#mirror mirror on the wall {moi}

[vivwritesfics]

Charles jealous and possessive please 🔥 SMUT

Green Eyed Monster

Smut Warning! This work is intended for 18+ audiences only!

There was something about the rich, fancy Monaco lifestyle. Something Y/N L/N couldn't quite explain.

When her boyfriend wasn't racing on the other side of the world, when he was home in Monaco he took her out to extravagant and elegant restaurants. The kinds of places where Y/N was dressed to the nines, where all eyes were on her and she was on Charles' arm.

On this particular evening, Y/N wore a black dress with a skirt that went down to her ankles. There was a slit up the side, showing off a bit of her leg. The rest of the dress was pretty simple, tight to her body with thin straps over her shoulders. On her feet she had black feels with little straps criss crossing up her legs. Her nails were black, matching the dress.

Charles stood in his suit, watching as Y/N put on her heels. He couldn't help but stare as she finished getting ready. "Oh mon Dieu, ma chérie. Tu es superbe," (oh my god, my darling. You look fantastic) he whispered as he leaned against the mirror.

Y/N tucked her hair behind her ear. "Thank you, Lord Percival," she said, standing from the bed.

Striding over, she wrapped her arms around her neck and kissed him. It was quick and careful, so that Y/N didn't ruin her makeup. "How about we don't go to dinner," he suggested. "How about we stay here and I ravage you?"

She shook her head. "Please, Charles. We haven't been to dinner in so long," she said with a slight whine.

So, they went to dinner. With Charles driving, they looked every bit the rich Monégasque people everybody through they were. Some people took pictures of them as they drove past, on their way to the restaurant.

At the restaurant, they took their seats and ordered their drinks. "I'll be back in a moment," said Y/N when the waiter walked away. She stood from her seat, kissed Charles on the cheek (leaving a lovely red mark), and made her way to the bathroom.

Charles looked around the restaurant. Some people had their phone out, pointing them at him. Charles simply smiled as he waited for her to get back.

Y/N finished up in the bathroom and made her way outside. There was a small corridor, with the men's bathroom next to the women's, before leading back to the restaurant.

A man walked out of the bathroom beside her as Y/N walked out of the ladies room. He looked her up and down as Y/N fixed the skirt of her dress and leaned against the wall. The guy let out a whistle. "Je te ferai crier mon nom au lit ce soir, ma belle," (I'll have you screaming my name in bed tonight, gorgeous) he said.

Y/N sent a disgusted look his way. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm here with my boyfriend," she spat and walked away. Walking back to her Lord Percival.

"Je m'en fiche, sexy. Je te ferai mendier pour moi dans ces toilettes si tu le veux," (I don't care about that, sexy. I'll have you begging for me in those stalls if you want it) he said, following her towards the restaurant.

Y/N ignored him as she walked back to her table. Just before she reached Charles, the guy reached forward, pinching her ass. Gasping, Y/N turned around, ready to throw a punch. But the man was gone. When he saw where she was heading, he backed off, walking to a table with what Y/N could only assume was his wife.

"What was that, Darling?" Asked Charles as Y/N sat down opposite him. Their drinks were already there and Charles had already had most of his.

Y/N took a sip of her drink. "Oh, nothing my love. Don't worry about it."

Charles narrowed his eyes. He believed her, but her answer wasn't filling him with confidence.

He was silent while they ate their food. Charles was quick to pay for the food and get Y/N back into the car. "I saw you with him, mon amour," he said as the drove away.

"What? Charles-"

"I'm going to make sure you never do anything like that again." His hand was on her thigh, gripping tight, travelling closer to where she needed him most.

"Charles," she whispered, hiking up the skirt of her dress. Charles' fingers danced across her bare thigh, sending a shiver up her spine.

Charles kept a hold of her hand as he walked her back into the apartment. He pushed the door shut behind them and locked it. There would be no interruptions tonight.

"Get in the bedroom and get that dress off," he said, walking to their kitchen.

Y/N ran off to the bedroom, unzipping and throwing off her dress as she went. She left it in a crumpled pile by the wardrobe and worked on taking off her shoes and underwear. Discarding them in the same manner, she laid back on the bed and stared at the door.

Anticipation was making it all the more exciting. She could hear Charles' shoes clicking against the floor as he approached, making her drip.

When he twisted the handle and pushed the door open, Y/N sat up and stared at him. Charles was still dressed, but his shirt was halfway unbuttoned, showing off his chest.

He was so pretty. So, so pretty.

"I don't like it when people try to take what's mine," he said, his voice low. He shrugged off his jacket and beckoned her closer.

On her hands and knees, Y/N crawled across the bed towards him. Charles pushed her hair behind her ear and tilted her chin up to kiss her. "Si jolie, mon amour. Tellement jolie." (So pretty, my love. So fucking pretty)

Still clothed, Charles pushed her back onto the bed. He ran his hands over her body, over all the places that made her shiver. Over her breasts and down to her core.

His touches were light as he touched her folds. "Charles," she cried, throwing her head back. With one hand he touched her and, with the other, he unbuckled her belt. "Nobody touches my girl," he said through a growl, his touches becoming rougher.

Flipping Y/N over, she pulled his cock from his trousers. Charles lined himself up and entered swiftly. He was still fully clothed, standing over Y/N on her hands and knees.

Charles' thrusts started slow. But they quickly got rougher. Charles had a grip on her hair, holding her up, exposing her throat. His hips were moving at a bruising pace, his thrusts hitting all the right places.

"Oh my," she gasped. "Charles!"

The hand gripping her throat moved around to her neck, pulling her back into her chest. If it wasn't for his grip, Y/N would have fallen forward, allowing her body to be pounded into the sheets. Charles bit and kissed at her shoulder, sucking dark bruises into the place where her shoulder met her neck.

Y/N was lost in a haze of sex and pleasure. She cried his name again ans again, repeating it like a prayer.

When Y/N came undone Charles kept going. He didn't let up on the pace, not until his thrusts became sloppy and his hips stilled against her, spilling his seed inside of her.

For a moment, Charles didn't pull out. He just held Y/N there, his cock buried inside of her. His breathing was erratic, his body sweaty.

"C'est ma gentille fille. Tu as fait du bien pour moi," (That's my good girl. You did so good for me) he whispered, kissing her gently.

Slowly, Y/N pulled away from him. She laid herself on the bed and reached out for Charles, trying to pull him closer. As he came closer, he took off his shirt and his pants discarding them. "I love you," she said, pulling him close for a kiss.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Charles replied, pulling her to her wobbly feet.

[csainzsgirly]

Your Carlos Sainz drabble was amazing 😍! Could you do one with Pierre Gasly? You are accompanying him to a photo shooting for Hawkers (the one where he wears the suit) and you think he has never looked so good. No wonder his grid number is 10. After he finishes the shooting, you just can't resist him. Your hands are all over him during the drive home, on the kitchen counter, in the shower... You've forgotten how many times he's made you cum. And when he talks to you in French, you are definitely done for 🤤

Disclaimer: this is google translate french, sorry 😔

"Pierre, Pierre, Pierre," you gasped, not sure if you were about to pass out or just see stars, or both, when his head disappeared between your thighs while you were sprawled out over the marble kitchen counter in his Milano apartment. Your legs fell open without a battle when his hands firmly spread you open for him, looking at the mess he made just seconds ago. He takes a second to admire your glistening pussy before his tongue licks up the slick that's dripping down your thigh, the stubble on his chin and cheeks roughing up your soft skin, but the burn hurt so good. Two of his fingers slipped inside you easily, already stretched out and overstimulated from the work of his cock.

You gathered all of your strength to lean up on your elbows, looking at the wild look in his eyes, his hair messed up from your fingers raking through them, the suit that belonged to his jacket was thrown on the floor behind him, the sunglasses you had been promoting together barely an hour ago lazily thrown on the counter next to his car keys. Your dress was bunched up around your waist, your panties ripped and stuffed into the back pocket of his slacks. God, this was filthy, it was filthy, needy sex that was overstimulating you, making you cock drunk and feel hazed like any time you had this man to yourself. The primal urge and desire Pierre fucked you with was so addictive, and even when you were sure you couldn't go for one more, he managed to squeeze three more out of you.

"Cette chatte a tellement bon goût," he groaned, licking your clit into his mouth and sucking it between his lips, his fingers soon working in tandem with his mouth. You felt your body tensing up already, not able to slow down the untying knot in your lower abdomen when his fingers worked their magic by brushing over your g-spot, stimulating the spot inside you that made you let out borderline pornographic moans, satisfying his ears and complimenting his ego. "J'adore quand tu jouis pour moi," Pierre's voice rasped, teeth nipping at your hipbone when his thumb replaced his tongue on your clit, rubbing in firm circles while the pace of his fingers didn't falter. Your ears were ringing when you soaked his fingers, crying out when his lips wrapped around your clit again as you came.

"Tellement bon pour moi," he whispered, feeling his cock being painfully hard again. You watched through hooded eyes as he jerked himself once or twice, smears of your lipstick visible at the base of his cock, revealing the secret that your lips were around his cock in the car while he was driving you back to his apartment. Pierre lifted you off the counter and onto his cock with no warning, the feeling of being filled to the brim causing your toes to curl and your nails to claw into his shoulders. You almost made it into the shower without stopping anyway, but there was no way he could skip the mirror above the skin, in which you looked so pretty as he bend you over the counter, your tits bouncing with each rut of his hips.

The hot steam of the shower made your mind even more fuzzy, as if you had just finished a whole bottle of champagne. His stamina was truly crazy, and you could barely remember whether he had fucked you in the hallway first or if you had gone straight down the kitchen when you came back after the photoshoot. Your palms planted against the glass wall, desperately trying to find something to hold onto while his hands were wrapped around your hips, dragging you back onto his cock while he thrusted into in a firm pace. "Fuck, f-fuck, Pierre," you whined, barely able to keep standing up as another orgasm was wiring up inside you, making you feel hot all over. "Tu en as encore un pour moi, bébé, je le sais," he growled, listening to the slick sounds of your bodies colliding with each thrust.

You were glad his arm curled around your waist when you tipped over the edge, dots clouding your vision and your feet nearly slipped over the tiles. The aftershocks were the most delicious you ever felt as his cock was pulsing between your walls, his lips kissed your neck, his hot breath ghosting over your ear. "The fotoshoots with you always get me so fucking horny," he breathed, making you let out a laugh. "You say?" you smiled weakily, sure you would struggle to walk tomorrow.

[life-is-unreal]

Watching from afar {Twisted Wonderland x Reader}

(Also published on Wattpad and Quotev, maybe ao3?) (the plot is similar but not the same) (updates=???) (shit grammar)

Prologue 0.1 - Mirror, Mirror On The Wall

"I swear to god, if there's another essay due today." You hissed, tapping away on your computer.

"I can't believe he set three essays without even telling us in class. Like bitch- WHAT THE FUCK THERE'S TWO MORE?"

You threw a slipper across the room, resisting the urge to chuck the computer, "It's expensive, it's expensive... I can't afford shit right now." You muttered, your hand clawing on your scalp.

"Brrrrrrringgggggggg. Briiiiiiiiiiiiing."

The sound of your phone ringing sounded heavenly compared to your ten hour grind on finishing all your essays due tomorrow. 

"Hellllo?"

"Hey Y/N! You wanna go to the amusement park that just opened up near school? By the way, 'no' isn't acceptable. I'm at your house so head down bitch."

"Annnnd she hung up."

You sighed. At least you had a reason to tell your parents on why you failed, you could blame everything on your dearest friend Marie.

