You pull away, processing the sight before you. This isn’t the body you cleaned and buried all those years ago. It is incorporeal, hazy at the edges, marred with bleeding wounds. Instead of his death suit, he is wearing his bloody robes with ruined embroidery.

You never wanted to see his mutilated corpse ever again.

No, you shouldn’t think that. This is still Oizys.

Pain throbs from your sprained wrist. You look down to find him touching your bandages.

“█████.” He grips your wrist tightly. “What happened to you?”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” you reply quickly, slipping out of his grasp. “Listen, you’re in serious danger. I don’t know if there’s a way for you to leave but—”

“Leave?” He stares at you with bloodshot eyes. “I come back and you’re gone, not a trace of mist left. The next thing I know, these masked Snezhnayans take over, destroying your temple and the cemetery! And you expect me to leave after all that?”

The miasma is overwhelming. Unsettled, you take a step back.

He doesn’t notice. “And do you know what I found in my own city? Those ungrateful ants worshiping the Cryo Archon as though I had never existed!”

You shake your head vehemently. “Oizys, don’t take it out on your people. They—”

“Is this how you felt?” he laughs bitterly, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I knew it. I shouldn’t have accepted your followers back then. I should have punished them for you.”

“You can’t say that!” you exclaim. “Think about it clearly; it’s one thing to harm the Fatui but they were all innocent!”

There is a murderous look in his eyes.

“Oh, █████,” he frowns. “Have you learned nothing from how humanity abused your kindness? How they abandoned you and killed our friends?”

He’s wrong. “That…I couldn’t provide for them or fulfill my duty!”

“Those wretched creatures caused our suffering!”

His voice cracks on the last word. Oizys coughs up black smoke and you immediately approach him, only for him to step back.

“Forget it,” he snaps. “It’s useless to convince you.”

“Says the person who joined a war and gained nothing from killing what must’ve been several civilians! At least I’m still alive,” you shoot back.

“Well, I wouldn’t have died if you had joined me.”

What did he just say?

The miasma intensifies. When Oizys raises his head, there is only disdain in his eyes.

“Among our friends, why did it have to be you?” he whispers. “Maybe things would have turned out differently if someone else survived.”

“Oizys.” Tears fill your eyes. “You…you don’t really mean that, do you?”

This isn’t right. This isn’t how it usually goes. It should be you saying that and him assuring you otherwise. If even he believes that, what else can you think?

His gaze flits from your wrist to your neck. “You didn’t answer my question earlier. Did those humans hurt you? Why are you wearing a foreign necklace?”

Your necklace? You look down, belatedly realizing that you are still wearing your necklace from Pierro. The pale blue diamonds twinkle in the fading light.

“Wait.” He touches the pendant under your veil. “I’ve seen this style before; it’s not from Snezhnaya. The design, the material…”

“Hey, not too close.” You try to step away but he keeps a firm grip on the chain.

“Is this from Khaenri’ah?”

You can’t look him in the eye. “I—”

“It would benefit you to lay your hands off what is mine.”

You are doomed.

Pierro enters the cemetery, wielding a sword. Despite his serious expression, his gaze is absolutely livid.

Oizys merely scoffs. “Another masked offender. How many of you—”

He stops talking, gripping your necklace tighter. His eyes fix on Pierro’s diamond accessories then his pupils.

“█████.” Any remaining warmth for you has been dashed. “Is he from that nation?”

You can’t answer him. Neither can you meet Pierro’s cold glare.

It’s too late. Oizys leaves your side and appears in front of him, swinging his Claymore, but Pierro dodges it in time. The miasma thickens.

“You wretched human!” he shouts, attempting another swipe. “How dare you!”

A dark blue galaxy-like aura appears in Pierro’s hand, shooting at Oizys’s neck. He gasps, clawing at his throat, but the Khaenri’ahn magic restrains him.

You grip your thurible. “Stop, you’ll—!”

Pierro’s glare is absolutely chilling. “I have finally been granted an audience with you, Child of Night. On behalf of my fallen compatriots, I return your blow.”

“I should have wiped out your despicable race until my dying breath!”

Oizys sets himself free and hits Pierro’s sword this time. The latter stumbles, only to quickly recover and fight back.

You rush towards them, swinging your thurible to spread the mist. Even if you can’t do much, you should at least distract Pierro and give your friend a chance to escape.

“Oizys, don’t underestimate—!”

The blade that cuts you isn’t Pierro’s.

Your back hits a gravestone, but what shocks you is the pain radiating from your cheek. Through the tear in your veil, you make out a disgusted expression.

Oizys looks away. “Just disappear already, █████.”

Why would he say such terrible things to you?

Pierro turns to you, eyes widening. Suddenly, he goes on the offense and successfully strikes Oizys in the leg. Whatever magic he had used earlier is imbued within his sword.

Oizys steps back, crashing into a patch of achlys flowers. He swings his Claymore again, slicing several flowers in the process. “Die already!”

You touch your cheek. Blood drips from the wound and onto the ground. Oizys didn’t hesitate to hurt you, not that he needed to in the first place—you were nowhere close to Pierro. The beheaded achlys flowers litter the ground, quickly trampled.

That thing is no longer Oizys.

What should you do now? The mist engulfs the entire cemetery. You can sense the entire battle. Oizys keeps flinging insults at Pierro, talking about how he will properly punish humanity this time. The latter doesn’t say much.

“You are gravely mistaken. I am not allowing her to escape from me.”

Oizys’s blade grazes his shoulder.

Pierro…did he just stumble?! Oizys laughs and hits him again.

The mist rises. You sense a shocked gasp as the ghost steps forward and gets transported to the other side of the cemetery.

“█████? Did you—”

The mist parts between you and Oizys. There is more blood on his clothes—Pierro’s, not his own. He stares at you, dumbstruck.

“Has your mind been utterly broken?!”

He runs towards you, only to disappear into a cloud of mist. You dodge his attacks, careful to keep Pierro at a distance. You take a few more steps and allow Oizys to find you.

He lunges at you, only to be splattered with a spray of blood.

Right in the eyes.

Mist rises from his eyes and wraps around his face.

He figures it out quickly. “█████! How could you do this to me?!”

His screams are too much to bear. You ignore both his frantic thoughts and the renewed pain in your arm.

Oizys begins stumbling in circles. The mist claims him, covering his eyes and obscuring his vision. This isn’t enough. It will take—

A blade cuts through his heart.

Pierro? When did he find you?

With a final cry, Oizys collapses to the ground. The miasma clears. His body turns more hazy and he ceases to think. When you approach his corpse and release your claim, his eyes are cloudy.

He’s gone.

A pained groan snaps you out of your thoughts. Pierro keels over, clutching his shoulder.

“Pierro!” Quickly, you help him sit down. “Where does it hurt? Do you feel faint?!”

Your voice can’t keep up with your thoughts. You grip his arms and inspect the wounds, horrified when you hear another hiss of pain. His mask lays on the ground, half-broken. There’s so much blood. You can’t lose—

“Compose yourself.”

He grabs your arm. The diamonds in his eyes are so clear, so bright.

“I…” You try to pull away. “Are you really all right?”

His grip is so tight, unwilling to let go. His fingertips press down on your sprained wrist, triggering another wave of pain. His glare remains terrifying.

“You will have to do more to escape from me,” he snaps.

The mist clears.

You raise your other arm. Pierro catches it in time, only for you to stomp on his foot.

He hisses in pain. “You—”

“You idiot!”

Hot tears roll down your cheeks, stinging your wounds. You try to stand up, only to collapse as dizziness overtakes you.

“______!” Pierro catches you in time, anger giving way to concern.

You glare at him. “What in the world were you thinking? Do you have no sense of self-preservation at all?!”

He examines your wounds. “That is a hypocritical statement coming from you.”

“I don’t care! It’s your fault that this all happened to begin with!”

You’ve never felt more relieved in your entire life.

You throw your arms around him and continue sobbing.

“I don’t even know the death rites for a Khaenri’ahn!” you sniffle. “How do you expect me to properly bury you?!”

Pierro lifts your veil and wipes your tears.

“You can cease your hysterics,” he says softly. “I am not letting you go anywhere.”

Behind you, Oizys’s ghost dissipates into the mist.

*✧･ﾟ

The ride home is anything but pleasant.

“The chains are still uncomfortable.”

“That is a necessary precaution.” Pierro adjusts the cuffs and gives you a stern look. “Once we return home, you will release your claim on the estate. There will be no more eavesdropping.”

At least his touch is gentle. His hand trails up your arm, from your sprained wrist to the bandaged wounds. The field doctors had been efficient.

“You will also be confined under strict surveillance,” he adds. He meets your gaze, trapping your reflection in his diamond pupils. “In our bedchambers. I will keep a proper eye on you this time.”

You sigh and lean back in your carriage seat. “You are absolutely cruel. In case you haven’t realized, I could have killed you anytime and still chose not to. And even if I wanted to do that right now, I’m too weak.”

You can’t tell if your lethargy is from blood loss or karmic debt, probably both. Despite his own wounds, Pierro seems to be in exponentially better condition.

“The creature we slew was not the true Child of Night.”

“Huh?” You look up, facing the seat across from you.

Pierro’s gaze is sympathetic. “It was nothing more than the lingering resentment of your deceased friend, so whatever claims he made were untrue.”

“I know,” you reply sheepishly.

Oizys is truly gone. No more warm smiles, blessings of happiness, or lively meals together. May his soul finally find peace.

“Here, take this.”

Mist fills the carriage. Pierro sits up in alarm, only for you to toss your thurible at him.

He catches it, surprise painting his features. “Might there be a reason why you are voluntarily surrendering your Catalyst?”

“Must I articulate my answer?” You cross your arms, leveling him with a tired look. “Take it. Add it to your creepy collection, use my blood as you see fit, I don’t care. So long as I no longer need to hold that terrible thing.”

He stares back at you for a few seconds before setting your thurible aside. “The Fatui has no use for this weapon.”

You think you can believe him this time.

You take off your veil. The fabric is torn beyond repair; you will need to sew a new one. Maybe you can ask Pierro for embroidery ideas.

Outside the window, the scenery switches to a swirling snowscape. A few Snezhnayans are walking against the blizzard.

No need to worry about them; they can persevere. If not, they should still be safe under Pierro’s leadership.

You leave your seat and walk over to Pierro’s. Pain shoots up your leg and you nearly fall, but he quickly catches you and moves you to his side.

“Don’t overexert yourself,” he mutters, but his tone is less harsh. His arm wraps around you, pulling you close.

“Hey, Pierro? Are you staying home tomorrow?”

“Why do you ask?”

You rest your head on his uninjured shoulder. “I just feel like cooking, is all. Do you have any requests?”

A short pause. When Pierro turns to you, there is a soft gleam in those four-pointed stars. A small smile cuts across his face.

“Your cream stew was my favorite.”

You smile back. “That is good to hear.”

What else? You will need to prepare the ingredients, pick the right tableware, maybe even ask Pierro if he’d like to assist you again. And so many other things.

The sky turns dark. The estate is still miles away and you will be trapped in Pierro’s company for a few more hours…and the rest of eternity for that matter. But for some reason, that fact doesn’t bother you in the slightest.

For the first time in years, you actually look forward to tomorrow.

♡

Author’s Note ๑ Side story from Pierro’s POV

Do not ask me how I ended up creating an ultra-detailed darling and a bunch of Genshin OCs for this fic. I am still processing the fact that I wrote a Pierro fic and that it turned out this way (● ˃̶͈̀ロ˂̶͈́)੭ꠥ⁾⁾

If you actually read this to the end, I hope the experience was worth it!! Thank you to everyone for eagerly anticipating this and giving your lovely feedback on my previous fics. Do tell me if you enjoyed Pierro and Savior! Darling’s story, and Happy New Year~

Tag a Pierro enjoyer!! @kocherry @mirdance @victoria1676 @mnemosyneechan @artiifex @pierroswife @fluffy-koalala @lcveaesop @teabutmakeitazure @nicebonescomrades @ansy-tea

Thank you for your interest in reading!! @yandere-romanticaa​ @ddarker-dreams​ @cinnamonest​ @yanmaresu​

[moyazaika]

oh SHIT I LOVE TALKING ABOUT WIPS!!! feels like edging my followers 💌💌😊👍 thanks for the tag harmonyyy <3 (copied ur formatting cus its 2 pretty 😓)

tag game rules; make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! then tag as many people as you have WIPS <3

ᯓᡣ𐭩 mea culpa ; this is the detective fic i've been working on for months that i rlly don't wanna spoil,, just look forward towards the end of this year for 15-20k words of an absolute mindfuck :)

ᯓᡣ𐭩 double trouble ; and it’s at the exact moment that you turn to book it to the safety of your room that strong arms wrap around you from behind. instinctively, you freeze, as someone lowers themselves to smile against your skin—

—a soft kiss to the nape of your neck, “finally found you, meri jaan.”

(inspired by the childhood best friend concept i posted about a while ago, but with double the crazy yup)

ᯓᡣ𐭩 saccharine ; you make him feel like his head is full of fucking popping candy - but he's always had a bit of a sweet tooth, so won't you be a darling and let him sink his teeth into you, pretty please?

ᯓᡣ𐭩 lamb to the slaughter ; beneath the facade of your new idyllic life, unease festers. Eden seems to be shrouded in a constant fog. The townspeople's laughter rings too loud, and their smiles stretch too wide. who is this mysterious man they call Father?

. . . and why do you feel like you're being hunted?

that's it from me HAHA i wanna tag @yandere-yearnings , @ozzgin , @darling--core , @carnivorousyandeere (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧ no pressure, just would adore to hear you guys ramble about what ur cooking up xoxo

[disneyanddisneyships]

Alastor singing hellfire about aponi

Yeeeees

Alastor walked through the halls of the church he had followed the demon Aponi into.