"Heeyyyyy Marie." You slipped into the uber, shoving your best friend away as she tried to tackle you into a hug.

"Girlie, you look like those ghosts. Of course, you look as beautiful as ever but still." Marie flicked your forehead.

"Girl. I legit had to do three fucking essays in a day and there's two that I haven't done yet."

"...Wait. I have the same classes as you rightttt?"

You snorted, your half dead expression going away as the smile vanished on Marie's face. What's that saying? Smiles don't disappear, they just move to someone else's face.

"WE HAVE FIVE FUCKING ESSAYS DUE TOMORROW? SCUSE MOI?"

You clamped your hand over her mouth, pushing her down, "Bitch, we're in a fucking uber."

"Keugh, keugh. I mean, I can cancel the ride and send you guys back?" The uber driver said awkwardly.

"Sorry man, it's fine. My parent's have like, no hope on my studies so I'll be fine." Marie muttered, her soul sucked away from her body.

"Um. We're here now?" The uber driver, keeping his eyes straight ahead tapped the window.

"Uh, yeah haha. Uh, Y/N get your ass off. Let's go." Marie laughed awkwardly, pinching you hardly.

"Bitch what the fuck." You whisper-yelled in her ear.

"Shush, this shit awkward as fuck, now pretend you have a stomach ache." Marie elbowed your stomach hardly.

"ASFTEGHWGEU WTF?" You screeched, almost flinging her hand off you when you clutched your stomach in pain.

"Sorry girly pop, take one for the team y'know. SORRY MATE, MY FRIEND HERE SEEMS TO HAVE SOME STOMACHE PROBLEMS! GOTTA DASH!" Marie took hold of your hoodie and almost yeeted you towards the direction of the entrance.

"Bitch you owe me a popsicle." You snarled when the two of you had gotten inside.

"Heeeeey, I bought your ticket! It was hella expensive you know!" She whined, using her puppy eyes.

"I- eugh. Let's go then." The thing about Marie was that although she could be a hella insensitive and bitchy person, she was probably one of the top five best looking people in the school and other than being a bit two-faced she was a person with great personality, that is when she isn't bitchy and overly clingy. 

You and Marie's friendship began when she moved in to your neighborhood and the moment they moved in, it was made very clear that Marie's family was absolutely loaded. The first time you met was in high school. You had moved in a few months prior so the two of you began chatting as the two of you were the only 'new faces'.

Marie's problems shined through quite quickly when the two became more and more popular. You had gotten popular through brains and pretty looks whilst Marie had gotten popular because of her down right stunning looks.

Halfway through the first school year together, Marie had became friends with everyone under the 'popular' tag. You being her one and only "bestie" had hear all her remarks on other people.

"OMG Y/N, you know Sarah? The blondie? Like she's literally sooo toxic to her friends and everyone. Like bitch called me 'bestie' like noooo. Her? To be delulu enough to think that she's my bestie? Fuck no! Why would I want some ugly, stuck up, two faced bitch being my bestie. Girly pop, stick with me more. I don't want people like her bothering me."

"Hey bestiiiieeee. Did you see what happened in the cafeteria today? That new boy. That nerd. No? Eughhhhh, why don't you know any of the latest gossip??? Anyways, he got his ass whooped by one of the upperclassmen because he was talking to ThEiR GiRl. Like how cringgge is that shit?"

You had compared Marie to Regina from Mean Girls before but you decided that it didn't fit Marie that well. Marie was just as popular, just as two faced. But there was one thing for sure, she wasn't a total bitch. 

"Y/N! You wanna hang out today??? Pleeeeeaseee, you know that you're my only bestieeee. Come onnn. Let's go shopping, and yeaaaah I know you're broke and all that but that's why you need a rich bestie right? There you have the all so wonderful and fantastic me!"

"Y/N! Guess what! You know those bitchy girls from Year 12? I called some of my ahem, friends. Don't worry, they won't pick on you any more! Ain't I just succcch a wonderful person. By the way! It's your birthday this week right? I'm bought you that limited edition bag from that store you were eyeing. Uhhh, don't mind the price. You don't need to know about that. Ehe!"

Marie was clingy for sure and she gets angry easily contrary to how she acts in front of the popular people. She never gets angry because of you but you could see when she starts to get annoyed. She always gets annoyed when you hang too close to other people which is probably one of her toxic traits but you were pretty much fine with that as you found that she was fine with most people as long as they don't start calling you "Bestie".

There was also, one thing that Marie entrusted to you, and only you. Her deepest, darkest secret.

"Hey! Y/N! You listening to me?" Marie frowned, flicking your forehead. "You're zoning out again!"

"My baddddd. What you saying again?" You rubbed your fore head. Yeah, Marie's strength was also quite good.

"You wanna go to that mirror thingamajiggy room?"

"The what? Never mind. Let's go." You blinked wearily. 

"Did you actually grind for ten hours for those essays? It's not- Eugh. You being your top student. Your the fav student, they won't fail you as long you give a good enough reason you know?" Marie ruffled your hair. 

Hmmmm. Marie grew a few centimeters again. You sighed, you and your unmoving height.

You let the taller girl drag you through the crowd until you've reached the Hall of Mirrors, or as Marie calls it, the "mirror thingamajiggy room".

"Y/N girly pop. Stay here for a second. I think I saw those ice cream trucks nearby, I'll get some scoops, don't wander off like you always do. I'm not finding you for two hours again like what happened last year." Marie tapped your forehead. "You listening? I- Why do I even bother?" She rubbed her temples. "Stay put!" she called out, jogging towards the ice cream truck as she was hidden by the flowing visitors.

"What did she say?" You muttered. You removed your blue tooth headphones.

"Whatever, she probably went to the toilet or something." You raised your eyes, glancing at the entrance. For some reason, there was a smaller tent that had no queues next to the gigantic crowd going to the Hall of Mirrors.

You glanced weirdly at the bustling crowd. "They all blind or smth?"

Looking down at the weight that was leaning on your leg you rolled your eyes, "Marie really left her bag for me to carry." You slung her tote on your shoulder before trudging towards the little tent that was pretty much hidden in the shadows.

"Cold nights be like." You grumbled in annoyance, "What the hell did she put in her bag for it to be this heavy man? Gold?"

Ah, my lovely Lord,

"Sound effects? Seriously man?" You raised your brows as you entered the tent.

The noble and beautiful flower of evil,

You are the most beautiful, number one in this world.

"Whyyyyy. Thank you." You yawned sleepily. "Why am I here again?"

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the most..."

"For thee, guided by the Mirror of Darkness," You read off from the plaque in front of the mirror in the center.

Follow thy heart and take the hand of the one reflected in the mirror.

"Yoooo, these effects are kinda cool." You leaned forward, seeing black mist forming in the mirror.

Flames that turn even stars into ashes,

Ice that imprison even time,

Great tree that swallow even the sky,

"How poetic. I would applaud if this was in English class."

Don't be afraid of the power of darkness,

Come now, show your power.

Mine, theirs, and yours,

Your brows furrowed slightly as you felt yourself walking towards the largest mirror.

"Am I so sleepy that my brain and my body ain't working together. I've done that before I mean..." You wondered out loud.

There's only little time left for us.

Do not let go of that hand, at all costs.

Your sleepy eyes widened when your hand, completely out of control, started to reach for the hand that was appearing in the mirror.

"Marie? Are you doing this shit?" You screamed, at this volume, people outside would surely hear you and start rushing in right?

"Marie?" Your voice faltered.

"I- should've waited for Marie..." You whispered, your consciousness fading away as the hand in the mirror grasped yours...

"Marie...find...me"

To be continued...

[pouralaura]

wip wednesday

just a lil somethin' that I can't get outta my head we'll see if it goes anywhere. raphtav boss/employee lingerie shopping; working title joie de vivre

--

“Sir.” An attendant, prettily dressed in a smart, tight little skirt and a blouse with a plunging neckline stands before him with a teasing, sweetly hesitant smile painted across her face. “Would you like to have a look at your lovely wife?”

Her question is loud enough for Tav to hear. Also loud enough to hear is the surprised intake of breath immediately afterward from Tav herself, from around the bend – although, in truth, he’d be able to pick that sound out from a crowded room; a busy club; across a stadium during a football match. 

She’s not his wife, no. He employs her. Atop her in matters of business, not pleasure.

But here, it doesn’t matter. They can play.

The corner of his thin-lipped mouth quirks upward. “I would.”

The girl flutters her eyelashes, cheeks going pink at the decadent purr of his voice. “Suis-moi. Follow me.”

Raphael trails after her, around the dividing wall. Three other young women cluster around the low platform where Tav stands in front of the mirror, a short satin robe loosely wrapped around her, tied at the waist. His eyes meet hers in the reflection of them both, and – to her credit – she does not blush as the attendant who fetched him did. She holds his gaze steadily, hands delicately poised at the fastenings of her robe.

“Well, my darling bride? What do you have to show me?”

If she didn’t know better, she’d probably say he’s mocking her, the low drawl of his voice so laden with honey-colored rumblings. So like him and so unlike him all at once. But he knows so well that she does know better – so is undoubtedly more than aware of how the mocking in his voice belies the amusement; the threat; the promise.

If you were mine, he says without saying it, oh, how much more you would know me.

He watches her bite her tongue, fight back a strange, out-of-place laugh.

“Do you think this would look better in navy?”

And then she pulls the ties from their ends, the gleaming satin sliding past and over itself as it unknots. The slip of a robe falls to the floor in a heap as the cooing girls around her resume their chittering.

[echoe-back-from-the-void]

Hank McCoy x Reader

Mutation: Vampire

I walked into the lab while rereading the same error message again and again. I shook the tablet for what felt like the fifth time in frustration before turning my sights to the area around me.

I know he hadn't left the lab because I could still hear his heartbeat and smell him in here. My eyes scanned around the ground floor quickly before I walked to the nearest wall and began walking up it easily until I reached the labs roof. I stepped on the underside of one of the beams and walked steadily to the center of roof where Hank was hanging upside down by his feet reading another book on genetics.

"Moy Lev, the small screen has kaputz again. I try shaking and vaiting but no fix." I said, my Russian accent thick even after all the years I spent with Americans.

My life and soul gave a small sigh and closed his book but even I could see his lips twitching into a smile. "What kind of error was it this time?" He said softly while adjusting his glasses and leaning up to put his book down on a nearby shelf.

When I first began courting Hank McCoy and I realized he liked to read upside down I spent time building him a shelf up in the lab ceiling so he could read at his hearts content and be comfortable. It was my way of showing affection to bring him new books, some not always in English but I did try to keep the books to his mother tongue.

"Little box turned blue and says zat it needs to be restarted and files removed. I'm still very unsuccessful vith using spider webs." I stumbled over the unfamiliar English words. It was only recently Hank decided to try integrating technology into my life.

"Just web. No spiders involved." He said giving a soft laugh when my face grew hot.

"I'd much rather use typewriters and read zan use zat. Why kan't I just read everything. I've survived hundreds of years vithout it why do I need it now. I kan handle your machines and your karrrs, your flying metal boxes but why must I use the picture mirror."

"For the same reason I told you last time. Not everything can be so easily found in books. Technology helps us improve and learn faster. We can find answers quicker to solve problems and reach farther. The world is becoming more technologically advanced and its better you are aware how to use it when you need it. It can be useful to you." Hank said meeting my eyes to try and make me understand.

"I don't need silly technology when moy lev is smartest man in room." I pleaded and placed my hands around Hanks waist. Standing closer I rested my chin on his chest and continued to look up at him as he held my stare. Even though my comment had severely flustered him, he was still holding his ground against me. I could see his ears twitching and feel his hug squeezing me a little tighter.

I looked away first and laid my cheek against his chest to hear his heart beat speed up. "I vill try harder and have students help me for extra credit. I understand it is important I learn but I'm stubborn and set in my vays. Even after learning I vill still prefer my old fashioned vays over technology. But I vill learn for you, moy lev."

Leaning up on my tippy toes I nosed my head into the cradle between his neck and shoulders. Kissing his pulse point softly and then just resting my head on his shoulder while I breathed him in. "Back in Russia you vould be kourted by many voman to leach your varmth. But your varmth stretches more zan just your body, it touches souls."

Hank grew warmer and I could feel him smile into my neck. "Have you eaten today?"

"Not yet. I vanted to see you first." I admitted before kissing Hank's cheek. I pulled away a little to run my fingers through his fur. My nails lightly scratched the back of his neck and made his chest rumble. Hank peppered my face with kisses and pulled back with a wide smile when I giggled. "I adore your fangs." I said while lightly running my thumb over his lips and exposing his sharpened teeth. He grinned wider and I kissed his smile. The kiss turned a little more heated and I bit his tongue lightly.

Distantly I could hear footsteps approaching the lab before the door was opened.

"Hank?" Logan shouted into the seemingly empty lab.

Hank startled out of the kiss, giving me a small frown knowing I heard Logan approaching but didn't warn him. I smothered my smile into my hand. Hank jumped down and landed not far from Logan, startling him.

"Jeez Bub give me a warning. I'm looking for Drac, you seen her around." Logan said crossing his arms. Hank tilted his eyes upwards but made no move to expose me.

"Up here Mishka." I said softly and jumped down as well. Hank held his arms out to catch me even though I don't need it, being stronger and sturdier than him. "What did you need me for?" I said being gently set down by Hank as he wrapped his left arm protectively around my midsection.

"I needed Hank for a new rotator cuff for my bike. The professor told me to bring you a blood bag from your room so you don't forget again."

"I didn't forget, I had a volunteer zat day." I said licking my fangs remembering it.

"The Professor doesn't like you feeding on campus. They're kids here." Logan reprimanded and I wrinkled my nose at the thought of draining a child. I'd sooner die than harm children.

"My source vas very villing and I vas very vell kontrolled." To make it more obvious I reached behind me to gently caress Hanks neck and Hank followed my movement exposing his neck a little more where two prominent bite marks lay.

For a brief moment I could see the shock in Logan's eyes before he schooled his features. Behind me I could feel Hanks heart rate speed up and he buried his head into my hair to hide his flushed face.

I moved my hand from Hank's neck to scratch his scalp and he sagged into me. I easily held his weight as he leaned more into me, relaxing. Hank's other arm came to wrap around me as well and I smiled. Holding my free hand out, Logan passed me my blood bag.

"A negative today." Logan said as he paid little attention to Hank hanging off me.

"Mmm" I used my fang to easily break the cap and began to suck the delicious liquid out of its plastic prison. "How vas your morning class?" I asked between sips.

"Kids could do better. Still having trouble with teamwork and using knives. You should step in for one of the classes, they listen better when you step in."

"Vats because I teach more hands on and am less likely to skewer vhem," I said with mischief. Behind me Hank began to grumble and I spoke comforting words in Russian under my breath until he stopped. "You are all I need my life and soul."

"You could still step in when you don't have one of your own classes to teach. It would be nice to spar again." Logan said with a glint in his eye.

"Your still mad vat I beat you vast time, Mishka? I have two centuries on you, I have more experience."

"I'm not mad. Peeved, yeah, but sparing you is entertaining and you're the only one I can go toe to toe with around here." Logan said giving me a cocky grin.

"Mishka." I said fondly.

"Dracula." Logan responded in kind.

Hank grumbled and nosed my neck for attention. "I didn't forget you Moy Lev. Mishka, I vill bring rotator cuff after lunch if that's vine?"

"Yeah, you and big blue seem preoccupied." Logan teased and I glared at him. Logan turned and made quick work leaving the lab.

I turned in Hank's arms, his hands resting on the small of my back while I rested mine over his shoulders. I watched Hank bite the corner of his lip and he only did that when he was thinking. Leaning up I kissed his lips and gently pulled his lip away from his teeth. "Moy Lev you vhink too hard."

"You should be with someone more age appropriate. Someone who doesn't look so unnatural." He said while looking off over my shoulder at where Logan went.

I smiled but it was sad. "No one is age appropriate for me. I'm almost 500 winters old and a vampire. I love your mutation. Before and after your experiment." I twirled my fingers through the fur on the back of his neck. "You are my lion, My life and soul and I love you dearly. Niet mutation kan change za soul I fell for. You are so kind and vith brilliant mind zat I in awe of every day. I love you Hank McKoy and zat is forever for me."

(I could be persuaded to write more for Hank. So cute!! I really like how I wrote the interactions with this character)

[dyrewrites]

Before Deluca -- coffee date (rest of the last scene >.>)

It killed the mood but not the desire, too cool on my tongue he was and I didn’t want to let him go, so I tried to rile him again, is that the scene you meant?

He pulled away, but licked the taste of me from his lips before speaking, “You know it wasn’t, but I appreciate the attempt, treasure.”

Shrugging, I changed the subject, sort of, “penny university is a terrible thing to call a place that serves coffee.”

The mention of it seemed to remind Lucient of the tray and he pulled it to the center of the table before pouring us each a cup, “Agreed, treasure, it’s positively dreadful…how do you take yours?”

“Black, my dream, as it’s meant to be,” Accepting the cup he handed me, I questioned the quirk in his brow and laughed—gasping and surprised—as he spooned more sugar than should be legal into his.

With a hand to his chest and a dramatic huff, hitching his voice far too loud, he asked, “Est-ce que tu te moques de moi?”

“Yes, I’m laughing at you,” I all but sputtered and, having heard not a stitch of Italian since we walked in, hitched my voice louder to add, “lo stai affogando nello zucchero!”

“I am not drowning it,” he shot back, through giggles at my mirrored dramatics, “I am making it more palatable.”

“My dream,” I sighed, relaxing an arm on the back of my seat and sinking into the chair, “if you need that much sugar I don’t think you enjoy coffee.”

“Do so,” he pouted, “I just prefer it sweet.”

“You used the word ‘rich’ earlier,” I tested, noting a twitch in his lips and a fog in his thoughts, “what you’ve done to that coffee is ruin its rich flavor.” The twitch spread to a grin, faltering as he sipped the abomination he’d created and grimaced, telling me all I needed to know. And I chose his tongue to call him on it, “chose coquine.”

There was a little bowl included on the tray that I didn’t know the use of, but Lucient used it to dump his coffee and pour a fresh cup, looking away from me as he sipped it, “No idea what you mean…”

“If you seek to rile me again, you need only come closer,” I tried to purr the words, as he so often did, but I can’t say if it had the intended effect, as he giggled at me.

But he did move to sit on my side of the table, and I twisted to lean on the wall and welcomed his back against my chest. That prompted the removal of jackets for more comfort, which did capture a few eyes, if only until they were off—it proved difficult with how we were seated.

We were able to see all of the ‘penny university’ in that position, and share in one another’s competing temperatures. He warmed with the coffee, ever so slightly, while I only burned hotter. It was rich though, not the acrid affair I was accustomed to. There were hints of something earthy and nutty in it, and cinnamon perhaps.

Yes, that may be too much to note on the coffee, but we did enjoy the drink together often and he had a similar obsession with it. So I believe it warrants the extra.

As we relaxed there on the bench, in the booth, watching the people and enjoying our warm drinks…it occurred to me that I’d never done that before. Even at the Amici, where I was free to be myself, those who wanted to be with me weren’t interested in sitting in comfortable silence with drinks. They wanted something decidedly hotter, that they could move on from the moment it ended.

Lucient, however, seemed content to just be with me. He said as much even, leaning his head on my shoulder, voice soft—wistful, “This is lovely isn’t it, treasure, being here, together?”

“Always in my mind,” I assumed, not annoyed by it, but it rang as accusatory.

And he apologized, “Pardon, I didn’t mean to pry. I’ve not felt this either, and you feel too wonderful, treasure. Just as we are you feel wonderful.”

Unable to stop the smile, or the nuzzle into his neck, I whispered, “So do you.”

We stayed until the carafe was dry and Lucient snuck off to pay, learning why the place was called a ‘penny university’, while I waited at the door with his parasol—and our jackets.

The young man we’d frightened away—with his young, freckled face and lovely green eyes—smiled at me while I waited and, fool that I am, I smiled back.

And we would both pay for it.

Not yet, however, first Lucient had bright eyes and a crooked smile for me, “Ready to see the city?”

[k00293511]

Artist research:

1.Yayoi Kasama (1929- present)

-She is a Japanese contemporary artist.

-The Soul of Millions of Light Years Away (2013) made by installing mirrored panels around the walls, ceiling, and floors of a small, enclosed space.

-Kusama then fills it with tiny networks of colored lights or objects that refract around the room and create the effect of endless, infinite space.

-Like you entered a star-filled universe.

2. Moy Lee

-She's an illustrator for children's picture book. Based in Beijing. Graduated in 2019.

-I like the way she draws her shooting stars in different colours, feels magical and hopeful.

[your-littlesecret]

First Lines

Rules: Post the first lines of your last 10 fics posted to AO3. (Sort by date posted.) If you have less than 10 fics posted, post what you have.

I have been tagged by my favourites @dm3rv and @singsweetmelodies 💕

and I am doing it since I love this kind of stuff 🙃

there are two thing I never know how to do in my fics and that is the first line and the last line. I never know how to start and I never know how to finish and I always think I'm being too vague? 🤷‍♀️

so far I have 9 works posted on ao3 (and many more to come, believe me!) and I will cheat in some of those and put also the second line bc otherwise it will not make much sense.

so yeah that's it byeee 🫧

jamais on ne me dira que la course aux étoiles ça n'est pas pour moi Pierre never wanted to own a restaurant.

i lose my voice when i look at you “You are not wearing that!” Pierre screams from his place on the bed, snatching the pants Charles was just about to put from his hands.

you come around, I come undone It's a recurrent scene: every single week, more than once. Pierre is standing in front of the mirror of their bedroom in the rented cabin, a towel hanging very very low on his his hips while he shaves. Charles is staring.

you're looking right through me Pierre is livid. Everyone could tell how angry he is just by the way his face is all scrunched up and he refuses to stop to talk with anyone on the way to his driver room.

they don't know me like my baby “You’re done already?” Pierre asks as Charles is entering the room, rubbing at his eyes.

it's a trust fall, baby Charles is not good at keeping secrets. Well, Charles is not good at keeping secrets from Pierre.

I’d be lost surely without you Ferrari takes his leaving better than he expected they would.

tell me that we'll just be fine (even when i lose my mind “This is insane.” the wall seems to be moving now due to the long time he’s been staring at the same spot. “Are you sure about this? That this was supposed to come to me?”

say whatever comes through your mind “Do you ever, EVER just listen to one of your own ideas and think they are stupid and you should just keep them to yourself?” Pierre is moving his hands in the small space of the car, and he is not exactly looking at him because he is driving, but the smile on his face says that he finds this at least a little amusing, “Because i do. More often than not.”