He had only met her a few days ago and yet.... there was something about her... something intriguing.. something..... beautiful....

Alastor shook his head at the mention of the word "beautiful". He hated the new emotions he was feeling.

He was raised in a catholic household.....

He walked up to the statue of mother Mary.

"I've never had relations with anyone..... why now am I thinking if someone in this way?" Alastor asked himself as he looked at the statue before he began to sing.

Beata Maria, you know I am a righteous man Of my virtue I am justly proud

He sang as he walked closer to the statue.

Beata Maria, you know I'm so much purer than The common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd

The look on his face of utter disgust appeared when he saw a begging old lady in the church.

Alastor walked to the fireplace, his hands behind his back with a dark smile on his face.

Then tell me, Maria, why I see her dancing there? Why her smoldering eyes still scorch my soul?

He sang as the fire seemed to make Aponi's dancing figure out of fire.

I feel her, I see her The sun caught in her brunette hair Is blazing in me out of all control

As he sang, the flame got closer to him.

He backed away only to be encompassed in it, the face of the butterfly demon making itself known in such detail that Alastor didn't know if it was only fire.

Like fire Hellfire This fire in my skin

He sang as he backed away from the flame.

This burning desire Is turning me to sin

He was never one to worry about sinning. He was in hell after all....

But he had never experienced a feeling like this....

It's not my fault (mea culpa) I'm not to blame (mea culpa) It is the sinner girl the witch who sent this flame (mea maxima culpa)

He sang, attempting to make excuses for his emotions, only for his own shadows to sing back to him... to criticize him in some way.

It's not my fault (mea culpa) If in God's plan (mea culpa) He made the Devil so much stronger than a man (mea maxima culpa)

As alastor belted the note He realized that this has to be Aponi's fault somehow.... she was manipulating him somehow... someway.....

Protect me, Maria Don't let this siren cast her spell Don't let her fire sear my flesh and bone

He sang, pleading to the Mofher Mary to help him in his woes.

Yes... it had to be the butterfly demon's fault.... she worked for Valentino.. she was using he ready to get under Alastor's skin....

Destroy Aponi Wings! And let her taste the fires of hell Or else let her be mine and mine alone

He belted.

He was taught that there should only be one woman... and that woman would be Aponi..... he was smitten... and he wanted to know how to stop her evilness....

Hellfire Darkfire Now darling, it's your turn Choose me or your pyre Be mine or you will burn

He sang as the flames in the church engulfed him again in warmth, the figure of Aponi making itself known again only to be snuffed out by alastor wringing his hands around the fire.

God have mercy on her God have mercy on me

Alastor sang in a hushed tone.

He was confused.....

But she will be mine Or she will burn

As he belted out the last note, the fire of the church practically exploded, leaving alastor's figure the only thing not on fire.

"I'll destroy her.... I'll get inside her head.... and she'll be mine," Alastor muttered.

[cipher-legal-and-ethics-dept]

So one of the things I enjoy when I do deep dives on characters is checking what their names are in other languages. Sometimes the results are pretty meh/whatever (be it because it's the same name or otherwise), sometimes they're hilarious and sometimes there are some interesting ideas and implications.

Here's one for our darling and friend of the show, Cipher Admin Ein. [Tldr at the bottom]

In the German version of Pokémon Colosseum Ein is known as Professor Culpa. Aside from giving him a nice title that I'm sure he loves and implying an academic background (to the surprise of no one), culpa is Latin and means guilt, fault or blame.

It's also technically grammatically feminine, but hey, leave the poor man be.

This is, for lack of a better term, kind of deep if you consider how he's one of, if not the main culprit (pun intended) and brains behind the creation of Shadow Pokémon, with his research enabling what are considered to be quite horrific acts in-universe - from what Cipher does to Pokémon to the all the crimes they committed in Orre using Shadow Pokémon.

There is a bit of a spiritual and/or religious angle to it too. Some of you may be familiar with the Confiteor, one of the prayers of the Penitential Act in the Catholic Church, also used in the Lutheran and Anglican Church. It contains the following passage (translation below, emphasis mine):

Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, et vobis fratres [et sorores], quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo, opere et omissione: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

I confess to almighty God and to you, my brothers [and sisters], that I have greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.

Tldr: German Ein gets weirdly deep and is probably going to hell for his sins, especially since he's not sorry at all.

Sources: Bulbapedia, Pokewiki, Wikipedia

[thclcstgirl]

hi my loves I hope you’re all doing well <3 <3 <3 

[nevarrhoe]

mea culpa (m.m) - one

SUMMARY: "mea culpa" (exclamation - noun/legal term)

used as an acknowledgement of one's fault or error.

↪ in which matt murdock accidentally falls in love with the district attorney's daughter. (masterlist + playlist)

warnings: afab reader/fem pronouns, age gap, smut, p in v, choking, unprotected sex, alcohol, swearing (and ur friendly reminder that just because something is hot in fan fiction does not mean it's hot in real life. use protection kids, and don't fuck lawyers who are fifteen years older than you.)

MINORS DNI - this has been clearly marked as having explicit content and with these clear warnings in place, you are reading this whilst being aware of said content and i bare no responsibility for what you to choose to consume. with that in mind, if someone who a) does not have their age in their bio or b) does so and is a minor, you will be blocked.

i don't even know where the idea for this series came from but i am home from uni for the weekend and the amount of times my poor mother almost saw my laptop screen whilst i was writing this was...not good. enjoy.

-jazz xx

You fucking hated these parties. 

Sweaty lawyers, classy music, champagne that cost thousands of bucks but tasted like piss. And it was all for what? For every lawyer on the Upper East Side to have a dick measuring contest and decide who the best prosecutor was? Yeah, that sounded about right.

It would have been less insufferable if the barristers in question were younger, hotter and more prone to using antiperspirant. Sadly, they were none of those things. All well past their sell-by date. You could deal with an older man but these were just…old. Daddy issues were one thing but gran-daddy issues was where you drew the line. Much unlike the gorgeous blonde girls hooked on the arms of the eighty-plus law firm partners, flaunting the expensive rocks on their fingers and praying for the day that their husbands finally keeled over and left their estates to them. You’d always sworn not to become one of them. At least not until you were twenty-seven at most - and it wouldn’t have been hard, given that your father was the District Attorney and had every high-flying lawyer in his pocket. 

You didn’t need their money though, not when you had his. Obviously, most of it was family money - district attorneys didn’t exactly make money bags. Not much of an issue given that your family name ranked a little between the Vanderbilts and the Rockerfellers. 

So there you were, perched on the edge of some random firm’s annual mixer. You’d cracked out your mother’s vintage Chanel suit - a red-and-black checkered blazer and matching mini-skirt, finished with black platform heels and a spritz of Coco Chanel. There wasn’t a hair out of place - that was rule one of finishing school. 

“Darling, are you going to mingle at all?”

Eyes flickering up from your champagne, they locked with your father’s a few feet away. The scowl was natural. 

“What am I supposed to talk about?” you asked. “They’re all boring. And old.”

“Any man here would give you a job,” he replied. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to have one.”

“Oh father, please,” you snorted. “Your great-grandad didn’t spend years exploiting oil tycoons for billions of dollars for me to break my nails working.” 

You could have gotten any job or degree you wanted - money aside, you were smart as fuck. You’d graduated top of your class at Harvard at the mere age of 21. Two years later, however, your degree was just decoration, with you having discovered you much preferred just…existing. And spending money on clothes, bags, and whatever else you fancied that day. 

“Our ancestors worked hard-” 

“- I never said they didn’t work hard,” you cut him off. “You clearly put a lot of effort into sucking Wilson Fick’s dick.”

Shoving your glass of champagne into your father’s hand, you blew him a kiss and stalked off. 

It was that particular conversation that caught Matt Murdock’s attention. 

He stood a good few meters away from you, nursing his own glass of barely-touch bubbly and fiddling awkwardly with his tie. Foggy Nelson had dragged him there - c’mon Matty, it’s just a formality he’d said - and then duly fucked off to flirt with a stunning law clerk. What a jerk. 

Your comment had been flippant, but it was the first mention of Fisk’s name in a negative light that he’d heard all night. It was no wonder he wasn’t very popular there, given how his law firm had attacked the big guy. 

“You look bored…” you trailed off, eyes flickering down to the name tag on Matt’s lapel. “...Murdock.” 

That wasn’t why you’d come over to him. Okay, maybe it was a little but also because he was a) a stunningly attractive man in a room of viable Jabba the Hutt’s and b) his blazer was just a little too tight for his arms. He’d been meaning to get it taken out a little but man, life was just so busy at the moment. 

It took exactly five seconds for your entire being to fill his senses. Faint Coco Chanel and expensive body cream, all of which had clearly been used to mask the smell of tobacco. Expensive tobacco too. The taste of champagne lingered every so slightly on your breath, but not enough to show you’d had that much. He could read you just from that. You smelt like you - or your daddy, most likely - had money and it was clear you weren’t big on drinking. At this event, at least - because what socialite in modern day Manhattan didn’t have a drinking problem? 

It was weird how he could tell when people were staring - it was just a sense that their lingering eyes just happened to be in his direction. But even if he was in their line of sight, it was clear they weren’t looking at him. No bets that you were one of the best sights in the room. 

Matt was bored. You were bored. And that was where the entire problem began.  

The lawyer gave you a smile. “This isn’t really my scene.”

“Oh, please,” you beamed back at him. “It’s not mine either. You should be grateful you can’t see what’s going on right now - it’s like watching hundreds of Rich Uncle Pennybags drag around their discount Pamela Anderson sex dolls.”

Matt let out a derivative snort. Hell, you were funny too. 

“I very briefly remember what Pamela Anderson looks like,” he replied. “Even a discounted version of her is arguably still very beautiful, no?”

“Mmm,” you hummed. “I mean…I would.”

“I can only assume based on the way you’re speaking about these established lawyers that you’re not one of them?”

“Absolutely not,” you shot back. “I never got around to passing the bar.”

“So why are you here?”

“My old man’s the district attorney,” you replied. “And I can tell by the way your face just fell that you don’t like him.”

“I don’t not like him-”

“- it’s okay, Murdock,” you cut him off. “Rest assured, I probably hate him more than you.”

“So I’ll ask again,” he raised an eyebrow. “Why are you here?”

“Family obligations,” you rolled your eyes. “But what I wouldn’t give to stop playing happy families and leave this godforsaken hall to drink alcohol that doesn’t taste how my Great Aunt Betty smells.”

Matt normally wouldn’t have accepted your hint, but he was so done with the night already. Daredevil aside, he hadn’t been living a very exciting life the last few weeks. Maybe it was time he did something for himself. Something younger, funnier, and prettier than the woman he would normally find in New York on a Saturday night. 

“Are you even old enough to frequent establishments that sell alcohol?”

“Oh, you’re funny,” you huffed. “Old enough by just over two years, but I can assure you I’ve been drinking much longer than that.” 

Matt smiled. “Then I might know a place.”

–

All eyes were on you the second you stepped inside Josie’s Bar. Not for the same reason they’d been on you at the last event. 

Your outfit alone probably cost more than the yearly rent of this hole. It was a nice hole, though. Nicer than you’d expected. Even if the carpet was sticky on your heels and the air thick with tobacco. At least here you wouldn’t have to hide your own smoking habits. 

“What’s your poison?” Matt asked. He kept a hand on the small of your back, guiding you to the bar. Nice.  

You glanced at the bar, scanning the shelves for your choice of intoxication. 

“I’ll take a double dark rum and coke, please.” you replied - half to Matt, half to the woman behind the bar who you assumed to be Josie. 

“Diet coke?” she teased. 

“Not necessary- regular is fine,” you replied. “I assume you accept American Express platinum here? I’ll tip as well.”

Josie smiled. “Touche - and for you, Matthew?”

“I’ll take an IPA.”

You smiled, resting a hand on Matt’s shoulder. “I kind of liked just calling you Murdock.”

“I don’t mind if you want to keep doing that,” he replied. “That little play with the AmEx card was cute.”

“Oh yeah?” you quirked an eyebrow. “I’m not gonna let her talk down to me just because I’m not…working class like everyone else in this bar.”

“How long did it take you to come up with a nice word for poor?” he teased. “Didn’t they teach you grammar in private school?”

You ran a hand down his arm, acrylic nails leaving a trail of goosebumps. “You like running your mouth, don’t you, Murdock?”

“Sweetheart, you have no idea.”

Maybe this was unlike him. Actually, maybe it wasn’t unlike. In fact…it was more like him than the everyday Matt Murdock he liked to let in. It felt a little sacreligious that it was a pretty rich girl that brought it out of him - never mind that you were at least ten years younger - but hell, he’d take it. Life was short and he knew how fun the daughters of rich businessmen could be. Elektra Natchios was testament to that and was arguably much less of a good time that you were so far. 

You slid his drink towards him. “Better get drinking then, huh?”

–

You tried to outdrink Matt.

Matt tried to outdrink you. 

And that was the only explanation as to how you were still at Josie’s by final call. Neither of you were drunk - tipsy at a push - and somehow, you were both walking the line between giving the other your all and still playing hard to get. You’d learnt that Matt was a tease - no doubt a smooth talker in the courtroom - and he could easily keep up with your taunts and jabs. 

“I can’t believe we got kicked out!” 

You’d stumbled out the bar about two minutes before, arms linked with his to guide him down the street. Matt’s cane was tucked up neatly away now - he could have pretended to still use it, but the way you held onto him and led him down the street did far too much to his senses to deny himself of it. It was a mixture of expensive perfume and rum, and what felt like electricity every time your hand touched his wrist. 

“It’s called closing time,” Matt shot back. 