[sannaechester]

HAIR:   Noelle   ADE

BODY:   Reborn   eBODY

OUTFIT:   MoonLight   NEW!!   MASOOM in UBER

(For Maitreya, LaraX, Legacy, Kupra, Reborn, R.Waifu, R. Mounds and R. Rolls.

Fatpack included suit, skirt and Huds with 18 colors)

POSE:   Inviting   NEW!!   B(u)Y Me

(Pack included 5 bento poses, mirror and props)

Decor:

LIVING ROOM:   Eames   NEW!!   CHEZ MOI

(Included chair, couch, coffee table, accent table, books decor and Huds with 10 colors)

WALL PRINTS:   Summer Citrus   NEW!!   WHAT NEXT

[semiguardiarrossiscosulviso]

Penses à moi quand je ne suis pas à coté de toi. Lorsqu’il y a un excès de lune et que je ne suis pas près de ton cœur, lorsque tu as peur e ne dors pas par un bruit, lorsque tu es seule parmi les gens, lorsque tu es de mauvaise humeur et devant le miroir, comme par hasard, tu découvres une marque dans le visage ou bien une couleur, et, perplexe, tu te dis : miroir, gentil miroir..Penses à moi lorsque, plongée dans ton bain moussant distraitement tu te caresses (ou en rêvassant), ou lorsque dans le premier après-midi, le soleil voilé, sous ton édredon tu attends un coup de téléphone. Penses à moi lorsque pour la première fois tu mets la lingerie de soie blanche : penses à moi quand je suis là, quand je suis à coté de toi et voudrais ton amour.

 

-------------------------------------

 

Think at me, my love, when I am not near When the moon is shining so full and I can't be close to your heart. When you are frightened and cannot sleep. When you feel alone in a crowd. When your mood turns sad and looking in the mirror at sign in your face, you say: mirror mirror on the wall …Think at me when under the foam of your bath you play with yourself …Or under your duvet in a lazy afternoon you wait for a call …Think at me when for the first time you'll wear that white silky negligee...Think at me when I am near you and need your impossible love.

[fangirling-throughlife]

Planes, Cannes and a déjà vu

A/N: this occurred to me hours before catching a plane, and was a nice distraction from the exhaustion I was feeling. I love Anna and the French kiss, and ther aren't enough fics to fulfill my need to know what Anna and Étienne do after the third book.

Warnings: no content warnings, maybe just an attempt at disgustingly fluffy writing. 90℅ of this was written while I was deeply sleep-deprived.

Anna Oliphant St. Clair was, by all means, a good flier. If she was tired (which was certainly the case lately) she was out before the plane even left, and she would wake up for meals. Frequent trips to visit their friends, who were scattered around the world, turned flying into a routine and uneventful happening.

Maybe that was why Étienne looked so stunned when his wife dropped her carry-on and purse the moment they walked into the Charles de Gaulle terminal and ran to the closest toilet with her hand clasped in front of her mouth, looking greenish pale.

Anna didn’t understand it either. She had slept through the first three quarters of their flight, unaware even of the turbulence Étienne mentioned. But the moment the flight attendant arrived with their breakfast, a wave of nausea had woken her up. There was nothing she hated more than being sick, and the idea of being sick on a plane was completely unacceptable, so she didn’t touch her food and let Étienne eat it, and spent the better part of an hour practicing breathing exercises until she eventually started breathing into a paper bag, just in case. She hadn’t eaten anything since they left LAX, so she was throwing up bile, and the taste that it left in her mouth made it start again every time she thought she was done.

“Excusez-moi, madame. Ma femme est là, je veux voire si elle a besoin de quelque chose”. Étienne’s voice made it through the haze, and Anna let out a relieved sigh as she dropped her head against the bathroom stall door. Not that she could think of anything Étienne could do to make it stop, but she had the feeling that, if he held her, she would feel better. “Anna, darling, are you alright? Can I come in?” Anna unlocked the door and pushed it open as she changed positions to sit against the wall, head resting on the closed toilet seat.

“What happened, sweetheart?” Étienne asked softly. He’d been worried from the moment he had noticed her discomfort, his own less than fondness for flying forgotten. He was running his fingers through her hair, watching her eyes fill with tears. “I don’t know, but I feel like crap.” She grimaced, and he quickly moved to lift the lid, but she shook her head. “I feel like I’m all done now. It was probably the exhaustion, dehydration, the pressure changes… just a perfect storm that made me sick.” “Do you need anything?”, Étienne asked. Anna shook her head again. “How long till we have to start boarding?” “Just over half an hour. We should probably start walking there, you can eat something light by the gate”. Anna nodded and took Étienne’s outreached hand to help her stand up. Once she stood on her feet, Étienne grabbed their bags, pecked her cheek, and walked out of the women’s lavatories while she rinsed her mouth and washed her hands thoroughly. Now that she could think clearly, she winced at the idea that she had sat down on the floor of an airport bathroom stall, and that she had even touched surfaces with her face. She examined her face in the mirror, as if her reflection could answer the question running through her mind: why was she so sick?

Étienne was waiting for her just outside the toilet area. Wordlessly, Étienne got a chewing gum out of his pocket and gave it to her, which she popped into her mouth to get rid of the bad taste. He took her hand and they started walking towards their connecting flight in comfortable silence. Once they arrived at the gate, Anna sat down at a café and ordered plain toast to further ease her upset stomach, while Étienne approached the crew that was setting up for boarding.

“Hi, may I ask you for a favor?” A kind-looking woman, who sort of reminded him of his mother, turned from the screen to talk to him. “Bien sûr, young man. What do you need?”

“Well, my wife, over there” he turned lightly to point at Anna “isn’t feeling well, but our seats are on opposite sides of the plane. Would it be possible to change one of us so I can sit with her in case she needs me?” He grabbed his wallet. Another crew member chipped in “I’m afraid it’s impossible. We’re fully booked, there isn’t a single free seat. Either way, why didn’t you choose adjacent seats when you got your tickets?”

“Well, my wife is traveling for work, she’s accredited at Cannes, so her company got the tickets. I just tagged along, and I couldn’t get the seat next to hers for this flight.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask for her seat neighbor if they’d mind switching, because there’s nothing we can do.” The first woman informed. “I’m so sorry we can’t help you further. I hope your wife is feeling better.”

Étienne gave her a smile. “I understand, thank you anyway.”

When he reached Anna, she had finished half her toast and had started to look pale again. “Are you alright, darling?” She looked up and half-smiled at him. “My stomach’s still upset, but I think I can keep half a toast down.” “I asked if they could change our seats so we could sit together, but it looks like we’ll have to ask for a favor.” Anna nodded, seemingly lost in thought. “Are you sure you’re okay? You start tomorrow, don’t you? If you don’t think you’re up for it, you should maybe call and ask for someone from another office to cover for you…” Anna grabbed Étienne’s arm to stop his rambling. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, Étienne, I told you it must be a perfect storm of circumstances. And I don’t really have anything to do until tomorrow evening. Plus, Julie and Patrick from the London and Sydney offices will be there as well. They’ll have their articles, just… maybe with less points of view if I’m not patched up by tomorrow.” She smiled sweetly at him, and he started rubbing circles in the palm of her hand, making her giggle.

“Passengers to Nice, please start boarding now from gate 24.”, the voice of the woman at the gate suddenly boomed across the space. “Let’s go.” They said simultaneously, light shining in their eyes. Étienne turned his palm to face hers, and entwined their fingers. “After you, Mme. Oliphant St. Clair”. Étienne expected a cheeky remark from his wife, but instead, she got a hazy look in her eyes as she stood and tried to balance herself. “Anna, you’re not okay. I’m taking you to the doctor.” “Étienne, I just stood up too quickly and got lightheaded. Besides, it’s a short flight. I promise that we’ll go to the doctor if I feel worse in the meantime, okay?” Étienne nodded, this face betraying his concern. “Come on, then.”

Anna felt lucky the magazine had booked her an aisle seat. As much as she had tried to put Étienne’s mind at ease, she didn’t feel better, and she had left half her toast uneaten when the first bites had threatened to come up. She hoped against hope that she would be okay for the 90 minutes. She kept on racking her brain for the reason of her sudden ailment, but she didn’t find any meals that could have caused it, or places she could have been infected with a stomach bug. Suddenly, her husband appeared next to her.

“Excuse me, ma’am. I’m so sorry to ask this, but would it be possible to change seats with you? This is my wife, and she’s been feeling ill this morning, and I’d like to stay close to her in case I have to hold her hair or a bag…” The woman next to her looked grossed out and had started to gather her things before Étienne was even done with his speech.

“Pardon me, but I wonder if you wouldn’t mind switching seats. You see, that’s my girlfriend there, and she’s pregnant. And since she gets a bit ill on airplanes, I thought she might need someone to hold back her hair when…well…”

The scene in front of her gave her a sense of déjà vu, and suddenly it felt as if the last piece to complete the picture fell in its place. She started listing symptoms and facts. I’ve been feeling very tired lately. There are smells I can’t stand but I haven’t had a migraine in months. I haven’t had my period since late March. That last item made her nauseated for completely different reasons (“or the same ones” her traitorous brain provided). She turned to Étienne, who was watching her face closely. Still not over the shock of the fact that she might be pregnant without having noticed a thing, she decided not to tell him yet, not until she had any confirmation. She knew he wanted kids, but she also realized they’d only been married for a year, and they’d both started their jobs less than a year ago, and they were going to talk about it, and suddenly it was a possibility and they hadn’t had the talk. Anna’s mind was racing, and she became aware of her breathing starting to speed. She tried to control her breaths, and looked into Étienne’s eyes. She immediately knew she didn’t have to be scared. Whatever challenge life would bring, they would be okay.

After promising Étienne over a hundred times that she felt okay – which was true now, coming to the realization of what might be wrong with her had calmed her system, apparently. And it was 12 pm, so it was a possibility that morning sickness was a time-limited thing for her – they finally got the rental car and left for Cannes. After a gruesome 50 minutes in high-density traffic (during which Étienne moaned about not deciding to come earlier, to which Anna had laughingly responded that he had had to wrap his last classes), they finally arrived at the hotel. Thanks to the popularity of her blog, Anna already had some fame in the critic’s circles before starting her job (and the only reason she hadn’t been invited to critic’s week was because her magazine had already one accredited critic with higher rank). Still, this meant that she had directly started at a higher position that other starters, and the hotel was proof of it. They had booked her a room for two weeks at a nice mid-sized hotel, not too far from the venue, instead of one of the dingy hotels she knew other freshmen were staying at. When Étienne confirmed he could tag along, he had upgraded the room himself, and they ended up in one of the bigger double rooms, with a nice view of the sea, and a terrace with a table, four chairs and a small sofa.

During the drive, Anna had already checked the location of the closest pharmacy, and had elaborated a plan to leave without alerting Étienne. While he was hanging his dress shirts in the closet and she was putting away the toiletries in the bathroom, she saw her chance. “Étienne, we forgot to take the sunscreen!” – a white lie, since she had just wrapped the four bottles of sunscreen in one of the towels. “I’m going out to the pharmacy to get a few bottles, okay?” Étienne protested as he emerged from the closet “Wait, I'm almost done here, I’ll go with you.” “No, it’s fine! It’s actually two streets over, I’ll be back before you know it!” She hurried to give him a kiss and left before he could object again.

True to the information she’d found online, she got to the store in less than 10 minutes. Figuring she should buy some sunscreen to justify the trip to the store, she took two bottles of their usual brand before gathering the courage to look at the pregnancy tests. Not for the first time, she felt happy her dad had sent her to SOAP, and that she would sometimes speak French at home so she didn’t lose the skill (and because it was hot as well, obviously), because she couldn’t imagine trying to understand the different types of products in front of her had they been labeled in any language other that English or French. She finally grabbed two different types of test and hurried to the counter. For some reason, she felt embarrassed when they scanned the tests, as if she were a teenager who’d had a slip-up, not a married adult with a paying job and a decent savings account (even though she essentially still felt like a teenager some times). She avoided eye contact as she paid, and left the store in a hurry.

Back in their room, she found Étienne sitting bare-chested on the terrace gazing at the sea, looking deep in thought. “I’m back”, she announced softly, trying not to startle him. He looked up at her with a soft smile. “Hey. I wanted to wait and see if you’re up to going out, or if you’d rather stay in and rest this afternoon. Then I’ll dress appropriately.” “We can go take a walk by the beach, and grab something light there for dinner. I’m not very hungry, but we shouldn’t go to bed yet. Jetlag.” Seeing a perfect excuse to take the tests, she added, almost as an afterthought, “I’m going to go shower and dress. I’ll be out in half an hour.” She pecked his lips and walked to the bathroom, with the pharmacy bag hanging nonchalantly from her arm.

In the bathroom, she opened both the boxes and read the instruction pamphlet. The figures were clear, and she quickly peed on the first one, leaving the second to confirm later. Since the pamphlet stated she should check after 5 minutes, she busied herself around the bathroom, too nervous to step in the shower. When the timer of her phone went off, she quickly turned the test. Pregnant. Tears sprung to her eyes, and her resolve to shower and then take the second one disappeared.

“Étienne” her voice came out weak, “Étienne”, she tried a bit louder, but her voice cracked. She heard his quick and loud footsteps, and in less that 5 seconds he opened the door wide-eyed. “What’s wrong?” He saw Anna’s face, both smiling and crying, and he looked down to the stick she was holding in her hand. It took him a few beats to realize what he was looking at, and when he did, he locked eyes with Anna, who was full-on grinning. Unable to form words, he nodded questioningly, tears forming in his eyes. Anna lifted the test to show him the word. Pregnant. He closed the gap between them, hugged her and lifted her from the ground, laughing and kissing her hair. “Sweetheart, I’m finally not nauseous anymore, I don’t want to be sick again.” Anna laughed. Étienne let her stand again, keeping his hands on her hips. “We’re going to be parents?” he asked, still unbelieving. “Apparently so. I’ll still have to make an appointment with a doctor when we’re back in California, but I’ve got another test to confirm later. I was going to make sure before I told you, but I guess I got a little overexcited.” Anna was biting her lip, her gaze a bit more guarded. “Why would you want to wait to tell me?” “Well, you know, it’s soon, and totally unplanned. We’re still young, and we haven’t really talked about it yet…” Étienne cut her off with a peck on her lips. “Anna, darling. Don’t tell me you have doubts on how I’d feel about this. You know I want to have kids with you, I’m 100% in.” He rubbed his thumb on her cheek to wipe a stray tear. “How long have you been dealing with this?” “Not long, I swear. I suddenly thought of it when you switched seats on the plane to Nice, honestly. It made me think of that first flight together, you know? When you told the man I was your “pregnant girlfriend”?” Étienne chuckled, a blush rising to his cheeks. “I realized just then that I haven’t had my period for almost 2 months, and it sort of clicked that it was a possibility. Besides, you know me too well, I don’t think I could have hidden it for long.”

Étienne cupped Anna’s face, and they kissed, slow and sweet. “We’re going to be parents.” He whispered, smiling against her lips. “This is insane.” At that, Étienne pulled away, alarmed. “In a good way, I swear. It’s just, we’re young, and most of our friends are still in college.” “And we’ll be fine. They’ll be the luckiest child, with tons of people around them loving them. Don’t worry, darling. Baby steps.” “When did you become such a mellow guy? Baby steps.” She dropped her voice an octave, mimicking him. “I know you’re already overthinking, that makes it easier to stay grounded.” She nodded, in silence. “How about I take a shower, we go out, eat something and get back for an early night?” Étienne wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, laughing. “Isn’t that a bit overkill? I mean, you’re already pregnant.” He saw Anna’s slap coming, so he ducked just in time. “You’re in idiot, you know that, right?” She played mock-angry so successfully that he was worried for a second, until he saw a glint in her eyes. “I am, but I’m your idiot.” He said sheepishly. This made her crack the façade, and she smiled at him. “You are. I love you.” She pecked his lips and walked towards the shower. “Now get out and let me get ready. Put on a shirt.” She licked her lips to tease him, and held his gaze as she pulled off her shirt. Étienne stood staring at his wife, until the shower door closing broke his trance. “I love you, mommy-to-be!” he exclaimed from the door. Anna laughed. “I love you too, daddy-to-be!”

[expectopatronxm]

[aph-fruk-after-dark]

Rest of the comic here

Fanfic by anon under the cut!

Fingers drummed on glossy wood in sympathy with the rain pattering on exquisite window panes. He could go out into town with little risk– he knew the moon wouldn’t be rising tonight, although even if it hadn’t been a new moon, those blessedly unaffected would never tell from the heavy coverlet of cloud hung in the evening sky. However, with no dramatically pressing needs, he would very willingly put off going back out into town whenever possible. Instead, he had resigned himself to standing by the window, book abandoned next to cold tea. He had done the same the night before, and the previous night. Days spent cleaning, reading, writing, praying, finding small ways to earn money, and doing it all again. Bursts of melancholy would make him despise such a secluded lifestyle– such agonising penitence, the sameness of each day, the deep need to accomplish or create something that was never sated, these were all more internal issues, ones he found no choice but to endure. What one would see from the outside would be the inexplicable complete bareness of it all, which had its own logic. He couldn’t afford to keep the valuables he had found in the laden manor once he had arrived– both out of need of funds to keep his meagre lifestyle possible, but out of worry that all such things would only end up broken and in ruin anyway. Expensive gas lights went unused in favour of sparse candles carried from room to room, larders that had once been bursting now held only minimal provisions, cellar empty of coke and coal and instead stocked with sorry stores of hand cut wood to heat the labyrinth, walls and cabinets empty of trinkets, silver, crystal, porcelain. One clock still hung on the wall, the others long sold. All mirrors save one had met the same fate, the plain one he kept needed for his near-religious grooming. But now, his hand clenched along the delicate dark stain of the wood of a straggling armchair, fingers tapping, tapping. Tapping, beating from rain shuddering the glass in their frames echoed like the sounds of his fingers throughout the cold house. Tapping again, beating, louder. No. Those were bangs not from the dark, but harmless storm outside, those were purposeful. His fingers’ rhythm abruptly ceased, his stomach clenched. He drew a breath, one as shaky as the windows beside him, as he purposefully walked to the front door, grabbing a candle as he went. It would be resolved as quickly and painlessly as the few visits that had come before. No, he wasn’t interested in anything sold, nor any ideology, nor anything else. His already harsh gaze was steeled again as he cracked the door open as slightly as he could, flame flickering almost to nothing in the sudden torrent of wind. He didn’t have much of a chance to study the face of the man at the door before the visitor ruined the setting by gingerly barging his way inside, dripping where an entry carpet had once laid. Golden hair rested in damp, sad strands along high cheekbones that had flushed from the cold and the wet. Eyelashes fluttered as their lengths shed the clinging rain. He took a step, then another, away from the guest, not remembering it would be polite to help the struggling man bring in his bag.

« Excusez-moi, êtes-vous le valet de chambre de mon oncle ? Je suis son neveu qui est venu lui rendre visite. » The man held out a paper with words he didn’t care to try to read as he took another step backwards. His pulse had already begun to quicken.

“I’m afraid I do not understand, but judging by your bag, you’d wish to stay here. That is out of the question. Goodbye.” The lack of grace of his terse reply wasn’t aided by the words' slight catching in his throat. He hadn’t expected visitors, and he wasn’t prepared to usher them away. Nonetheless, he strode as far as he could from the man as he approached the door, opening it back up to the slate grey of the storm.

« Ah, English. You are the valet to my uncle ? I had not written, but I am visiting him. » A sheepish smile only amplified the pitiful nature of the man still dripping in the entryway. But pity was easily forgotten by panic.

“The… Right. You should have written. I purchased this manor from him two years ago, and I don’t know where he’s gone.” His hand was still gripping the doorframe as he shifted where he stood, trying to loom there as unwelcoming as possible.

“There’s an inn back down the road a few miles off, so if you wouldn’t mind, I have be–”

« The carriage has left for minutes. » The man stepped forward imploringly, met by the same unmoving gaze. « We can speak about my uncle until the morning, when I can leave from here. It is raining, sir. »

   With his eyes so wide, it was difficult to miss the searing blue urging for affirmation. The visitor’s full lips were pressed tightly together.  For a heartbeat, the storm outside, starting to encroach into the entryway from the open door, was all the sound filling the empty room. As the heavy oak door slowly shut, the small splat of water onto the floor below the uninvited visitor took its place.

“You will be in a guest room for tonight. If you take it upon yourself to leave the room, I will consider you a trespasser.” The front door clicked as it locked in place. He took the stranger's bag without asking, assuring that there would be no protest to his offer. “You will lock the room and keep it that way until morning, when you will leave and take your things with you.”

« But my uncle, I would kn–»

“I am not to be disturbed throughout the night, or before you leave. I’ll fetch something for a fire, and then I am to be left alone.” His quick strides up stairs and down hallways, knowing the exact room that was as far away from his own as possible. The guest hurried after him, flying around corners and down halls, suddenly much less pitiful and much more determined.

« I may not even ask your name ? Or of my uncle ? I had not meant to offend by calling you a valet, » the frenchman called, assuming by his course behaviour that something had been misspoken.

« I am the heir to my father, the Baron d’Elbeuf, Francis Bonnefoy. » With this came another smile, much less sullen, although attempting to be just as charming. It was met with the pair’s pace slowing to an immediate halt in front of the last door down a long hallway. He opened the door, making no move to respond or even show he had heard the man as he lit a single candle on the mantelpiece inside.

“Master Bonnefoy. This is your room. Stay inside while I fetch kindling for your fire.” Within a moment, he was gone, the door shut tight behind him.

His heartbeat was racing faster than his steps to get away, fingers back to drumming against his thumb with pent up nervous energy. It was a test, was all. A test and a punishment. He was a fool to think he could have stolen everything that man had, to sell his possessions, to live in his home, with no repercussions. His nephew, of course his nephew would come, as both a weight for his uncountable sins and a temptation. A glaring reminder when he had gotten all too complacent of his comfortable lifestyle and had forgotten what he had done to land himself there… But it was more than that. He wasn’t just a family member who had come to show him his past folly that he had yet to adequately repent for. He was a thorn burrowed deep into his heart. A test. He was a test to see how well he could resist the infernal temptations that had plagued him for too long. He had failed those two years ago– he had coveted men in his heart and was soon after cursed. This was a chance to right his wrongs, wasn’t it? But he could have been given an easier trial… His chest heaved as he took a deep breath, body almost shaking as he stormed his way to the cellar for kindling. He wouldn’t let it overcome him. It had almost happened twice before, the curse dominating when it wasn’t the full moon. Going in to town to fetch well-needed necessities only to see temptations. This was no different. His imagination had nearly triumphed many more times than that, sometimes in his chair, imagining what it could feel like to hold someone, to share an intimate glance. Or, in the early mornings, before the sun had risen, rousing him from sleep with dreams that had already begun to change him. He had even torn through bedsheets while dreaming before. But he was sure this time. This was the ultimate test. God would not give him such a man, a living reminder of his two great faults, if he did not believe he could endure the trial. He would lodge him, and let him safely go in the morning. He would speak no further word to him other than goodnight. He would even give him far more wood to burn through the night than he allotted for himself, having grown used to the ceaseless drafts, the pervasive cold. Perhaps fetch him an extra blanket from his own bed. He had just come in from the rain, after all. And that would be it. The last human contact he would have for another month or so, and the closest he had been to conversation for more than two long years. But he would pass his trial, he would, and maybe even gain salvation.