“In my world, that’s just a Green Day song,” you said. “You go a few blocks east of here and they’ll stay open as long as you keep paying.”

“We could go a few blocks east - or we could go one block south and go back to my place.”

You grinned. “Lead the way! Wait - oh my god. Was that really mean?”

He chuckled, grabbing your hand and leading you in the opposite direction.

Matt’s apartment was nice - high ceilings and big windows, though sparsely furnished and minimal at the same time. You followed him through to the kitchen, kicking off your heels and sliding into a bar stool beside him. He threw aside his glasses and cane, spinning around to face you.

“So, tell me,” you began. “How does a small-time lawyer like you afford a place like this?”

“I take men like your father to court,” Matt suavely replied - he reached across the counter and yanked over a bottle of scotch, popping off the lid. “Care for some?”

“Mm, Glen Mckenna,” you glanced at the label. “I’m not much of a scotch gal, Murdock. At least scotch that’s only thirty years old.”

“It’s older than you, sweetheart.”

“My age hasn’t been much of a problem the rest of the night,” you shot back. 

You unfolded your legs, ever so slightly pushing up your skirt as he did. You knew Matt couldn’t see, but some part of you knew even more that he was picking up on your signals. 

That suspicion became something of certainty when he practically threw aside everything on the kitchen counter, large hands grabbing your hips. Within a matter of seconds, as though something had snapped, he had you placed on top of the cool wood, fingers splayed into your sides and mouth just inches away from yours. 

“You’re really playing the age card, huh?” his voice was raspy; bare, green eyes dark with lust. “You know nothing.”

You gave him a grin. “So teach me.”

Matthew Murdock’s lips were on yours before you’d even finished your sentence. Not unlike his hands, they were thick and calloused, bringing a thousand senses over you at once. He was clearly an experienced kisser - and a giving one too. Worlds away from the immature frat boys you’d spent the last few years gallivanting about with. 

He was right -you did know nothing. 

But that was just it, right? Matt was older than you - ten years, fifteen at the most. You’d slept around here and there but hell, nothing had been like this. Two minutes into whatever the fuck you were about to do and Matt had you shaking, cocky demanour gone; hands tangled in his hair and cunt begging, craving for a man you’d never even had before. 

Matt’s teeth tugged on your lower lip and you knew then you’d completely lost your mind. The moan that escaped your mouth only lulled him on, hands squeezing your hips even harder and pulling you closer towards him. 

You felt it then, pressed against your lower stomach. He was hard as fuck. 

“Stop teasing,” you grumbled. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Matt hissed. 

Still, he obliged. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he pulled you off the counter, carrying you over to the sofa. He held you with only one arm, free hand tangled in your hair and holding your lips on his. 

You both fell onto the couch, clothes flying everywhere. It didn’t matter how expensive your stupid vintage Chanel was then- it looked much better on his floor than it had ever had done on you. Matt’s shirt and pants followed suit, landing before yours in a crumpled pile. 

“You in some kinda fight club or something?” you paused, tangling your hand in Matt’s hair and pulling him back. Your free one followed down his torso, fingers ghosting across the pink ridges on his abs. No complaints here. 

“Less talking, sweetheart,” he brushed aside your comment. “=

“Who put you in charge?”

“Me,” his words were muffled, barely audible as he attached his lips to your neck. “You gonna do as I say?”

“Or what?”

“It wasn’t a question.”

Matt’s lips were quickly replaced by a calloused hand on your throat. He gave it a light squeeze, a wicked smile spreading across his face when your wise demeanor was suddenly gone. He pressed another kiss to your neck, then another, following up to your ear. 

“If it gets too much, you say - okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” you replied. “I promise I can take it.”

Another kiss, this time on the lips. “Good girl.”

You let out a whimper, brain not entirely sure what to focus on as Matt’s hands went to work. He kept one on your throat, squeezing it just enough to earn a moan out of you, the other creeping up your thighs and gently slipping inside you. That caught you by surprise - how gentle he was, and yet completely the opposite at the same time. 

Matt pushed you down into the cushions, hand still gripping your throat. His fingers curled inside you - back and forth, back and forth. A steady beat that hit the right spot over and over and over. Ecstasy took over your body like a rush, senses consumed by nothing but him. 

“Matt,” you murmured. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me, darling,” his voice was still gruff, holding some type of contagious venom at you for distracting him. “I’m getting plenty from this.”

And he was. He was getting everything. The quickening pace of your heart, the smell of you, the tiny moans and whimpers that escaped your mouth every time he so much as moved. It was exultation for him as well - and almost completely sinful, the way it made him feel. Not that he gave a fuck about any religious figure in that moment. The man was willing to spend an eternity repenting his sins if it meant just one night with you. 

You came quicker than you ever had with anyone - better than you ever had with anyone. It rushed over your body like a fountain of cold water, ripping from your stomach and up to your already-dysfunctional brain like the sharp drop of a rollercoaster. Falling, falling, falling, until Matt’s hands grabbed you and grounded, softly caressing your face, holding your jaw as you cried out his name. 

“You want to stop?” he gently asked. 

“No,” you sharply sat up, scowling. “Didn’t I say that I would tell you-”

“- careful with your tone, sweetheart.”

Matt grabbed you by the hips again, pulling you down into the sofa. The next few moments were unbearable in the best way - a blur of teeth on your neck, chest, stomach and thighs, barely even registering what was going on until you felt his tongue swipe over your folds. A cry escaped your mouth, still overstimulated from your last orgasm. 

“If you want something,” Matt popped his head up, shit-eating grin across his stupidly gorgeous face, “you should just say.”

“Stop fucking teasing.”

He moved back up towards you, brushing his lips against yours. “You make it so easy.”

With that, Matt placed his hands on your ass and hoisted you into his lap. He gave it one final slap before grabbing his dick and maneuvering into inside you - you couldn’t help but let out a moan of relief, dropping your head into his shoulder and gently biting his skin. 

“Didn’t take you for a biter,” he chuckled. Running a hand up your back, he dusted across your shoulder, large fingers finding place on your jaw. “Move.”

And move you did. 

It was heaven the way he felt inside you - his fingers had been one thing but this was incomparable. You didn’t give a fuck about a stranger’s neighbours at the best of times, but you had absolutely no respect in that moment for anyone belove or below (in more than one sense). You were loud and Matt fucking loved it. He couldn’t see you - couldn’t see your glazed over eyes or freshly bruised and bitten skin - but hell, you filled his other senses enough to make up for that. 

You kind of knew the minute you met that he had a big dick. It was in the way he held himself: confident, but humble. Funny, but in an unassuming way. And it hit just the right spot, repeatedly edging the same spot that his fingers had tired out just moments before. 

It went on for a few more minutes; you were completely lost in one another, brains barely able to comprehend that you’d known each other less than twelve hours. 

You didn’t need to tell Matt that you were - he knew, and rather than slowing it down so that you could revel in the last few moments, he picked up the pace; hand tightening on your throat, other squeezing your ass in a way that was sure to leave a mark in the morning.

Your second orgasm was indescribable - you opened your mouth to let out a yell and yet, it was silent. Your acrylics clawed up and down Matt’s back, digging into him in an attempt to ground yourself. That only egged him on, the sting adding to his euphoria as he came undone inside you. 

Matt laid you back down on the couch, pressing kisses to your jaw as he did. You frowned when he began shuffling about - then he produced his shirt from the floor. He maneuvered your arms so that he could pull it over your head, before reaching for a blanket from the back of the couch and wrapping it around your middle. 

“You’re amazing,” he murmured. “I’m gonna go get you a cloth. Don’t move.”

“I’m never moving,” you softly chuckled. 

He smiled. “Good.”

[avengerscompound]

The Sometimes Friend - 6

The Sometimes Friend:  A Loki Fanfic

Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Loki x OFC (Svana)

Word Count:  1661

Warnings:  Smut (F|F, bondage, blindfolds, minor knife place (like very very minor), magic, face sitting, orals sex, vaginal fingering).

Synopsis:  Sometimes at odds, sometimes friends, sometimes lovers, Loki and Svana share a bond that stretches millennia and few truly understand.  This is their story.

Chapter 6

Loki came into Svana’s room and flopped dramatically onto her bed.  She looked up from her book and raised an eyebrow at her.

To everyone’s eyes, Svana had settled back into the palace life easily, casting away the trappings of the seidr and slipping back into the silks and gold of the place.  Frigga had been bending over backward trying to make her feel like she had a place in the court.  Now no longer was she just a scullery maid with a friendship formed with a prince.  Now she was part of the court.  A witch that was under the direct employ of the king and queen.  Someone to act as a seer, alchemist, and enchantress.  It seemed a little redundant when Odin, Loki, Frigga, and Heimdall were already all skilled in such things, but Svana knew the job was not about her skills.  It was Frigga’s mea culpa - and as such the position was a token position and Svana was left with a lot of free time to scheme.

She and Loki were biding their time.  From the outside, it appeared that the plan to return Svana to the palace had worked.  Loki had calmed down and she was fitting in.  It had been the perfect solution.  Or at least that was how it appeared.

“Are you bored, darling?”  Svana asked, pushing Loki with her foot.

“I am always bored since you returned,” Loki huffed.  “All this waiting is not my idea of a good time.”

Svana tossed her book aside and crawled down to Loki.  “Did you have a plan in mind?”

Loki reached up and twirled a lock of Svana’s hair around her finger.  “I was thinking about letting a bilge snipe loose in his room, but seeing as we’re here…”

Svana chuckled and bit her bottom lip.  “You are not usually so small-sighted nor so easily distracted.”

“Maybe I wanted this all along,” Loki teased, pulling Svana down into a kiss.

Svana smiled into her sometime lover’s lips.  She had missed being with the chaotic god.  She never knew what to expect and which kept her on her toes and made her feel a little more alive.

Loki’s fingers tightened in her hair and she flipped her over suddenly, it made Svana squeak at the unexpected turn.  “I’ve learned a new trick,” Loki teased.  “Would you like to try it?”

Svana nodded.  “I do like getting a little glimpse of how your mind works.”

Loki laughed softly and pushed Svana’s hands above her head.  She waved her fingers and a rope of glittering gold appeared in it.   Svana smiled as she watched her lover begin to bind her hands to the posts of the bed.  “Your conjuration is spectacular, Loki.”

“Thank you,” Loki said, genuinely pleased by the compliment, something she lacked in the rest of her life.

She carefully bound the cord around Svana’s wrists.  She was artful with her ropework, loving the way it looked as it crossed back and forth over the other woman’s wrists.  When she was bound to Loki’s satisfaction, Loki placed a blindfold over Svana’s eyes.

Svana relaxed back onto the mattress and gave herself to her other senses.  Loki summoned a blade.  It was medium length, curved, and shimmered with a dark iridescence.  She used it to slice through Svana’s dress, rending the fabric in two and exposing her pale freckled skin.  Loki ran the flat of the blade along Svana’s bare skin, tracing around her areolae and over her stomach.  Svana moaned and her skin broke out into goosebumps under the wake of the blade.

“Are you ready, lover?”  Loki purred, as she vanished the blade again.  She stood and shimmered out of her clothes, part of her wishing that she’d let Svana see that too.  Loki’s magic had developed a great deal since their separation as she had put all her energy into causing trouble and becoming the best at something that Thor struggled with.

“Completely,” Svana hummed, stretching under Loki.

Loki twisted her wrists and green light emanating from them.  Around her, the air crackled and shimmered as she pulled the energy in close.

Svana moaned and arched her back.  It felt like there were hands all over her.  Her skin prickled and buzzed under the strange sensation.  “How are you doing this?”  She asked as she spread her legs.

“I’ve been practicing with illusion, this is a physical one,” Loki explained.

“Mmm… I like this one,” Svana hummed.

Loki chuckled and straddled Svana’s face.  Svana’s tongue darted out immediately, lapping from Loki’s entrance to clit and flicking over the sensitive bud.  As the tart musk of Loki’s arousal coated Svana’s tongue it felt as though there were hands everywhere.  They ran over her skin and pinched and tugged on her nipples.  Everywhere there was pressure was also a soft buzz, like an electric current as come to life and decided it wanted to pleasure her.

She felt a press between her thighs and then, seemingly impossibly a tongue running up her folds.  It wasn’t wet, but it was cool and sent a buzz straight to her core, making her muscles clench and spasm.  She cried out into Loki’s cunt and jerked at her bonds.  Above her, Loki let out a breathless chuckle, a different kind of current passing through her thanks to the attention Svana was giving her clit.

Svana’s senses felt overwhelmed.  It was like Loki was pleasuring all of them, right down to the heady flavor that filled Svana’s mouth with each flick of her tongue over the god’s pussy.  Even as she felt herself being picked apart at the seams, Svana couldn’t help but be impressed by the magic involved.  She knew what this kind of spell cost and Loki wielded it like it was a child’s sleight of hand trick.  Svana did not doubt that her own magic could make her head of a coven if that is what she desired, but Loki could become the sorcerer supreme.

Svana began to buck under Loki, thrusting her hips up against the force that was sending shockwaves through her.  She tried to stay focused but it all became too much.  All at once, her muscles seized up and she came crying into Loki’s cunt.

Loki’s hand bunched into Svana’s hair and she pulled her up so that Svana’s face was pushed into Loki’s cunt.  Svana focused on her task.  She sucked Loki’s clit between her lips and flicked her tongue back and forth over it as quickly as she could.  Loki threw her head back and moaned loudly, grinding down onto Svana’s face.  All the while there still felt like there were hands on her.  Her breasts ached under their attention and her clit throbbed.

Loki flicked her wrist and a sharp current shot straight up Svana’s spine.  She came again, bucking up hard and coming as her back arched off the bed.  Loki groaned, moving her hips faster, and when Svana’s body settled she pressed her lips around it.  She suckled on the tiny bud and with a loud cry, Loki came over Svana’s face.