   With stacks of wood he had painstakingly cut and gathered himself in one arm, he went to his room on the other side of the manor to fetch one of the three blankets he used to keep out the cold for his guest. The candle, its meagre light just barely enough for him to navigate by, was threatening to go out from his fast pace. Facing his bed, he paused before a moment of compassion overtook him, and he grabbed two of his own coverlets and hefted them on his shoulder so he would have a hand free for the stub of a candle left in its small holder. Striding the length of the manor did little to ease his nerves. His breath was still heavy as he neared the door, his teeth picking off skin from the inside of his lip. He was only starting to think of what to do to get into his guests room, standing awkwardly at the end of the hall, when the door opened to meet him. Master Bonnefoy had already changed out of his wet clothes, and was waiting expectantly, it seemed. Was it with satisfaction or a degree of remorse that he realised his French visitor had grown resigned to conversing further, or getting to know him?

   Wordlessly, he stacked the kindling in the fireplace, and set it alight with ease. Without meeting the other’s gaze, he set the blankets at the foot of the large, four post bed, realising too late they were untidily left unfolded. All of his time so utterly alone had robbed him of his etiquette as well as his manners, it had seemed.

« Will you introduce yourself, or must I spend the night in the residence of a stranger ? » Came the silken voice behind him. He stilled, collecting himself for a moment before turning. It took effort to keep himself glowering adequately.

“It’s… l. Lord Kirkland,” he paused. He would succeed. “The key is on the mantel. Keep the door locked.” His jaw tightened as he quickly took four large steps to the door, hand resting, just for a moment, on the knob.

“Goodnight, Master Bonnefoy.”

He wished he hadn’t heard the faint echo of a farewell through the door he shut behind him.

What fault that man had with him, he didn’t know. The journey to get to this remote place had been a wretched one. This country was not for his tastes. Grey. Endlessly, exhaustingly grey. The most exciting things he had seen as he had taken carriage after carriage and train after train had been spots of castles crumbling in the distance, dotting grey pastures under grey skies. He liked to excuse it to himself as a holiday. He had finished his studies, and as his father had done, he needed to take a trip and become world-wise if he was ever to become a Baron himself. That was the version he would write to friends, his extended family. It was true enough. If he could have chosen himself, he would have gone to the Italian beaches, Greek art hubs, even German dens of philosophy. That would have only exacerbated the problem. No, for him it was the most pallid, grey country with the most boring, grey people, so he could be looked after like an infant by his uncle, who his family assured him would whip him into shape. So to arrive and be met with a stranger was somewhat of a relief, really. This way he could swan about wherever he’d like instead of being shamed and lectured by a man he had never met before, maybe even find those special Italian beaches or meet those charming German poets. At least, he would have been more relieved if he hadn’t found the manor in the state it was in. Cold and bare, that’s what it was. His uncle must have taken anything even remotely valuable from the place when he sold it, not that he nor anyone else would know– his parents hadn’t spoken to him since long before Francis himself had been born. And draughty! At least, that's what he had thought at first. But once the fire had been stoked and he was curled into a dry bed with at least four blankets atop him, it wasn’t quite so bad. That odd, odd man must be keeping the house like this on purpose. And what a cheapskate he was. Burning wood fires in a manor house, absolutely staffless, with no lights about the place. Perhaps it was an English habit. He had never stayed anywhere other than an in or a hotel that didn’t have at least one or two servants. The only reason he didn’t have a valet accompanying him was that he was still just young enough to have not made his way of the world yet. Still, he couldn’t call the place entirely unpleasant. As much as it needed a bit of livening up, he couldn’t say it wasn’t well built or clean. A good foundation, he thought. Just something to brighten it… He laughed to himself, turning on his side with a blanket twisted around his leg. If he wanted to think about the man, he didn’t have to do it in the guise of this old house. But he was right, he did have a good look about him, even if he did himself no favours. That scowl accentuated his strong brow, a feature that could so easily be overdone, but made him look more defined. His pallour certainly wasn’t helping his dour countenance, but it made the venomous green of his eyes all the more striking. Even his gaunt face and build lent itself well to his rugged jaw, his strong bones... Ah, and here he was again, getting back into trouble in his mind. Although, it’s not as if it mattered. No uncle to lord over him, right? Still, he grinned a little to himself at the quiet rebellion of it all. Hell, he could even come home after a holiday around the most sordid spots in Europe and tell his family just how perfectly chaste, humble, and lordly he had learnt to become under his uncle’s tutelage. It wasn’t as if either side of the family would be writing to each other about it, seeing as how he had moved without saying a word, and his family had shipped him off here with equal forewarning. So a night in the manor, and off in the morning to find a ship or train or anything to get him anywhere else, anywhere he could imagine. He had the funds, or, at least, enough of them. He wasn’t one to give up on luxury, not that he’d know, since he’d never had to, but he was sure he’d find a way to stretch his allowance. He could live a bohemian life! After all, back home he had gotten glimpses of the Romantic lifestyle more than a few times in more than a few salons. Maybe he wouldn’t buy quite so many new suits as he had imagined, so what? All the fewer trunks he would need to buy to fit it all, and less to carry. But that wouldn’t matter if he found a man strong enough to dote and carry them around for him… He wanted to go to sleep on such happy musings, but he was, admittedly, restless. He had locked the door, per the Lord’s instructions, but the blatant hostility was getting to him. It couldn’t be himself, of course, that had raised the mans ire. He knew he must have looked absolutely endearing, showing up the way he had. And he had been nothing but perfectly polite. What kind of cold-hearted man could resist his big, blue eyes, drenched from the rain? And to ask him to walk all the way back to town! Unforgivable. But he had stoked the fire for him, and he had that small hint of a gentle touch. He could see himself going to leave the next morning, already on the train back to the mainland as he finds a letter slipped into his coat, confessing the quiet stranger’s passions for the charming French visitor that will never be realised. Another chuckle to himself and he sunk deeper into his bed, face nestled against worn covers. He knew not everyone was like him, and his host had made it more than abundantly clear that he wanted as little to do with him as possible. Yes, he had provided him with the bare minimum, but that was the most base of human decency, not out of genuine regard. For all he knew, he could have only given him wood and one measly candle while he himself was already fast asleep with a hot coke fire and a large supper. Though, by the looks of him, he probably hadn’t had any substantive meal for quite a while. He still had to admit it though, despite want for much more, he had been made quite comfortable enough… The fire crackling in the hearth, the extra blankets. He breathed deeply, trying to get himself to sleep, but something was nagging him that he couldn’t place. He rolled to his other side, curled up with blankets up to his ears, his pulse starting to quicken for reasons he couldn’t explain. And then it hit him. These must have been that man’s blankets. He could smell something heady, warm, musky even. He stirred again, his mind running wild. He couldn’t help it, even if he didn’t mean to be so perverse. There was something about it that, for lack of a better term, excited him. He could just see the man, so stoic, finally letting himself relax in bed, dreaming of a life outside of these cold walls. He laughed out loud once more, ever one to amuse himself. That was it. If he was in such an outrageously unserious mood, there was no use trying to sleep. He so resented being told what to do, and had been quite certain he wouldn’t stay cooped up in this little room, door locked behind him, anyway. What if he needed to relieve himself? Surely there wasn’t anything objectionable about looking around the manor for a water closet. And if he happened to get a bit lost and end up wandering about to his heart’s content, who would ever know?

He kicked his legs over the edge of the bed, tensing from the shock of cold and remedying it by wrapping one of those special blankets around his shoulders and waist like a shawl. Slipping extra stockings on his feet kept him at least out of fear of frostbite, a worry he found perfectly justified; he grabbed the candle and was off. The extra stockings came in handy, as he found the floorboards to be louder than he had noticed when he was storming after Lord Kirkland, and the softness of his feet made him quiet enough as he traipsed from room to room. The first door was to an empty bedroom, a bare bed and nothing else to find. As was the next, and the next. Room after room, unfurnished, bare, lifeless. He was almost ready to just go back to his own bed from shear boredom, but the candle caught a glimmer– or a lack of one. The dull shine of the wood floorboards had been broken up by a scratch on its surface inside. Crouching down with the wavering candle, he could feel the grooves gouged into the wood, scraped up like by some anxious creature. What a complete destitute hovel this was! If it was due to his uncle’s negligence, or this Lord Kirkland fellow; either way it was ice cold, empty of any valuables, and infested with vermin. He couldn’t get out of that room fast enough, feeling rather squeamish at the thought of getting bitten or scratched by any sort of animal. To his own luck, the next room he tried, after quite a few hallways and twists and turns, was the library. Finally, an insight into his uncle, or to the stranger he was boarding with.

Instantly, he noticed the difference. He could feel himself breathe again, despite the room being so cramped in comparison. Every wall, lined with books. Every table, scattered with notes, papers, inkpots and blotters. Multiple teacups and saucers, full to varying degrees, strewn about just as haphazardly. Whereas each other room was neat as a pin, this was an eclectic mess, but clean, spotless everywhere. Not a room in the house had a speck of dust or dirt, the library included but this room, unlike the others, was, quite frankly, a mess. Who would sweep and dust so religiously that wouldn’t bother to put papers into place? Clearly that Lord Kirkland fellow, as there were no servants in sight. Well, as much as he wanted the dull patter of rain from the unshuttered but windowed balcony to put him to an easy sleep, his curiosity had got the better of him. All of those scribbled notes were just lying there, so the guilt he’d feel at perusing them would be minimal. As he approached the nearest stack, his mind raced with possibilities. Was this englishman a wealthy hermit, shut in out of distaste of his fellow man? A tortured soul, cast out by those who wouldn’t understand him? Francis could much relate, though his mental images of Romantic lone men in harsh landscapes were over embellished, even he would admit. But to be alone in such a manor necessitated some level of romanticism, didn’t it?

The first page he found was just a list of things to do, with many marks alongside that seemed to indicate they all had been fulfilled more than once. Fetch wood, clean ground floor, clean first floor, clean second floor (each of these had subpoints of things to do, sweep, mop, dust, launder). On the back was a list of commodities he needed, seemingly to purchase each time he went to town. Candles, flour, preserved foods of many kinds, all seemingly only to provide for the basest of subsistence, and a subsistence Francis himself couldn’t stomach. Of course the man was so pale and lean, he seemed to eat no game, nothing he couldn’t store that would last out as long as he would go without another trip in to town. As much as such trite lists bored him on their own, they did pique his broader curiosity, and dulled him to the idea of further snooping. Besides, the script itself gave him enough insight into the man’s character that it wouldn’t be that much more invasive to go further. Not flowery, but well-written, with care to be legible. An assertive hold on the quill, and careful never to run out nor overload the nib with ink. A pragmatic but thoughtful man, Francis judged, although the exactness and care put into his writing seemed an odd contrast to the house devoid of personal effects. That just meant he would need to delve further to get a better insight, wouldn’t it?

The nearest, somewhat organised stack of papers was his next choice. From its arrangement and multitude of teacups swarming its presence, he assumed this was something he worked on often. He could imagine the man sat there, drinking away as he worked. Francis sat in the chair at the desk, the only one remotely comfortable he had seen in the entire manor, like a last vestige of indulgence in the place. Getting into the mood, he tried a sip of some of the tea in the nearest cup, and instantly spit it back out. He had seen milk on the list of foodstuffs earlier, but this was black as night, unsweetened, and ice cold. Perhaps he had used the milk earlier, and was now living in his sparing, miserly way. He wasn’t usually partial to tea at all, but this was a step beyond, and far worse than the sweet, creamy things he had been given on the trains here. But, adhering to all preconceptions Francis had of their ilk, the man was devoted to drinking some, of any quality, as he spent hours hunched in faint candlelight in front of his work, his lifeblood. Yes, that must be it, he was an author! He knew the English were inclined to such follies– locking themselves away to finish massive drafts of work, novels of exquisite horrors and elations. He much preferred French painting or poetry to such literature himself, but something was to be admired by the adherence to such stoic values the English so stubbornly committed themselves to. What kind of masterful, terrible work could he unearth there that would reveal the passionate heart of the icy man somewhere within these walls?

‘The last personal effect that I could find has been sold a half week and a fortnight before this, save for those small bits that I require for daily use and other larger things, such as beds and furnishings I cannot remove alone without suspicion. I am ashamed that I cannot bring myself to be rid of it all, and to purchase back things of lesser quality and cost to both protract my funds and assure I remain penitent. In my condition, any such extravagances seem affronts to the Power which has so mercifully allowed me chances at redemption. Although I cannot commit to a monastic life for fear of exacerbating the seed of my trial, I should replicate the dutiful, pennitant, and austere life of those closest to God. I had thought, and worried over quite often, the eschewing of all of these such items, as I believe, on the first, I had done so to be rid of the reminder of the day solidifying my sin. To be comfortable in a home I had never known and to see such things that belonged to another have plagued me, so it would be false to say a great relief has not fallen upon me to have seen the back of the last trinket that was not my own. And yet it would be just as false to say I do not want for such things. Countless repairs of garments habitually torn instil within me yearning for such finery as I had found upon my arrival to this place, and though I have grown hardy to the cold after consistent exposure, and now find such lights as I see briefly upon visits to the village for supplies to be grating, a good supply of coke and candles are such material wants that I think upon often. It is only due to Providence that I shall quickly find my way again after, and on such occasions that I have found a better part of an evening or afternoon at wanting such things, I have made duly sure to go without them and all else twice over the next day. And still, I have yet to come any closer to deliverance as I have been when I first thought upon my sin as a boy or was punished for it those two years ago, and am still punished for it since.’

Had it not been for the stark resemblance to the man himself, Francis would have still believed this to be some sort of twisted novella instead of a journal. With each passing word, the bizarre lifestyle of the man became more and more apparent, but the deepening stone of dread in his stomach almost overcame his near insatiable curiosity to read more. The perverse level of self-hatred over some perceived failing was overly apparent, but as he thought about that first page, almost too apprehensive to read older entries, his imagination was beginning to fill in the gaps his logic could not. The personal effects Lord Kirkland mentioned weighing on him so were his uncles, and, with his uncle missing, he could only imagine one sin that could be so vexing to the man. He suddenly felt much like a caged rabbit in the den of a wolf, knowing he was living in the home of a murderer. The storm, once something coaxing him to sleep, was making him jump when errant raindrops came down too hard on the window panes beside him. If he was to flee, he had nowhere to go. He was trapped with a killer. A killer! Hands trembled as he clutched at the paper, compulsively reading and rereading that first page. It wasn’t difficult to read between the immaculately penned lines, Lord Kirkland had murdered his uncle, but that left much unexplained. And that was the sin he had mentioned, of course. Issues with that story arose, however. ‘Thought upon his sin’? Was this something he had planned for so long and only recently executed? And clearly, if he believed all this self sacrifice was a necessary way to repent for his deed, he wouldn’t so readily do it again… The man had demanded Francis lock himself away, after all, something that would undoubtedly hinder any bloodthirsty urges of a true killer. What deliverance he hoped to find by it all was beyond him, though. Papers fluttered as if from the wind outside as he rifled through them, delving backwards in time and trying his best to learn more as quickly as he could. His eyes ran across each page as he came closer and closer to the journal’s beginning, unable to rest for more than a moment. …’felt the changes’, … ‘another month unsuccessful’, …’cannot remember the night before’. Francis could only stop his fervent rhythm of skimming and turning the page once he finally reached the very first entry, scrawled more quickly in a less steady hand.

‘I have tempted fate and made another suffer for it. A man is dead from my perversion. I cannot recall much. For fear of losing more of myself, if what happened last night should occur once more to-night or indeed at any moment, I write this in the hopes to preserve some of myself. Perhaps I can read this and keep hold of the fine thread of my sanity. All I can recall comes from before the sun set on yester-day. I had succumb to my lusts I had known to be an affront to God, I had thought openly and wantonly of another man and thusly have been smote. Dear God! What creature had assailed me in the night, I know not. I recall hardly a thing after. Only the running, the hunger, the need, unending need unbridled by sense or humility to His word. But no, the beast, surely an emissary or embodiment of His most despicable opposition, had come to exact a vengeance upon me for failing in my duty to the Lord, I am sure. For what other explanation could illuminate these events, I know not of one. I had laughed in the face of the Holy with my villainous lust, and this time had acted on it in wretched self fulfilment. Knowing I was surely destined to his realm, I am convinced, I am certain Lucifer had taken his chance to punish me for it in his own way. That was the animal, or man, which had massacred me so; the wound in my side, my forearm, and my throat I shall not soon forget, although now that I have awoken the next day, what I know should have been fatal blows have somewhat healed. I have been kept alive to do the dirty works of the Darkness, as I already have done. Oh, that I have done! A man, I know not who, is dead for it. And I am here, amongst his belongings, in a home wearing his own clothes out of a lack of my own. Out of Christian respect I have buried what was left of his body outside of wherever I have now found myself. Aside from my scars, my own corpse is much like how I remember it from the day before, but I cannot break away from the images I saw of myself from last night. For it was not but moments after I had certainly perished that I was brought back in a body not my own, driven by such infernal desires that must have made me kill a man! Lord, help me! If there is any chance, it would be through Him. But should such a wicked creature be offered any chance of contrition? As I have not been damned straight to Hell, I know I can still be saved. I shall not write more today, I have decided. Earnest prostration before the Lord is all I can do now.’

Sick did not begin to describe the sensation assaulting Francis’s body. This man must be mad, surely he was. And yet such lucidity demonstrated by the character before him on the page made him tremble in his place. He hadn’t realised he had stood, clutching the paper as close to his chest as he could manage as he read, and now that he had finished, he had thrust it back onto the desk. That was why he had been given a key. This miserable wretch was convinced he would kill again. Indeed, it was such a killing before that lent credence to his tale. If this man had killed his uncle, would that not indicate this account was accurate? Yet this man, this poor man was afflicted by a guilt at such lusts as Francis himself would willingly submit himself to, and for this he believed himself to be abandoned by God. Curiosity still unsated, Francis knew, deep inside, he wanted to read on, but his urge to flee was overpowering. If only he could urge his feet to move from their icy spot on the floor. His breathing was unnaturally steady for facing such a shock, and his head felt remarkably clear. He would walk, slowly, back to his room. He would lock the door. Most likely, he would not sleep. But at the first sign of sunrise, he would carry his bag and twenty others like it if it meant he could run from the place. But, no! This woeful man seemed no more a threat to him now as he had upon the moment of his entry, if his logic was to triumph and be believed. No-one was overpowered by the Devil and forsaken by the Lord to become a beastly thing, not for this sin nor any other. The rhetoric seemed more like a man twisted to breaking by the guilt of a perversion Francis found all too familiar than of one cursed. In a more assertive upbringing, he could easily see how he himself could have felt so neglected by God as to have been driven mad by the conflict between his own desires and the will of those around him. He would follow the man’s request to stay secluded in his own room, but he would not go in fear of an inhuman animal roving the halls in search for flesh. With a level head, he could rationalise an impotent madness, a harmless personage who was slowly killing himself with his grief, but would not kill another. How his uncle, unequivocally deceased, tied into it all, he did not know. Perhaps he had been such a man as had made Lord Kirkland, if he really was a Lord at all, realise such sinful desires as he had mentioned, and had ultimately paid the price for it. Perhaps in his grief at his ‘self fulfilment’, Mister Kirkland had found the first man he happened upon and acted upon his uncle in fervour, later cleared. Either way, Francis would not be in terror for his own life if he returned to his bedroom unnoticed and disappeared in the morning without a trace. A deep, level breath helped him to collect himself as he grasped at his dwindling candle. He turned, lightning crashing behind him on the balcony. In the burst of light, he saw a dark silhouette loom in the doorway.

Before he had reached his bedroom, he knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight. He would have locked the door and tossed the key out of the window if only he could have found a way out again when he would be of solid mind and composure, but such a thing would hardly mean he had succeeded in facing his trial by following the word of Christ. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, exhaling as deeply as he could as he ran a shaking hand down his face. It would not be so difficult but that he was so horrified of what would be a result of his failure. He almost wished for immediate damnation if it only meant he would not commit again what he had already done to another, or worse. Yes, worse. For before, as he knew from the unceasing reliving of snippets of that night that assailed him, he had but killed the man. He was repulsed by the images of what could come for the other fellow if he failed in his test of will and devotion. Master Bonnefoy… Francis–. It was an hour he paced before he knew his actions, and only then did he stop from his candle burning so far down to its stub that he was worried he would never have the chance to light another until he went into town to replace the matches he had run out of so long ago. Resolving to go down to the library to light one of the few candles he had left to replace this nub, he also figured he could spend the rest of the night reading or filling more into his journals to keep him busy. He would clean if only he had the chance to go throughout the manor without fear of losing himself. A distraction in writing or reading would assure he had something productive to do, a fruitful outlet that would keep him from temptation. And, of course, he would pray. But all would be well. Master Bonnefoy was locked away, safely. The fear that was agitating his imagination was unfounded. The trial was one he could overcome. Such affirmations he reiterated to himself as he carefully trod to his study, taking precautions to assure the dwindling flame would live until he could light another with it. The sound of the rain, strong as it was now pouring, dwindled as he wound through halls, then crescendoed with a boom once he finally reached the heavy oaken doors he threw open. A still form, outlined as lightning’s glow encompassed him, stood, seeming to wait there for him. Ultimate dread overcame him. If his candle had been any taller, it would have threatened to catch the floor alight when he dropped it; though its pitiful wax spattered, the holder clinking too the floor. Instantly, his heart raced. The assurances he had made to himself evaporated away, and the horror of his chance at a relapse was self-fulfilling. The itch on the back of his hands started immediately. Desperately, he told himself he could still calm himself out of it. If Fra– the man left now, did as he was told and stayed in his room, all would be well. At least, he would be safe if he couldn’t control himself. It was their proximity he dreaded. For one look at that startled face framed in a halo of stormlight and golden ringlets, his lithe body in little more than a thin sleeping shirt and blanket, and the pounding heart within the man’s chest was urging on his changes.

“Leave now. Lock the door or you will regret yourself.” His voice was thankfully stern, almost sounding enraged. Better that than the absolute fear that wracked him to come out in his speech, and risk the conversation lasting longer. If his guest was afraid of him, he would do as he was told.