Loki hummed and climbed off her lover, her magic settling again.  She took off Svana’s blindfold and the redhead blinked up at her, smiling.  “Has anyone ever told you how phenomenal you are?”  Svana asked.

“Not nearly enough,” Loki teased, though truthfully she had never heard such praise.  She unbound Svana’s arms and began to rub the tension from them.  “That has definitely alleviated my boredom.”

“I’m glad to be of service, Loki,” Svana said sitting up and cuddling up next to Loki.

Loki wasn’t one for cuddling, but she would tolerate it for Svana.  Besides, she did like how the other woman would trail her fingers over Loki’s bare skin like she was trying to map it with her fingertips.  Svana curled a lock of Loki’s raven hair around her finger.  “I do love to imagine Odin’s face each time he hears of our coupling.  How each time we do it, he knows you bested him.  He has to accept that despite his best efforts to prevent this, he has to bend and accept there is naught he can do to stop it.  Not even banish me.”

Loki laughed and relaxed back onto Svana’s bed, letting the smaller woman curl up against her shoulder.  “I do try not to think of my father while fornicating, but if I must, that is a pleasant thought.  It is a way to taunt him in between other mischiefs.”

Svana laughed.  “Exactly.  Though now I feel like doing something more.  If you hadn’t gone around creating a small army of bastards I might have feigned a pregnancy, but now I feel it will be expected.”

Loki laughed and pinched Svana’s hip.  “Hey now, you keep my bastard children out of it,” she said in a rare showing of affection for her brood.  “Though, each time I announced another it looked as if my father had been stabbed in the side, so that was an added bonus.”

“No wonder they called me back.  I bet he’s wishing he’d let us be the childhood sweethearts he believed us to be,” Svana said.

“I’m sure he believes we’d be happily married with grandchildren he actually cares for,” Loki agreed.  “That’ll teach the old tyrant.”

“Mmm… and there will be more to come,” Svana hummed.  “I want to see him naked and begging to be allowed to stay in his home.”

Loki frowned.  She wasn’t so sure about that.  Mostly she just wanted Odin to love her for who she was and treat her as an equal to Thor.  “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure he pays for that,” she said.  “In the meantime, I did have an idea for hiding Gungnir from him.  The old fool will start thinking he’s losing his mind.”

Svana clapped her hands and straddled Loki’s lap, looking down at her.  “I like the sound of that.  Tell me more.”

// NEXT

[jointimeandspace]

Time to get back in the swing of things with my Remembrance story.

Mea maxima culpa- (through) my most grievous fault

Remembrance (Part 2- Redux)

December 8, 1957

Sweet Macy, my baby! It's been three years ago to this day that you and I spent that marvelous time in my dressing room-how the years fly by so quickly. This situation is definitely "mea maxima culpa," and it's probably too late for apologies, but darling, I am so sorry that I didn't write to you up until this point. I just know you're upset with me, and I don't blame you whatsoever. Unfortunately, your sweet Miss D has been ill and I didn't want to make that known to the public. I was so weak that I could hardly pick up a pen, let alone stand. I decided to seek treatment when I was here on tour in Romania and have been residing here ever since. It was one of the greatest decisions of my life! You have no idea how wonderful I feel now: it was as if I were gaining a second chance. So much has changed my little doll, and...well I hope to see you, if you grant me your consent. I would write all three years in detail, but meeting in person would make everything easier to explain.

Whenever you are comfortable, please ring me at this number (0373-6617-4441). And should you say yes to visiting, just inform me when you want to leave. I'll have everything prepared for you: money, your plane ticket (first class of course), and transportation from the airport to my new humble abode. I miss that sweet face of yours! Your eyes have been ingrained into my mind since the day you and I met. I often wonder if they've thought of me in this ridiculous time span that I've been "awhol" away from you.

I hope you call. I need to hear that beautiful voice.

Yours truly,

Alcina!

[visceralcoma]

First Line Game

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors! Thank you for the tag,@paracosim, this looks like fun.

So because I have a ridiculous amount of fics I work on at any given moment, i'm only going to grab the first lines of the last 20 I published and/or updated of fics longer than 500 words and some I i add more as the first lines are game lines.

Rippling the Pages (Harry Potter, OC Insert Portal Fantasy): There were three things Raz knew for a fact.

Ropes, Tangles, and Nauts (Greedfall, M/F, "Woke up Married" Vasco/De Sardet): It wasn’t often that Vasco woke in his captain’s quarters hungover.

Fit Together (Cyberpunk 2077, M/F, Johnny/V fic) :“You’re a dick, you know?” “And you're a cunt. Maybe we'll fit together after all?” Johnny smirked while lounging backwards in V’s surroundings.  It’s not like he had an actual effect on things, what with being in her head.  The only time he could do anything was when he took control of her body.  And she’d be damned if he did it while she was conscious again.

Cleanest, Least Bloody Option (Cyberpunk 2077, explores & somewhat fixes one of the darker game endings): "Cleanest, least bloody option." The words came out, like a relief, like she'd been fighting the inevitable.

Driving Mister Silverhand (Cyberpunk 2077, explores what Johnny thinks of V's driving): The first time V got into a car since Johnny woke up in their head, had been a disaster.

Try Not To Think About It (Cyberpunk 2077, Vik tries not to think about how much time V has left) : “Hey Vik....” V’s voice pulled Viktor from the screen where the replay of last night’s match was on.

Touch (Dragon Age: Inquisition, M/M, Cullen/Cole exploration of how it would start): He was sinking - suffocating.

The Savages' Union (Dragon Age: Inquisition, M/F, Inquisitor/Cullen - Avvar!Cullen AU): When she woke to a gag firmly in her mouth that was tied securely at the back of her head, she screamed.

La Gordita Frita (Cyberpunk 2077, M/F, Jackie/V exploration): Before, during, and after every three-nighter rager she’d dragged Jackie through she always craved empanadilla de papa.

Mea Culpa (Dragon Age: Inquisition, F/M/M, Portal Fantasy/MCIT OC/Felix/Clemence): When the Tevinter Magisters invaded under the guise of “talking” with the rebel mages, the servants of Redcliffe castle refused to serve them.

Losing (Cyberpunk 2077, M/F, Jackie/V exploration): "Pinche gordo pendejo." V swore up and down as she slammed her hand down on the table.

Sins Against the Wall (Dragon Age: Inquisition, M/F, Portal Fantasy/MCIT - Blackwall/OC ) : The cold harsh morning wind of the Frostbacks bit through the barn’s walls and wormed its way under the layers of pelts, furs, and blankets Blackwall slept under.

The Forging of the Iron Lady (Dragon Age: Inquisition, F/F, Vivienne exploration, Vivienne/Enchanter Lydia) : The day Vivienne arrived in the Ostwick Circle, she was but a scrap of a girl.

In the Gutters (Greedfall, M/M, Constantin/De Sardet/Kurt): Arsène stepped up to the coin tavern.

Load Baring Naut (Greedfall, M/M, Vasco, Constantin/De Sardet): "What's this? A stowaway on my ship?" Vasco eyed Simon De Sardet, who knelt before him in the captain's quarters. "Oh well we can't have that, now can we?"

Fuck with Honour (Greedfall, M/F/M, Vasco/D Sardet/Kurt): “Green Blood, you sent for-oh-uh.” Kurt stuttered as he caught sight of her sitting on the bed with one breast out of her chemise as she fed the fussing bab.

he Golden Damsel (Greedfall) : When news of Teer Fradee reached the streets for the “first” time, the natives of the island became a topic among the lower levels of the coin tavern.

No Deed Left Unpunished (Dragon Age: Inquisition, Portal Fantasy/MCIT, Cole/OC): I can’t come in unless you open. He should have said that out loud. The inky red snow crunched under the soles of his shoes with laces that didn’t listen.

Vessel (Cyberpunk 2077, M/M, Placide/V: "You are my vessel now. Through Agwe, I see what you see, hear what you hear." Placide said while his eyes glowed. There was something else he wasn't saying, something he kept back.

The Shape of Magic (Dragon Age: Inquisition, Portal Fantasy/MCIT): Red energy twisted up with a clap of thunder and the swirling red mass lifted above the city in an undulating mass.

Tagging my fav ppl and authors: @thereallonelyagain, @alyssumflowers, @chocolatecatcupcakecheese, @cass-darling, @paraparadigm, @maladaptivemischief, @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold, @goblin-tea, @red-hot-chili-tiefling, @kunstpause

[cassatine]

Regarding the senate representation question, I think your analysis misses something important: space habitats. The advanced life support tech in Star Wars means that folk can live in space indefinitely, for generations even. The idea of having representation based on territory/planets/sectors doesn't really work then. If someone lives on a TF ship, all of their life, no sector senator could really represent them, only a corporate senator. Besides, the TF pays taxes, so shouldn't it have a vote?

Yeah huh maybe you didn’t know but the poor fuckers living in moving company towns are not exactly a salient feature of SW so what can I say? i’m very sorry I didn’t feel like I had to account for their hypothetical existence.

I’ll also say I very much support your right to declare real or fictional legal frameworks unfair; having said that and done my mea culpa, let me remind you that you asked “why you don't think the Senate should have representation for groups like the Trade Federation“, and that half my reply was about the legal argument that in SW canon Senate representation is constitutionally built around geographical entities, period. I pretty much went “well from what we can work out of the constitutional framework it’d actually be illegal for the Trade Federation to have a seat”, and whether you (or I, for that matter) believe that framework is fair to all isn’t really relevant to the way said framework works.

Still, you do bring an interesting question to the table, even if you’re not very imaginative wrt how to solve it. Because there are plenty of ways (however imperfect they may be) to represent the moving company towns inhabitants -- believe it or not, but the set of issues brought by non-stationary space habitats isn’t actually new. You’re basically asking “how do we give representation to nomads”.

And yes, I say “nomads” because time to point it out, but your corporate Senator scheme does not actually ensure representation for all spacers (a handy term for people living their whole lives in non-stationary space habitats), a grave oversight if your concern truly is the representation of people rather than that of corporations: you’re only accounting for people living in moving company towns (and assuming the TF would actually allocate ship space and resources to their retired workers which, excuse me, is kinda loltastic), and ignoring several other possible spacer groups! Shame, dude. What about the people belonging to spacer cultures? The independant contractors? The nomads by choice? They bring the exact same issue to the table (lifelong nomadism in a representative system built around sedentarism) but they sure af can’t be represented by a corporate seat.

(And in any case, att the risk of repeating myself, a corporate Senator represents the corporation’s interests, not the workers’. It’s in the interests of the workers to have decent salaries and work hours, paid holidays, health and retirement plans, etc etc; it’s in the interests of the corporation to slash all that to maximize profits. That’s like, Capitalism 101.

So my friend, my dude, my darling ayn rand stan -- if you were really actually concerned about workers, you’d be arguing for Senate seats for workers’ unions rather than for the corporate overlords. You’d be arguing they know their interests better than said corporate overlords, that in fact suggesting those overlords know better is a classic classist stance long used to argue for the disenfranchisement of the poor and the working class.)

Anyway, here are some ideas to ensure representation for those Trade Federation workers (and other spacers) living in non-stationary space habitats you’re so very concerned about:

Jus sanguinis: spacers are represented by the Senator(s) of whichever sector(s) their parents come from. Or they grandparents, or their great-grandparents, whatever.

Alternatively: they’re represented by the Sen. of the sector they were born into. 

In the context of regular ship routes, their Sen. is the one from the sector where they spend the most time

Alternatively: the space equivalent of multiple nationalities applies and people are technically represente by the Sen. of each sector their route take them to.

Alternatively: people get to choose which sector they’re members of out of those their route take them to.

if we gotta go with non-sector seats... UNIONS THAT’S FUCKING OBVIOUS OMFG I cannot believe you have the galls to play the “Im so concerned about workers :(” card and your fucking solution is arguing for the corporate overlords getting CORPORATE SEATS instead of pushing for UNION SEATS. The only way you can argue for a corporate Sen. over an union one is if you’re playing the card that the corporation knows the workers’ interests better than they do themselves, which, eew. (listen I’m tired and I’m not arguing this. meet me in a denny’s parking lot if you feel strongly about it)

some kinda combination of the above.

Alternatively, your choice, I can’t have covered all options

btw, if we can deal with multiple nationalities on one fucking planet, you bet they can do the equivalent at the federal level in fictional space pseudo-republic

AND NOW THE KICKER

Besides, the TF pays taxes, so shouldn't it have a vote?

Wrong audience, you right-winger, you neocon, you ayn rand stan. Also super confusing, considering we were talking about Senate seats and not voting rights. I’m so fucking lost -- do I have to explain the difference between a Sen. seat and a vote, seriously, I’d just about call it a day.

Anyway I’d ask what is it with people equating paying taxes and voting rights, but I see the pendent to your shitty take regularly among wannabe libertarian reformers of democracy: the idea is to have an income tax-based property qualification system because really, why should the people who don’t contribute (the tax-exempt poor) get a say? Fuck the poor, and let’s pretend it’s all in the name of democracy.

Look, the version of democracy I buy into does not link citizenship to one’s ability to pay taxes, and that’s really the simplest way I can say it. I believe all the members of a community should get a say in the way that community leads its affairs, not just the members who can afford to contribute monetarily.

Also like. Even if I were to give you the taxes = rights point. Even in a pseudo-democracy with a property qualification system in which one’s voting rights are linked to one’s ability to pay taxes... a corporation is not a citizen.

[tiaragqueen]

Mea Culpa

✂ Pairing: Yandere! L Lawliet x Reader

✂ Word Count: 828

✂ Trigger Warnings: Malnutrition, seclusion, mention of binding, yandere theme.

[Edited]

***

Look at how innocent he looks compared to the drastic measures he'll take to force his darling to submit to him.

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“You played dead, but you never bled. Instead you lay still in the grass, all coiled up and hissin'.” - Keep On Loving You [REO Speedwagon]

L always said that you were as sweet as strawberry shortcake. You weren’t sure if he was referring to your looks or personality, but you thanked him nonetheless. It flattered you to hear the praise, despite his deadpan demeanor and the oddity of his praise.

Too bad your life wasn’t as sweet as the cake he liked to eat.

Speaking of cake, you were starving. And there was nothing seem more mouthwatering than a slice of strawberry shortcake, regardless of whether you were fond of sweets or not. Literally mouthwatering because you could feel saliva dripping through your sagging and chapped lips, but you didn’t care.

You didn’t care if you hadn’t taken a bath in four days. You didn’t care if you still wore the same clothes as yesterday. You didn’t care if you resembled a ghost from the way the [h/c] mop framed your pale and sunken face. All your attention was zeroed in that dessert and how you could steal it from his hands despite the chains that bound your skinny form against the wall.

“Are you going to surrender, [Name]-san?” L spoke the same question that he asked every day to the point where you could predict it when he opened his mouth. “Your stomach has been growling since four days ago.”

Raspy breath scratched your dry throat as you kept your gaze on the plate as though it would disappear the second you blinked. Like it was an oasis and you were the thirsty traveler, desperate for a drop of water.

“… Give it… to me.”

L blinked owlishly and leaned forward a little. One look from his seeming confused face was enough to tell you that he had heard what you said. He pretended to mishear it because there was no gratification from easy compliance. Or maybe you were just excusing his behavior because he might be secretly a sadist for all you knew. “What did you say?”

“Give it to me!” The chains rattled wildly as you thrashed about, hands reaching out to touch even the rim of the plate. You didn’t know how you managed to snap at him and wriggle around despite the deficit energy within your body. However, you suspected starvation must have compelled you to react quicker to the sight of food.

“I’ll give it to you,” he paused, stygian irises observing your frenzied movements with inhuman calmness. “if you apologize first.”

Your scream almost matched to that of a banshee's, half from rejection and a half from impatience. Unexpectedly, tears started to blur your gaze and trickle down your hollow cheeks. Why were you crying? Why were you showing weakness after you had sworn otherwise? Was your resolve that weak?

“Sorry! I’m so sorry!” you bawled, the intensity of your stir slowly weakening.

And yet, despite your tearful apology, it still wasn’t satisfying enough for him. “Sorry for what?” he asked.

“For everything! For reporting you to the police, for leaving the house without your permission, for lying to you! I’m so sorry…” You dropped your head, ashamed of yourself; of everything that shouldn’t have been your mistakes in the first place.

Because they really shouldn’t. Because it was only natural for you to report a criminal to the police and save yourself. There was nothing to be ashamed about. In fact, you should be glad that you had taken the risk to ask for someone’s help; to go against his order. But here you were, stewing over the past.

He was the world’s greatest detective, after all. Did you think you could fool him without facing the consequences? Did you think you could frolic around and ‘betray’ him without his knowledge?

L stared into your eyes, as though judging the sincerity of your mea culpa, before slowly putting down the cake. You immediately devoured it like a ravenous wolf, oblivious to the dollops of white cream that spattered your mouth and chin. And your occupied state provided him with an opportunity to approach you without a vicious growl or frantic yell.

“You know, [Name]-san, I was planning to release you tonight.” L wiped the blobs from your jaw with a handkerchief, noting the way you instantly stopped eating and snapped your head to look at him with shrunk irises. “But it seems your behavior still hasn’t changed much. So, I've decided to let you stay for another night.”

L stood up and walked towards the door, ignoring the way you disregarded your food to chase after him. You didn’t succeed, of course. You could never succeed unless you fully realize your faults and apologize to him. Even then, there was no way he would let you go out again.

Peering through his shoulder, L waved innocently on the doorway. “See you later, [Name]-san.” he simpered.

He was mocking you, you knew that. But it wasn’t like you could do anything other than watch as the light ceased from the small room and, ultimately, your eyes.

[des8pudels8kern]

Apparently female ferrets can die if they go into heat and then don’t mate.

That settles it. If I ever do a Witcher daemon AU, Jaskier's daemon will be a ferret. Lanky, ridiculous, curious, likes company, very active during dusk and dawn, cute but actually a predator, and, well:

Unless they are going to be used for breeding purposes, female ferrets will go into extended heat. A female that does not mate can die of aplastic anemia without medical intervention. (wikipedia)

AU!Jaskier will definitely be telling people he will literally die if they don’t sleep with him, appealing either to their soft heart (safe him!) or their pride (who else can say they gave someone an orgasm so good it saved their life).

Jaskier will of course also use this excuse whenever he’s gotten in trouble by playing sword-into-sheath with the wrong person.

“Yes, they did just chase us out of town, and with pitchforks, all in all a less than dignified departure, but we would have died, Geralt, died! Ugh, this rain is terrible; I’d be drier if I jumped in a lake. Anyway, I had to have sex with the groom the eve before his wedding because I had to have sex right then and there and no one else happened to be around... in his bedroom... at night. Or would you rather we’d be dead now? Do you care so little for me, your very best friend in the entire world, and my darling, dearest Buttercup, that you would trade our lives for a night in a warm, dry inn?”

His beloved Buttercup peeks out of the relative shelter of his doublet, her furry little face a mask of hurt betrayal and disappointment that would make any actress proud, and vanishes again, ostensibly too disappointed to even talk to him.

Geralt is pretty sure he shouldn’t believe either of them, but he’s a witcher. It’s been so long since he woke up alone after the trial of the grasses that he barely remembers what having a daemon was like at all, let alone whether or not how affected their existence is by the form they settle in. Cue that doesn't sound right, but I don't know enough about demons to dispute it-glare.

Also:

It is possible to use a vasectomised male to take a female out of heat.

Virility optional. That means sterile works just as well. You know, sterile like a witcher. ...You see where this is going, right?

(I assume Jaskier and the (very lazily named, mea culpa) Buttercup are actually only horny, wanton drama queens who love love and not actually going through fuck-or-die cycles. But I still feel like I should apologize for even thinking about it.)

[thoughtslikeaminefield]

Like Liquor

Summary: Brooke is fairly new to the Lux crowd, but she believes Maze and Lucifer about being from Hell. They quickly become friends - and then much more.

Characters: Lucifer Morningstar (3rd person POV) x OFC x Mazikeen, OFC x Maze

Words: 2468

Warnings: explicit, Lucifer is the devil but he’s also delightfully British and really nice to look at, Maze is my wife aggressive and sexy and kind of scary but also beautiful and wonderful and... I’m gushing aren’t I?, speaking of gushing - female ejaculation/squirting, Brooke is gorgeous and funny and, self-described, plus-sized black girl, pegging

Happy Birthday, @ilovefanfic86! I’m sorry it took so long. I hope it’s worth the wait. xox

The familiar sounds of sex – pleasure and delighted pain, lasciviousness – permeated the air as he stepped from his penthouse lift into the main room. The sounds were coming from his candlelit bedroom. Maze was there – he could tell that much. 

He’d had a long day with Chloe. She was still remaining distant after their not-date. Whatever awaited him in his bedroom would be a welcome distraction, he hoped.

Once he reached the steps to his bedroom, he saw them in all their glory. “Hello,” he spoke quietly, removing his jacket to drape over the armchair. He began to unfasten his cuffs as the women lazily gazed up at him. “Someone sent me an edible arrangement.” Desire dripped from his lyrical voice.

Maze grinned wide, hovering over Brooke. For Brooke’s part, she looked slightly stunned. 

“You all right, darling?” Lucifer asked, pushing her damp hair from her glistening forehead.

Brooke found out months prior that Maze was a demon and that Lucifer was the real deal, yet that didn’t seem to put her off in any way. She was a vivacious, bold, and beautiful woman. Lucifer had watched Maze watching her many a time in the club with that look on her face. He was thrilled to see the development unfold.

He was also aware that he would need to tread lightly. Maze was possessive and he wouldn’t dare misuse one of her toys.

“Better than,” Brooke replied, taking a deep breath and nuzzling into his touch with a sigh.

“I assume since you’re here in my bedroom that I’m welcome to partake?” he asked, fully removing his shirt and toeing his shoes under the bed, eyes flicking to Maze for permission. She nodded.

“Maze, you really should’ve warned me,” he teased, curling his accent the way he knew Brooke liked to hear. “I’d’ve been much better prepared.”

Maze possessively pulled Brooke with her across the bed. “Like I’m not,” she answered with a chastising look then glanced to where she’d left her chest of devices open on the floor by one of the windows.

Lucifer followed her gaze. “Ahh, mea culpa,” he said as he kneed his way into the fray. “How could I think any less of you?”

Maze had moved to Brooke’s side, offering her to Lucifer, pressing her own breasts to Brooke’s back. “You’re gonna want a taste,” she said, gripping Brooke by the knee and pulling her open, tucking Brooke’s foot around her own calf. “I’ve been edging her for an hour,” she said casually, combing her fingers through Brooke’s silken strands.

They’d gone earlier in the day to get their hair and nails done, get waxed, do some shopping – girl stuff like Chloe says. Maze wanted to treat Brooke. It started out innocently enough.

Brooke moaned as Lucifer grinned wide, settling himself to get to the gift Maze presented him.

“It’s her birthday,” Maze said, propping up enough to be able to watch the show and still have hands on her girl.

Her girl – he knew that Maze had started thinking about Brooke as hers about a week before; she’d told him as much. She didn’t like the way the new bartender flirted with Brooke, either. He’d heard Maze threaten the man, and the man hadn’t looked at Brooke since.

“Ohh,” Lucifer said, sliding fingers through Brooke’s wet, swollen folds. “Then this is a special occasion.” He flicked his eyes up to meet hers as he dipped in to kiss and lick her – tentative and teasing, holding her gaze.

“Maze,” he spoke, slipping his eyes to his best friend’s. “When are we going to let her come?” He began to finger inside, rubbing and exploring.

“Go ahead,” Maze said, pressing a kiss to Brooke’s temple. “I was waiting for you. Make her come.” She dragged her mouth along Brooke’s jaw and down her throat, nipped and licked. “Make her come. Hard.”

Lucifer hummed. “Alright, then,” he answered, still teasing, testing. “But I want to play a bit first.”

He pushed two fingers inside her, slowly twisting and rubbing, listening to her gasp, taking her clit between his lips every time she bucked into his face. All the while his other hand roamed the arcs and bows of her body, thumbs grazing dark, taut nipples. He dragged his palm down flat between her full breasts and over the curve of her belly then pushed a third finger inside her.

“Do you want to come now, Brooke?” he murmured, blowing puffs of air over her wet skin, mercilessly holding her at bay. “Do you want to come for your mistress?” As he established the scene his eyes caught the fire in Maze’s and his ears filled with Brooke’s whimpering.

“Yes, yes, please,” Brooke whispered, wrapping an arm up around the back of Maze’s neck. “Kiss me.”

Maze dipped her head in for a kiss while Lucifer worked Brooke earnest, rubbing the pads of his fingers up along the tender spot inside her, mouthing her clit, humming a tune no one recognized, vibrating against her just right. If he knew Maze, and he certainly did, her edging would have Brooke ready to come right then.

And she did, in wet waves, gloriously spraying his neck and chest.

Maze held Brooke as she came down. They kissed. Lucifer wanted to give them the time together, so he went to Maze’s toy box. He could hear them talking, Brooke sounding elated. He wanted to give her more without overstepping his bounds.

When he turned back to face them, Brooke was on her back, knees raised around Maze where she was slotted between them, slowly grinding.

“Maze,” he said, wielding the complex but delightful equipment. It was what he wanted. He knew it was one of Maze’s favorites, and it had been a while.

She looked up, at first seeming annoyed by his interruption, until she saw what he was carrying to the bed. Then her eyes lit again. “Please tell me you’re thinking what I’m thinking,” she said, pushing up and away from Brooke and crawling to meet him halfway.

“I certainly hope so,” he answered, as Maze quickly accepted the strap-on then expertly adjusted into place – for her pleasure and for his.

Lucifer moved on Brooke who’d begun to sit up, curiosity twisting her smooth brow. “Oh, no, darling,” he said, gently laying her back and taking Maze’s place between her smooth, thick thighs.

“Is that what I think it is?” Brooke asked, smiling slyly, relaxing into the plush bedding. She ran her hands from his hips up to his chest and over his shoulders as he did the same to her, paying special attention to her tight, dusky nipples.

“It is,” he whispered, covering her with kisses and guiding his way inside her. “And it’s wonderful.”

Brooke gasped with his slow push in, closed her eyes then opened them again. They were black with need. “Will Maze enjoy it, too?” she asked.

“Fuck, yeah, I will,” Maze answered from her position behind Lucifer.

Lucifer took his time, listening to Brooke’s quiet sounds, feeling her soft and hard caresses, reveling in Maze’s ministrations with her tongue and fingers.

“You’re getting harder,” Brooke breathed in wonder. “God, that feels… unreal.”

“Maze is very good at what she does,” he said, kissing her lips and neck. “But I guess you already know that, don’t you, love?”

Brooke grinned and nodded, grinding up into him, gripping his ass and pulling him open wider for Maze. “Fuck, yeah, I do,” she echoed Maze’s earlier sentiment.

“I do enjoy being the meat in this power lady sandwich,” Lucifer joked, rubbing noses with Brooke. “But I want to warn you, Brooke – once Maze sets the rhythm, you’ll never recall another experience quite like it.”

He felt it then, the firm head of the phallus strapped to Maze’s powerful hips, sliding around his hole. He resituated himself, pushing in and pulling out of Brooke in shallow thrusts. “Ready, darling?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Maze,” he spoke quietly, sacredly, his eyes closing and breath leaving his lungs as she pushed inside in one slow thrust.

For a moment the three of them simply breathed. Brooke spread her legs wider, clawing at Lucifer’s backside as he half-knelt between her open thighs. He was buried deep inside her, but still – waiting for Maze to move.

Maze let out a long sigh. “That was a ‘yes’, I’m hoping? Because we are going, my pets,” she said, gripping Lucifer’s hips to pull out – almost all the way – pulling him with her. She pushed back in and all three of them groaned.

“Jesus fuck,” Brooke swore. “Christ...” She swallowed thickly under Lucifer’s intense gaze down at her, watching Maze’s hair swing over his shoulder as she moved. “Sorry – I know you don’t like it when I say God and Jesus, but fuck!”

Lucifer laughed out loud at that until Maze slammed into him hard, gripping the back of his hair. “Let’s remember our place here,” she growled. “Give her the best, Lucifer,” she licked a stripe up his neck. “And I mean your best.”

“Not a problem, Maze,” he hissed before refocusing on the task at hand. “You’re driving, but it’s my cock inside her.” He smirked, his eyes flaring.

“And you like that, don’t you, Maze?” he asked, keeping his eyes on Brooke, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the sheen of sweat over her dark skin making her glow majestically. “You like me as the puppet on your… string.��� He gnashed his teeth and took everything Maze gave with pleasure.

“You know I do,” Maze said, jolting his body against Brooke’s, making it hard for him to forget his own enjoyment – Brooke’s wet, sucking grip around his cock and Maze sliding over that spot over and over, deep and rough.

He wanted to feel her, though. He wanted to feel Brooke come before he had his. He braced himself under Maze’s dominant onslaught and angled his hips to stroke the spot he’d found with his fingers earlier.

“Touch yourself, Brooke,” he said, dragging her hand by the wrist down between them. “Mistress wants you to come again.” He kissed her as he felt her fingers slide over her clit. “As do I,” he muttered, loving how Maze drove the strength and pace as he kept his angle right where Brooke needed it.

“Good, ‘coz I’m gonna,” Brooke breathed, shaky. “Harder, Maze? Please?”

Lucifer groaned at the desperation in her tone and her eyes. “Look at her, Maze,” he marveled.

Maze, without missing a beat, picked up momentum, harder thrusts were exactly what they got. “You want it hard, princess?” Maze grit through her teeth, a live wire. “You got it.”

She gripped Lucifer’s hair again and growled in his ear. “Don’t you dare come until she does.”

He scoffed, offended to the ends of the universe. “What do you take me for?” he said, swirling his hips and making Brooke squeal. “Do you think I’m new?” Lucifer brought his A-game right then. He wanted to ratchet it up slowly, but Maze seemed to have a different plan.

He was loose but controlled – and not just by Maze. Through the years, Lucifer and Mazikeen had found the perfect balance. He couldn’t imagine there was a better pair in any world at what they did together – pleasure-seeking and giving. They’d made it fine art.

And Brooke was reaping the benefits.

She was a babbling mess of filthy words and lust beneath him. Maze’s drive and his focus, pushing her to heights she most definitely had never been. “Fucking fuck,” she swore, taking what they gave. Brooke was just taking it, and he loved seeing her so abandoned and free.

“I can feel you now,” he said, as she started clenching erratically around him. “Come, Brooke.”

“Oh, shit!” she shouted, squeezing tightly around his hammering cock as she arched her back from the bed.

Lucifer slowed their thrusts with a tap back on Maze’s thigh. In answer, Maze dragged him back until he was seated in her lap. “Brooke, baby, show Daddy some love, huh?” she breathed, beckoning her girl.

Brooke lazily rose, blissed out and wasted. She crawled to kneel in front of Lucifer and gripped him in her hands, slowly pumping him.

Maze slid her hand up into the sweat-dampened, curling hair at Brooke’s nape and pulled her in for a deep kiss. She kept fucking into Lucifer as Brooke worked his cock. Then she turned her mouth to Lucifer’s ear. “Does Daddy want to come now?” she asked, pulling the shell between her teeth.

“Yes,” he breathed, leaning his head back on her shoulder. “Very much.”

“Then come,” Maze said, taking Brooke’s mouth with hers once again as Lucifer spurted hot over Brooke’s fist.

“Ahh, fuck that’s good,” Maze whined in a voice Lucifer was well-acquainted with - she was coming too.

~~~~~~~

“D’you know what you’re getting into, love?” Lucifer asked, stretched long and lean behind Brooke, curling gently around her.

“I’ve always known,” she answered quietly, watching Maze, naked in the kitchen, opening a bottle of champagne.

“I mean with her,” he pushed, dragging fingers over her bared curves. “Maze can be… possessive.”

Brooke nodded, burrowing deeper into his embrace. “It makes me feel good,” she answered. “I don’t feel like anyone’s ever loved me like that before.”

Lucifer nodded, brushing his lips over her temple. “She is very loyal,” he said. “And as much as she won’t admit it – she’s fiercely loving.”

Lucifer’s phone rang from the nightstand. When he retrieved it, he saw that it was Chloe. He swiped to answer

“Detective,” he said by way of greeting. “To what do I owe the honor?”

There was another case – obviously. Chloe hadn’t been phoning him for much else lately. Especially not at such a late hour. Once disconnected from the brief and terse conversation, he gingerly pulled away from Brooke.

Maze stepped up into the bedroom just as he was standing to dress. “I overheard,” she said. “You’ve got a case – so I only brought two glasses.” She arched her scarred brow and swept past him to climb back into bed with Brooke.

“Yes, do make good use of my bed, my champagne, and my glassware while I’m gone,” he said, quickly dressing. “While you’re at it, I’m sure there’s a side of salmon in the refrigerator-”

“Already heating up the grill,” Maze said, toasting their now full glasses then shooting Lucifer a look. “Tell Chloe I said ‘hi’.” Brooke giggled and Maze gave a sarcastic smile.

“Of course,” he answered, dressed to kill once again as he jogged down the steps and toward the lift. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” he called out as the doors began to slide shut.

Before they closed entirely, he heard Maze snort. “Which leaves us to do whatever the fuck we want, baby girl.”

Brooke’s satisfied giggle closely followed, and Lucifer smiled.

If you like what you’ve read, please let me know and/or buy me a coffee!

[grelleswife]

Uh I hope this works I couldn't find chess emojis anywhere?? ♟patching a wound! With sebagrelle! All I can see is in secret bassy making it up to grelle for having to fight her on his master's orders. :(

Uff, some angst! Here you go, nonny!

“Mea culpa.”

A scarlet gash was scored from the top of the reaper’sleft shoulder to the small of her back. Slashed by a Phantomhive knife.

My hand dealt the blow.

No, he mustn’t dwell on that…it would cloud his mind,and he needed to focus on cleaning the wound as gently as possible, sewing itup a stitch at a time, doing everything he could to ensure that it healed properly.

But it will still leave a scar, and youknow how scars upset her because they’re unladylike…

He mustn’t ruminate on that. Focus. FOCUS!

“Mea culpa.”

This shouldn’t have happened. Grelle had unexpectedlydropped by the manor this evening to surprise him. They should be in eachother’sarms right now, curled up contentedly in their bed, or enjoying a clandestinedance on the rooftops. Instead…

Damn that spoiled, entitled brat. Damn him!

How was Grelle to know that the young master would betoo tormented by nightmares and his own troubled thoughts to sleep? How couldshe possibly have guessed that the Earl would resort to pacing about outside,petulantly demanding that Sebastian keep watch? She’d realized her mistake assoon as she’d appeared on the grounds, materializing in front of them from thereapers’ realm with a broad grin that had abruptly slipped away as her peridoteyes locked with the Phantomhive heir’s incredulous gaze.

“What the devil are you doing here? Sebastian,get him off the premises this instant! That’s an order!”

Her, Sebastian had wanted toretort, but he was in no position to argue, regardless of his anger at such blatantdisrespect towards Miss Sutcliff.

Please, he’d silently beggedGrelle with his eyes as he reluctantly approached, drawing out his knives. Fearcoiled in the pit of his stomach with its biting chill. Flee, dear.

That hadn’t been an option, though, at least not rightaway. Demon and reaper both knew what tragedy might befall them if Sebastian’smaster caught wind of their relationship, the feverish kisses and whisperedpromises hidden in the shadows. They would have to act as strangers, enemies.Luckily, Grelle was a consummate actress. She’d given him a quick wink, as ifto say, Don’t you fret, darling, before leaping at him with a whoop,death scythe at the ready.

It was a dance in which he and his partner must strikea precarious balance between appearing sufficiently aggressive and avoidinginflicting harm on one another.

A horrible question had flashed across his mind.

What if the young master orders me to killher?

After all, Grelle had ruthlessly struck down the brat’saunt. Sebastian was painfully aware of the Watchdog’s vengeful tendencies andcapacity for rancor, highly unusual for a mere slip of a child.

Nerves stretched to the breaking point, wracked withdread, Sebastian had been a second too fast. Grelle had been a second too slow.In an instant, blood spurted from the wound inflicted by his silver cutlery.

I hurt her.

I HURT her.

Was this all that demons were good for? Bringing pain?

“Mea culpa.” The last stitch was in place.

If that knife had gone just a few inchesdeeper…

No!

Don’t think about that!

She was alive, alive, alive. He reached out to gripher shoulder to reassure himself of this fact, anxiously breathed in the warm,comforting scent of her hair, her soul. Alive.

After the young master had at last retired for the night(Damn the brat! If not bound by the ironclad mandates of their contract,Sebastian would have snapped his neck without the slightest qualm), thePhantomhive butler had raced to the woods into which Grelle had vanished after beinginjured.

She’d waited for him, run into his outstretched armswithout hesitation. Each trembled within the other’s embrace as they realizedhow close their brush with disaster had been. Sebastian had insisted he patchup the wound.

This, then, was guilt—a crushing weight that suffocatedthe heart and darkened the mind.

What if I lose her trust?

What use were apologies? They would not undo what hadbeen done. Still, he repeated, brokenly, “Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…”

“Bassy.”

She shifted to face him.

“I’m at least partially to blame, darling,” shewhispered, tenderly laying a hand on his cheek. “I was careless. Sometimes lovemakes a lady impetuous. I know you had no choice.”

“But I hurt you…”

“True, but youalso put me back together again. I would do the same for you.”

She touched her forehead to his and nuzzled himgently.

“All isforgiven.”

[vfdbaudelairefile13]

Chapter Forty-Seven:

The One Where Olaf’s in a Dress

 

 

The closer that the Baudelaire siblings got to the eye-shaped building, the more Sunny felt like she wanted to throw up. She didn’t want to lose Klaus again. She didn’t know how Klaus could be physically with her but mentally a million miles away, but she did know that she didn’t want it to happen ever again. 

She turned to Klaus and shook her head. “Reditus,” Sunny pleaded, which meant, “You can’t go back there,”

“Sunny…”

“Periclum,” She replied, which meant, “It’s too dangerous, Klaus. Something happened to you last time.”

“I don’t care...I have to be able to see,” he said in a false confident voice. He was trying to act tough for his baby sister, but on the inside, he was terrified. He didn’t know what happened to him last time, but he was right when he said that he needed to be able to see.

“Nocere,” she pointed out, which meant, “What if you get hurt?”

“Sunny, you’re the one who wanted to stay!” Klaus cried impatiently.

“Mea culpa,” she said looking down to the ground, which meant, “I know this is my fault, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I put you in danger. I don’t know why they blame our parents for the fire, and I don’t care anymore. I just want you to be safe.”

“This isn’t your fault…”

Sunny shook her head. “Effugere,” she suggested, which meant, “Yes it is. We could run away. We could hide until the next train arrives, and take it as far as possible. We know how to work in a lumber mill now, so we could get jobs in some other town.”

Klaus shook his head. “But what if he finds us? Who would protect us from Count Olaf, if were all by ourselves?”

Sunny looked at Klaus baffled. “Praesidio!” She shouted, which meant, “He has found us! And we can protect ourselves!”

“How can we protect ourselves when one of us is a baby and the other can barely see?” Klaus asked.

“Ante!” Sunny shouted, which meant, “We’ve protected ourselves before. We’ve always protected each other.”

“Just barely,” Klaus pointed out, “We’ve just barely escaped Count Olaf each time. We can’t run away and try to get along by ourselves without glasses. We have to go see Dr. Orwell and hope for the best.” 

Sunny gave a tiny shriek of fear. “Relinquo,” she pleaded, which meant, “We have to leave.”

“And we will...after we finish at Dr. Orwell’s,” Klaus said in a soft tone.

“Bomby!” Sunny shouted, which meant, “We don’t know what will happen to you inside there. It’s like the Great Unknown!” 

Klaus chuckled. “That’s a myth, Sunny.”

“Dada,” Sunny suggested, which meant, “that’s not what Father told me,” 

Klaus rolled his eyes. “Father loved to tell old wise tales. He stopped telling them to me because I got too old and logical, Sunny.”

“Bomby!” She said again, which meant, “We still don’t know what happened to you last time!” 

“Well this time...I have you to protect me,” Klaus said smiling down at his baby sister. Sunny couldn’t tell if that was meant to be sarcastic or serious, but she had no time to question her brother’s tone since they had arrived at the eye-shaped building.

Both Baudelaire siblings looked at the eye-shaped building, and the building looked back at them. To Klaus, of course, Dr. Orwell’s office just looked like a big blur, but to his sister, it looked like trouble. Klaus reached for the doorknob.

“No!” Sunny hissed incredulously, “Nolen,” which meant, “You’re not going inside.”

“What else can I do?” Klaus asked quietly. He began to feel along the side of the building to find the door, and it’s at this point in the story of the Baudelaires that I would like to interrupt for a moment and answer a question that has been asked by many of my associates over the years. It is an important question, one which many, many, people have asked many, many times, in many, many places all over this world. If you continue to choose to look this misery in the eye, you should be asking that very question. 

It’s the same question that the two Baudelaires should’ve asked, and a question that the beloved Beatrice should’ve asked on the day that she had died (although I have reasons to believe that she had asked this question...but it was far too late), It is a question I am sure that Lemony Snicket, himself, had asked several times during dire situations. 

And that question is: Where is Count Olaf?

If you have been following the story of the two Baudelaire orphans since the very beginning as closely as I have researched it, then you know that Count Olaf is always lurking around these poor children, plotting and scheming to get his disgusting hands on their parents’ fortune. Within hours of the children’s arrival at Lucky Smells Lumbermill, Count Olaf and his nefarious assistants--the word ‘nefarious’ in this case means “Baudelaire-hating”--were already on the scene, sneaking around and committing dastardly deeds. And yet so far he has yet to beseen by either Baudelaire orphans. So as the two youngsters reluctantly stepped foot into Dr. Orwell’s office. I feel it is my duty to tell you... very nearby. 

They were immediately greeted by Dr. Orwell, who smiled sweetly at the Baudelaires while holding her long black cane with a shiny red jewel on the top. “Why hello, Klaus. I didn’t expect to see you back so soon. Don’t tell me you broke your glasses again.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Klaus admitted.

“That’s too bad, sweetie.” She said rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. “But you’re in luck, it shouldn’t take as long as it did yesterday.” Dr. Orwell smiled at Sunny, who shot her a suspicious glance back. “And you’ve brought your adorable baby sister with you, how sweet.”

She patted Sunny on the head. Sunny stared at the woman up and down for the second time today. It was the same sweet woman she had met earlier when Dr. Orwell delivered her brother’s glasses to him. She was glad to not see count Olaf disguised as Dr. Orwell.

“Come on,” Dr. Orwell said, showing the way with her black cane. “Shirley, my receptionist, made some cookies that the little baby can eat in the waiting room while I make Klaus’ glasses.”

Klaus just nodded and followed Orwell slowly to the waiting room, they walked along a hallway decorated with medical certificates. “This way to the office,” Orwell said holding out her cane for Klaus to grab with his free hand to help him walk without bumping into everything. “Klaus told me he's an avid reader, do you like to read?” Orwell asked Sunny. Smiling when she noticed the young infant slowly beginning to relax.

“Yep!” Sunny shrieked.

“I’ve been teaching her how to read,” Klaus pointed out happily, as he was beginning to relax.

“Awww, that is so sweet. What a good big brother, you are.” Orwell replied, sneaking an eye roll that Sunny did not notice.

Orwell gave the waiting room door a little push and had the children follow her. Sunny glanced around the waiting room and her heart immediately dropped. The waiting room was a small one, and it looked like most waiting rooms. It had a sofa and a few chairs and a small table with old magazines stacked on it, and a receptionist sitting at a desk. But when Sunny looked at the receptionist, she saw something that made the younger Baudelaire orphan bare her teeth as she began to growl and glare.

 A nameplate on the desk read, “Shirley”, but this was no Shirley, even though the receptionist was wearing a plain pink blouse, with a red belt around the waist. Underneath the belt was a long pink skirt with yellow patterns embroidered on it. The outfit also included red heels, a pair of glasses that looked suspiciously similar to the ones that Dr. Orwell and Klaus had, a pair of white earrings, and red lipstick. The receptionist had their strawberry blonde hair up in a weird hairstyle. But above the red lipstick and just below the hairdo was a pair of shiny, shiny eyes that Sunny recognized at once.

When Sunny began growling and struggling in Klaus’ arms, Klaus began to tense up again, wondering what had his sister so agitated. “Sunny…”

Dr. Orwell looked shocked. “What’s wrong with the little sweetheart,” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” Klaus said squinting to try to see what Sunny was staring at, but no matter how hard he squinted he could not see anything but a blurred silhouette of a person sitting behind the receptionist’s desk.

Sunny starts flipping out once Shirley smirked at Klaus. She tried her best to get her brother to let her go. “Sunny, what’s wrong?”

“Badman!” Sunny yelled. “Fucker!” 

Klaus’ heart dropped knowing immediately what his sister was talking about. Klaus tried to squint but in the other direction. “Where?” he asked desperately holding Sunny closer to him in order to protect her, which further annoyed Sunny, who wanted to be put down so she can attack Dr. Orwell’s receptionist.

“What’s wrong, kids?” Orwell asked feigning confusion.

Both Baudelaires ignored her, as Klaus began to practically spin in circles trying to locate what Sunny was talking about. It wasn’t until Shirley stood up that Sunny bared her teeth again. “Bite!” she yelled warning him. Shirley stayed behind the desk shooting Sunny a glare. Sunny turned to Klaus. “Olaf,” she said. “Der!” grabbing Klaus’ face and trying to get him to face the villain. But every time Sunny pushed his face, he turned his whole body in that direction instead of simply turning his head.

Klaus began to shake nervously. He continued squinting in every direction. Klaus was pissed, this was completely unfair of Olaf to do. Not only was Sunny an infant, but without his glasses, Klaus was blind. Both Baudelaires were more defenseless than they had ever been before. “Where, Sunny?”

“Recep!” Sunny exclaimed, which meant, “he’s the receptionist!” 

“The receptionist?” Klaus cried.

“Why, hello darling little children. How are you today? Would you like some freshly baked cookies?” Shirley asks in a ridiculously high voice. 

Klaus began to shake violently and he held Sunny even closer to him. “Olaf...show yourself!” he yelled squinting in the opposite direction. Sunny tried her best to get her brother to turn the correct way but it was beginning to seem pointless. So Sunny turned to face Olaf glaring at him.

“My...my...my... You are such a silly child. My name is Shirley and I am right here sitting at my desk,” Shirley explained.

“You’re Olaf!” Klaus shouted, still not turned to face the villain. Klaus continued to shake even if he somehow found the courage to yell at Olaf. 

“No, my name is Shirley. It’s on my nameplate and my name badge,” Shirley explained.

“Bull!” Sunny yelled.

Klaus gave up trying to see Olaf and began to try to backtrack out of Dr. Orwell’s office.

“Children, you seem confused…” Dr. Orwell said.

Klaus shook his head furiously. Still trying to find the exit. 

Shirley smirked at Sunny. “Yes. My name is Shirley, I am a lonely receptionist and I would love to have children of my own. Two orphans, in fact.” Shirley explained, “One of each. A vision-impaired obedient little boy and a baby girl with a set of teeth that’d be considered a dentist’s nightmare.” Shirley says, walking away from the desk and closer to Klaus and Sunny.

“Sucks for you! Sir and Charles are raising us!”

“Oh, he’ll hand you over soon enough…” Shirley replied in a harsh whisper. “Just wait and see,” 

“I bite!” Sunny warned.

“Dr. Orwell,” Klaus cried.

“What’s wrong, children?” the optometrist asked in her sickly-sweet voice.

“Please...you have to listen to me, your receptionist is a notorious villain,” 

“Bastard!” Sunny added.

“Children...I don’t understand...what are you talking about?” she asked as she gently grabbed Klaus’ arm to keep him from finding the exit.

“Shirley is a man named Count Olaf in disguise,” Klaus explained, his heart beating rapidly. “Please, call the authorities!” 

“I’m confused, too, Dr. Orwell,” Shirley replies. “I don’t know who is this Count Omar person is, although he does sound quite handsome.”

“Your name is not Omar! It’s Olaf! Not Shirley, or Sham, or Stephano!” Klaus yelled as he began to shake more.

“See, I’m utterly confused. I think the boy is just scared of the optometrist,” Shirley said mockingly. “So I’ll forgive him for calling me by the wrong name,” 

“Dr. Orwell, please. Please believe me,” Klaus pleaded.

“Now, Klaus...Shirley does have a point. You were nervous yesterday and you admitted that you were nervous during your first trip to the optometrists. Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you, sweetheart.” Dr. Orwell said in a concerned voice.

“I bet the little crybaby needs his mommy and daddy to hold his hand,” Shirley said mockingly smirking at Sunny, knowing Klaus can’t see any of the faces that were being made. “But alas, they won’t be helping him out...ever again.” 

“Fucker!” Sunny shouted growling.

“Let me tell you what,” Dr. Orwell said gently taking Sunny from Klaus. “Why don’t we just go back and get you some new glasses and then you and your baby sister can leave and go back home.” 

“No...no…I can’t leave her in here with him,” Klaus explained reaching out for his sister but unable to see her.

Dr. Orwell set Sunny gently down on the couch and handed her a cookie. “She’ll be fine, Shirley will stay here and simply watch her.  We should be done in a jiffy, Klaus.” 

“No, you don’t understand!” Klaus cried. Dr. Orwell gave a quick smirk to Shirley, which Sunny did not see because she was too busy glaring at the receptionist. She walked over to Klaus and gently grabbed his arm.

“Wave bye-bye to your sister,” Dr. Orwell said kindly to Klaus. “We’ll be right back, Sunny,” she called out as she gently dragged Klaus into her examination room closing the door behind them. 

Sunny glared at Shirley from the couch. “Bite!” she warned again. Olaf merely rolled his eyes at the infant, who began to bare her teeth at the villain. Shirley smiled at the infant. “Animo!” she yelled, which meant, “I’m not scared of you, bitch!” 

Sunny watched as the villain shook his head and shrugged his shoulders indicating that he has no idea what she was saying. She rolled her eyes and carefully thought about how she could interrogate Olaf.

“Hide?” She asked, which meant, “You’ve been cowardly hiding in this eye-shaped building since we’ve arrived haven’t you?”

“Perhaps,” Shirley replied.

“Team?” She asked, which meant, “And you’re in cahoots with Orwell, aren't you?”

“Possibly,” 

“Zom!” Sunny yelled, which meant, “And somehow Dr. Orwell and you turned Klaus into a zombie!”

“Maybe,” 

Sunny glared at the villain. “Re!” Sunny cried, “And she’s going to do it again, right now, isn’t she?”

“It’s within the bounds of the imagination, dear child,” Olaf replied smirking at Sunny. “Would you like to hear what I imagine happening to your brother?” he asked with a big toothy grin. 

Sunny took a deep breath. “Redrum!” she shouted, which meant, “If you lay a finger on my brother, I’ll kill you with my own bare hands!” 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Olaf replied rolling his eyes. “I imagine someone taking a sharp, sharp knife and just slicing away at his little orphany skin, but the trick is to not immediately kill him. Oh no, that’d be letting him off way too easily. No, I imagine whoever gets the honor to do this, allowing all of his blood to slowly pour out....sort of like a waterfall. Oh, I can hear the screams of agony already. Music to my ears! ” Olaf hissed laughing like an unhinged psychopath. He was trying his best to scare Sunny, but what Olaf still hasn’t learned about the younger Baudelaire orphan is she was tougher and braver than she looked. Sunny’s eyes went wide with anger, not fear as she stared down the disguised villain. 

 “And there’s no one to save him…” Olaf commented mockingly. “Just a stupid little baby,”

Sunny’s blood began to boil. “Bite!” She cried as she quickly climbed down from the couch. Olaf stood up shocked and terrified of the feral infant who was making her way towards him. Sunny was now out for blood. She didn’t give a damn about anything other than protecting her brother.

“Get back!” he yelled as he threw cookies at her.

“Rip!” She yelled angrily as she reached Shirley, which meant, “If you hurt my fucking brother again I will rip you to shreds with my four fucking teeth, you worthless piece of shit!” She opened and closed her mouth rapidly imitating the act of biting to freak Olaf out. It seemed to work because after he threw his last cookie at Sunny, he screamed and ran towards the door that Klaus and Orwell walked through. To Sunny’s dismay, he closed the door behind him before she could reach it, keeping her trapped in the waiting room. But worst of all keeping Klaus trapped in there with him and Orwell.

______________________________________________________________________

Dr. Orwell helped Klaus find the chair. Klaus was shaking, imagining what Olaf could be doing to his baby sister right now. “Dr. Orwell,” 

“Yes, Klaus,” Dr. Orwell asked. “Are you nervous?” 

“Well, yes...” 

“Now, Klaus. Didn’t we go through this yesterday, everything is going to be fine. This won’t even take as long as yesterday.” Orwell interrupted, feigning a look of concern.

“It’s not you that I’m freaking about...it’s your receptionist!”

“I don’t see why,” Dr. Orwell said as she turned Klaus’ chair towards the screen.

“Dr. Orwell, please listen to me. Your receptionist is not named Shirley. Your receptionist is Count Olaf in disguise, ”

Dr. Orwell was silent for a second, as she slowly began to smirk. “ I know, ” she hissed at Klaus before Klaus could process what she had just said, he heard two loud, metal clangs! As leg and arm restraints came down, restraining him to the chair. Dr. Orwell started chuckling as Klaus heard another loud, metalclang! As she pushed down a head restraint. 

Klaus began to struggle against the restraints at first, but when he realized that he was hopelessly trapped, Klaus began having a full-on panic attack worse than every other panic attack he’s ever had. His body violently shook and trembled in the chair, as his heart started beating rapidly. His breathing became sharp and difficult. His eyes were moving every which way trying to focus on something to bring himself back to reality. He felt tears falling from his eyes. Klaus’ mind kept reminding him of the last time he was trapped and the horrendous deeds Olaf had done. Klaus started screaming as loud as he could, but most of his screams were hoarse because his breathing had affected him, he felt like his body was going numb and he was becoming lightheaded from his breath becoming short and sharp. Almost immediately, he started pleading with Orwell. “I’m sorry...I’m sorry...I’ll behave...I promise I’ll behave,”

Orwell looked at him confused seeing that she hadn’t even said much to him. Only confirming that she knew Shirley’s true identity.

“Please...please...don’t let him hurt Sunny. Let him take me…” Klaus pleaded, as he began to lose the feeling in his hands and feet. He shook his hands and kicked his feet the best he could in the restraints to stop the tingling numbness. 

“Oh, Klaus. Your sister will be just fine...for now. You see, Olaf wants to get a hold of you brats legally so no one can stop him.” Orwell explained.

“L-look, if...if...you let me go...I’ll give you my half of the Baudelaire fortune once I turn eighteen. I...I don’t need the money.” He pleaded still suffering through his panic attack.

“Oh, Klaus, silly boy,” Orwell chucked.  “It was never about the fortune to me...it’s about…” Orwell began.

“Oh, Georgina...don’t tell him what else this is all about,” Shirley interrupted walking in front of Klaus. Shirley gave the young boy a big smile. “It’s so lovely to see you again, Klaus.” Shirley hissed chuckling. 

Even though Klaus’ vision was blurred and he couldn’t see Olaf clearly, all it took was Olaf’s voice to send him into another panic attack. He shook and trembled against the restraints of Dr. Orwell’s chair. The only thing his mind could think about was the possible ways that Olaf was going to hurt him this time. The young boy closed his eyes trying to imagine himself anywhere but here.

“Wait, I thought you were watching the baby,” Orwell commented glaring at Olaf.

“She’s a useless baby. What can she do other than bite?” 

Orwell looked at Olaf with a highly unamused expression. “Did you run in here because she threatened to bite you?” 

Olaf looked away from Dr. Orwell, slightly embarrassed. He rolled his eyes, “The brat has fucking piranha teeth! Let her biteyou and let me know how it feels!” Olaf growled remembering all the times that Sunny bit him in an attempt to defend herself and her older brother.

“You’re pathetic. It’s no wonder you’ve lost to these childrenthree times now,” Orwell commented rolling her eyes.

Olaf just ignores her and turns to Klaus. “Besides, I wanted to check in on my favorite little punching bag,” he said pinching a helpless Klaus’ cheek.

The second that Olaf touched him, Klaus’ panic attacked severely worsened. The boy’s symptoms all flared up seemingly all at once, as he began to whimper. “I’ll behave...I promise I’ll behave. Don’t hurt Sunny. Don’t hurt me.” 

Olaf began to chuckle. As he placed a rough hand on Klaus’ shoulder. “Once I have you back in my care…” he hissed glaring at Klaus. “Just imagine what I am going to do to you for misbehaving for sooooo long. I can not wait to see you and Sunny suffer by my hands.”

Klaus closed his eyes as his breathing became rapid, his head felt heavy, his body felt numb. He turned to Dr. Orwell the best he could while in the restraints. “Please...please. Let me go,” he cried. Dr. Orwell simply ignored the boy. 

Olaf turned around examining the small table where Dr. Orwell had all of her surgical tools. “Hmmm...these don’t seem sharp enough, Georgina,” Olaf commented. “You have a broken umbrella lying around or a simple dagger?” 

“ No...no...no...please…!” Klaus begged, his shaking worsening. He closed his eyes tightly as he struggled harshly in the chair. “I’ll behave. I’ll listen... just don’t…” he cried trying to shake his head. His eyes were blinking rapidly. Klaus felt like his lungs were on fire because he couldn’t breathe properly.

Dr. Orwell looked from Klaus to Olaf with a concerned look on her face. “My God. What the fuck did you do to him?” 

Olaf simply smiled. “Just...trust me. You don’t wanna know.” He chuckled after Georgina gave him a skeptical look. “Let’s just say he needed to learn his lesson.”

Klaus began to scream for help. Olaf slammed a hand over the young boy’s mouth, which did not help Klaus’ ever-worsening panic attack. “ I’ll behave...Please…! Please, I’ll behave! I promise!” Klaus’ muffled words were cried into Olaf’s hand. He looked to Dr. Orwell for some mercy, knowing full well that Olaf did not have any mercy.

“Then shut it!” Olaf hisses waiting for Klaus to stop yelling, begging, and crying. He removes his hand from Klaus’ mouth. “See, he’s like a puppy. Just got to train him.” If Klaus had any control over his eyes or hands right now, he probably would’ve glared at Olaf or flipped him off, but Klaus’ body was so numb, he didn’t even feel alive. He knew he was alive though because he felt his trembles and shakes.

“There are much easier ways into making him complacent,” Orwell pointed out. 

“Yeah...but this is more fun,” 

Orwell rolled her eyes. “And yet you’re afraid of the baby,” 

“A baby with piranha teeth!” Olaf cried defensively, “And I’m not afraid of her!” 

“Uh-huh. Sure. That’s why you ran in here to get away from her…” Orwell said as she turned on the screen in front of Klaus.

“No...I ran in here because I wanted to join in on the fun,” 

Klaus took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down but to no avail. It took him a minute to speak, and when he finally did, it was in a weak, hoarse voice. “W-why do you h-hate us so much?” 

“Because it’s fun!” Olaf replied matter-a-factly. 

“W-what...what are you going to do w-with me?” Klaus asked in a meek voice. Klaus stopped struggling, his anxiety and fear finally taking over, completely paralyzing him. His body was entirely numb and cold. To his horror, his body and mind had given up. He stared at the blurry forms of the two villains completely terrified. He hoped that with his body in this current state of numbness that if Olaf had planned to harm him in a similar way that he did when he tried to rescue Sunny from the tower room, that he wouldn’t be able to feel any of it.

“Oh, you’ll see,” Dr. Orwell replied smirking.

“Well...not really,” Olaf corrected as he and Dr. Orwell laughed maniacally.

[stabbyapologist]

Think Kinky! Another chapter, full of smut!

A Dog and a Cat

Part 8

Jerome ushered Danica into the bathroom and closed and locked the door behind him.

"I thought the doors were supposed to stay unlocked at all times?" Danica reminded him up.

He rolled his eyes.

"Don't be such a goody-goody. We're breaking all kinds of rules in here. Or we will be anyway." Jerome smiled. " Just a word of advice, sweet cheeks: if you're fantasizing about how a life was like before you came here, then you're never going to be happy. You're beautiful, Danica. But that's about the only thing you have got going on in here."

He approached her.

"I have other qualities instead of the way I look," Danica remarked.

"Oh, if you're counting being a snob, then yes." He drawled, smiling. "What was your crime, babe?"

Danica frowned.

"Touchy subject?" Jerome suggested.

"Yes, you can say that." Danica considered. "Too much."

"Eesh, one of those?"

"*No*," Danica exclaimed. "He was just *really* drunk and high all the time, so I did shit with him to keep him happy. *Drugs*, Jerome." Danica expressed, annoyed. "He'd get abusive if I refused, *obviously*." She indicated her scars on her body. "So I did what he wanted until I couldn't take it anymore. Meth is one *hell* of a drug."

"An addict like you—act like you don't like it. Biggest lie of them all."

"I didn't say I hated it. I just couldn't do it anymore. But my story is not impressive, hence the fake story."

"How sad. And boring." Jerome sighed. "Look, we've all got Mommy and Daddy issues. Luckily it's not the same issues, so..."

"I made him overdose," Danica said plainly. "Yeah. Stuck a needle in his arm with heroin and he was gone."

"Yeah...so?"

"So...They sent me here instead of a recovery center. Thought I was insane. But I was more out of it while high than anything."

"Then we'll just have to get you there without pumping you full of drugs, huh?" Jerome resumed. "And if there is one thing that I'm good at, it's making people lose your minds." He sighed. "Look, we'll talk about this later. We're gonna be pushed for time if we don't start now."

Danica looked at him disdainfully.

"Oh, you think I'm in the mood now."

"Doesn't matter." Jerome said as he stepped toward her. "I can change that."

Danica stepped away from him only to be met by the bathroom wall, back pressed against it with no way around him. Jerome leered at her.

"I can be very persuasive. You already know this, babe. Oh. But I do have a question: why lie about your age?"

"Nobody takes an 18-year-old seriously."

"Oh, don't they?" Jerome drawled.

"Charismatic guy like you, of course, of course they would." Danica muttered. She allowed him to wrap his hands around her waist. "Jerome, I want to leave."

"What, now?" he questioned. "I'm halfway to a—"

"Not the bathroom, dearie," Danica clarified. "Arkham. I want to escape Arkham."

"*Again*, we'll talk about it later. First things first," he grinned widely, "*Ladies*, first."

Danica sighed. He had the attention span of a child: when he didn't enjoy the conversation anymore, he'd change it until he was ready to revisit it. But he certainly was convincing. Jerome caressed her neck with his lips, finding his very spot and licking tender flesh.

"What if we get caught?" Danica pressed, trying to keep logic at the center of her mind.

Jerome sighed.

The escape of his breath on her neck left her sensitive.

"Will you," he calmly said against her ear, "stop being so serious all the time? Let me take care of that part."

Danica closed her eyes as a hand slipped under her dress to pull at the elastic of her underwear. Jerome felt her hands climb under his shirt to caress muscles along his back.

"*Mmmm.*That's better," he whispered.

Jerome captured her lips with his own, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. "Feels a little better without living a lie, right?" He said in between their kisses.

"Yes," she answered him.

Jerome's fingers danced along her pantyline, insistent but playful.

A sudden heat either from her or him, they couldn't tell which became more inflamed by their encounter. *18-year-old* Danica. Jerome observed her. She couldn't have had many lovers then. Just a daddy, probably overprotective as *fuck* who threw her into a drugging career earlier than expected; she had made a lie a reality enough to still lie about it while in Arkham. Jerome made her break free of a lie.

"Take them off," he ordered, pulling at her panties. "Leave the dress on."

Danica didn't break the kiss as she blindly wiggled out of them, pulling them the rest of the way down with her feet. Jerome hiked up her dress to expose her sex. He been down on one knee to balance himself and dropped the dress over his head.

Danica's legs quivered as she felt his tongue along her clit. She felt feverish, as if they haven't done this last night. He made a sound of an appreciative moan as one would be showing approval for a delicious meal. Danica made a small plea, which sounded needy—

"*Uh*," was the gutteral response from her as she felt his fingers crawl in her opening. She had hung forward in a desperate attempt to stand by grasping Jerome's shoulder.

"You were wet before we even started," Jerome mentioned smugly. "Now it's like Niagara down here."

Danica scoffed at his description, though amused. He suddenly rose to his feet, sat on the toilet seat and pulled her down onto his lap, pulled her dress back up to her stomach. He held her throat against his shoulder, so he could observe her face on a side view.

"Do you like it a little rough?" He asked with a curious tone. "I found that it's liberating when I'm feeling cabin fever."

"I—"

He didn't wait for an answer; instead he shoved two fingers back into her roughly, and pumped them in and out and a vigorous pace.

Danica moaned loudly—Jerome chuckled and used his throat-clinging hand to place it over her mouth like a muffler.

"Shhh, babe, they'll hear you, then we'll really have to stop."

Danica's hand came to his thigh and gripped his pant leg like she did the sheet. Jerome glanced at her hand with amusement, continuing his ministration. Her hips jumped; he felt her movements rub against him. His body approved. Danica's body ceased like it had last night. Her other hand clasped against Jerome's hand around her mouth. She cried out in muffled shrieks as Jerome brought her to another climax. He withdrew his fingers to let her settle down. When she did, he removed his hand from her mouth. Danica panted.

"Babe, how many people have you been with, *honestly*?" Jerome asked plainly.

"Doesn't matter," she breathed.

Jerome shrugged.

"Turn around." He demanded. She struggled to her feet and turned to face him. "Isn't it much easier letting me give the orders?" He asked jokingly.

"Is it better this way?" Danica asked gently. "I think so."

Jerome grinned widely. "Oh, you're so *precious*." He considered for a minute. Jerome rose to his feet momentarily, pulled his pants and boxers down and reseated himself on the toilet—

"Ooh. Cold," Jerome said. "Damn."

Danica chuckled.

Jerome patted his thighs,

"Come here, Kitten. Sit on daddy's lap."

Danica raised an eyebrow.

Jerome shrugged,

"Mea culpa. Come here," he excused it.

Danica straddled his hips. Jerome grabbed her waist and eased her onto him, all the way down to the shaft. They both echoed a sound of relief as she covered him entirely. Danica balanced herself with her hands on his shoulders; his fingernails dug into her waist.

"Ride me," Jerome growled.

Danica moved her hips in a gentle spiral, pulling a savored moan from her gingered lover. Jerome let his head fall back as she moved against him. Danica's moans began to grow in desperation; Jerome grabbed the back of her head and pulled her into a noise-cancelling kiss. He smiled into their tongue-lock as her sounds of ecstacy echoed in his mouth, egging his manhood to harden the most.

Danica clasped her hands around his neck; the thralls of being on that euphoric recall during sex could match that of the artificial highlights she felt while high on any drug, with any drink. Jerome felt her throb and clench around him. She was close.

He pulled from their kiss.

"Harder," he said in a ragged breath, hoarse with lust.

Danica slammed down on him. Jerome bit his bottom lip to cover a moan; he grasped her waist to reaffirm his grip and guided her body up and down and to please him with his rough request. Danica's mouth fell open as she took his dick with a face of mild pain and pleasure. His aggression, she liked. It *was* easier to follow his lead. Danica inhaled sharply as she came on him. She tried to still her movements but Jerome pushed her to keep going until he followed her climax.

Danica nuzzled his nose, making a small noise that sounded like a purr. Jerome nipped her bottom lip with his teeth.

"Fine, Darling," she consented. "We'll do this your way."

"Wonderful."