« Mister Kirkland, I had not– I do not wish to intrude. But I did not want being locked in the room of a stranger. » The itching continued up his arms, down his spine. His heartbeat wouldn’t slow.

“I don’t care what you want. This is my manor and you will do what I tell you.” Now he was trying to intimidate. He stepped slowly closer and to the side of where the other man stood; although he dreaded the contact, he was desperate to give the poor man an easy shot to the door in case he later had to escape. He himself knew that he wasn’t strong enough to remove himself from the situation, trying as he was to urge his feet to move him far away from here.

« I am not afraid. » What an obstinate reply! For a moment, fear at what he may do was overcome with a burst of rage.

“You know not what you say! I would do to you what I wished and you stand and mock me. Do as I bade you and return to your room, or you shall lament your choice, if you have the chance!” Fingers spasmed after an accidental injury– he was so impassioned he had dug his nails into his palms. They had left marks in the short second they were held there.

It was with more shock and horror that he saw the other man step closer to him, making no moves what so ever for the door.

« I know what you would do. You are not the monster you think you are for such desires, and I am no fool. You act as if such feelings make you incapable to resist yourself. » He sneered, both in anguish and resentment as the other man attempted an assuaging smile. What the fool thought he meant when he insinuated such mortal peril was beyond him, but he was loath to give him an example, even as a means to urge the man to escape.

« I am… of a similar mind. I have been sent here to see my uncle, as he was to make me want for… standard affections. I am flattered to be the object of yours. But such feelings make neither of us criminals. Look, I am no animal consumed, no ? » Another step forward by the guest; he took one more back. He could now hear the rustle of the blanket as he breathed, smell his warm scent on his slender neck. Yet he wasn’t hearing what the Frenchman said, his head was swimming. There was no more room for rage. It was starting already. Through God, he would do what he could to slow it. He would not let himself harm this man, but he knew there was only so much he could withstand against a trial such as this. Both of their fates rested in the man’s will to remove himself.

“If you will not listen to reason, please… leave, if only because I beg you to do it.” His words stuck in his throat as he stepped back, almost stumbling to any refuge he could find; there was none. His pulse drummed in his ears, painfully so, especially as it mixed with the tempting heartbeat in front of him. The storm was too loud, the rain, the slight fizz of the wick of the candle on his desk burning. Sounds barraged him as his body was scorched from the inside out. He staggered to the sitting-chair, clutching it with one hand as the other came to his face. Pins down his neck stung as hairs poked through flesh. His ears pointed and flattened. He was drowning. He heard a sharp breath, and looked up to see those two blue eyes, staring in distress, but remaining in place. Sharp teeth clenched. He rasped out another plea, but was met with no reply but that same concerned look. The look of a fool. A flush of blood came to his head and heart, his eyes widened in near-fury. This idiot would stand, mouth agape as the emissary of Satan urged him to leave for his own wellbeing! His lunacy would damn them both! If he would not scamper away like sensible prey, he would need jostling.

“I cannot– I… You must leave!” It was only once he had lifted him from the ground by his neck that he had even noticed he strove to meet the man where he stood. The Frenchman fell fully onto the floor with a thud immediately afterwards; he looked on from above, horrified. What dread it was to have grasped him so, but even worse to have thrown him away as a dog would with an unwanted bone. He hadn’t meant to–. He… He was only trying to–. He began to hyperventilate, head spinning. He would resist. He could. But the sensations overcoming him were too much. He couldn’t block out the scent of the man below him, the cacophony of his fluttering pulse, the look of red lips trembling. He– he needed him. He needed him to leave. His eyes trailed, examining the tear to the delicate nightshirt that exposed supple, pink flesh below. A red nipple poking up in the cold, bare chest heaving with weighted breath. His stomach ached. A tickle behind him began to peak over the top of his trousers, swaying as a short tail lengthened. His nose twitched. His body moved of its own accord, grabbing at the neck of the man now finally scrabbling away, back on the floor. The poor soul quickly stopped his planned escape as sharp nails scraped his neck. His thumb trailed down the man’s angled jaw. The hitch of breath that touch caused made him snap back to consciousness, if only for a moment. The pitiful man was lying there, terrified. Terrified! Of him. God, he wouldn’t do this to him, to a helpless creature. He would not defile him to sate his own lust. His own miserable desires. Oh, how long had it been since he had spoken to another? He needed– he needed someone. Needed him. But now in this perverse greed he would forsake another man to Hell. No! He could feel– feel compassion for this man, lying beneath him. He could still feel that. He could feel it, sense it in his own erratic pulse. His own heavy breathing… Breathing that wasn’t echoed by the man holding his breath below him. His face blanched in dread, yet… appealing, so appealing. And the scent. The man’s sweat from fright was full of it, his essence begging to be noticed. He noticed it. He couldn’t resist.

He winced as his clothes strained, his excitement only just beginning but already too tight for the fabric around him. He was already hard, but all he did was stare at the body below him, smell him. Hear the figure’s pulse in his ears and feel it in his hand on the man’s throat. His knees were pressed to the floor between the other’s armpits, his straining crotch in the man’s face. The pressure was unbearable. Too much. He needed release, needed to start it. He should grind into his face, he needed to grind on him, shove his hard cock down on him– at the thought, his hips spasmed in desperation. Rut on his mouth, his face, grind, animal need flooding his mind. Too hard already. Erect length shockingly pronounced in his meagre garments. The merciful cloth ripped away as his hips took control, trembling. He did what he could to pull away from the man’s face as it did, hunched over as he dragged his now freed, erect member against the exposed chest below him erratically. Flashes of horror at the sight of himself, of the form his length had already become did nothing to stop his body. He was big, dark, swollen, veiny. His weight dropped down onto the man as his lower body worked frantically all on its own. Rutting woefully, in short staccato bursts. He tucked his chin against his own chest, straining to resist himself, small bits of hot tears springing to his eyes as another second of humanity was quickly swallowed up by thirst. His body was determined to fuck, even the mans supple chest if that was all he would manage. The friction of his movements was eased by warm precum– dripping normally at first but soon overflowing. He was certain he couldn’t get any harder, but his pitiful attempts at release did nothing to sate his needs. It felt good. Good, painful, too hot. The agony of desire had almost entirely overpowered him– but not so. His sharp nails pressed once more to his palms, he stopped his hips for just a brief moment. His mind wavered again, rising up in a bid for control. He could still tear himself away. He– he could save this. By– by God, he– he could–. Cool hands carefully holding and leading his hips back to where they had been, or even closer, put a stop to his moment of clarity. Blue eyes looked up at him and sudden sensation robbed him of his thought, of any thought. His member was in something warm, wet. With the enlarged head of his cock placed down the man’s throat, he had no hold left on himself. His body took the cue. Hormones flooded his searing blood, overtaking him. Hips pounded. It wasn’t enough. Why? A vacant but possessive look at the man below him clarified. Those red lips, enticing. Not enough. He pulled out, noises rising in his throat as the cold air met his throbbing member, overstimulating him once more. In less than a moment, he had turned the man to his stomach, pressed his face to the man’s neck through his bouncing curls. That scent… not just any scent. He would be his. He was his. He would be his mate, mount him. He trailed his nose down his mate’s back, smelling his heady essence as he did so. The back arched in response, showing him his mate wanted to be bred just as much as he wanted to breed him. As his nose drifted down further, finally, he met with what he needed. Soft, fertile flesh that tensed as he pressed his nose against it, the strong musk of his mate’s own hard member overpowering as it flooded him. He pressed his long tongue into it, eyes closed, but was met with something scratchy. That wasn’t right. He growled, biting down on the barrier, fibres catching in his sharp teeth as he ripped the cloth away, the silken nightshirt left in tatters. Wet nose dragged again along the spot, then tongue, readying his mate for mounting with generous preparation. His mate squirmed, must have been happy below him. Pressure pushed back against him, and a low growl rumbled in his throat in reply– his mate was being good, compliant. It didn’t take long before he was ready. As he pulled away, his heavy tongue spilled over his sharp fangs, too large to stay in his inadequate maw. It took too long, he hurt. His cock was an angry red, engorged with incessant, pheromone laden blood. Balls swelled with potent seed, tighter than ever before. His head was dripping, visibly pounding with each heartbeat. In frantic mindlessness, he thrust it between the plush ass his mate displayed just for him, rutting as he once more curled over him. His stomach lay flush against the back of his mate. His hands gripped his mate’s chest that was now thrust to the ground. Still not satisfied. More. Needed to be inside, but his hips wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop long enough to position. Without a choice in the matter, they kept thrusting, slick precum sliding back down his length, his length deep between the plump, fertile behind of his mate, until finally, he plunged inside. A pause as his body took account. He was in him. Tight, hot, made for him. A growl broke deep in his chest. This should have satisfied, but he still hurt. Still too hard. He wasn’t deep enough. His nose, his muzzle pressed back into the crook of his mate’s neck. He breathed into him deeply, needing his scent. Hands moved, claws digging into hips held tight. Grabbed them hard as his own hips pulled back, and pounded in. Not deep enough. Still hurt. It hurt so much, so good, his pulse drumming his cock from inside. Needed more. Ridges formed and grew and pressed outwards alongside his expanding length. Head swelled, reformed, pushing out of thickening foreskin. Tip now fattening up to inhuman size and shape, too sensitive. Veins throbbed around his swelling girth that wouldn’t stop growing. His body would stimulate prospective mates, get them productive. He whined, long tongue out as he panted, desperately rutting into his mate as hard and fast as he could. Why no release? In only a few strokes, he felt his mate shudder under him, moaning. Then again. Again. He could feel the liquid under him. He was doing well by his mate, his mate cumming. His hormone riddled precome had been seeping into him, and he was rewarded with a potent slickness from his mate coating his shaft. His own pheromones soaked the air, saturating it. But he was so hot, too much pressure. There was something to do… to ask. Help. Wanted to speak to his mate. Fran… Sounds choked gutturally in his throat as he tried to get something out. Soon the noises devolved into a whimper as his erratic rhythm intensified. Needed to breed. Head dizzy. Claws pulled his mate in tighter. Sharp teeth marked his neck in between heavy panting breaths. He wasn’t doing enough. Not deep enough. His body pushed him further, his hot prick curving to pummell deep into his breeding hole. He whined again, the sound twisting to a growl. His body couldn’t stop, wouldn’t slow. Claws yanked up his mate's hips, driving into him at a heavy angle. His desperation began to twist him. He couldn’t bear more of the heat, the intolerable pressure. Mate below him was shuddering so often, must be reaching breeding point again and again. His body wouldn’t let him. Rutting mindlessly, pulling his forearm sized, or bigger, inhuman cock out to the head with each furious buck of his hips. Faster than possible, he would pound back in again, deeper. Constant rumbles vibrated deep in his chest, his mouth busy marking his mate, panting with heavy breaths, or grunting. Teeth gnashed. Mate was ready. Stomach tightened. On all fours like the animal he was, all his strength was used for breeding. Hips railed his mate, head spinning more each time. Close. Seed filled him, preparing. His balls swelled again, full to bursting, hurting. Mate was good, fertile, ready. The moans below him only piqued his insatiable lust. His body prepared. He moaned at a final surge of his animal length, ridges and bumps enlarging, veins popping. His head swelled, morphed again, as did the base of his pulsating cock, stuffing his mate. Erratic thrusts became frenzied, though his length was stuck, embedded deep inside. Explosive, searing pleasure. Ceaseless streams of cum filled his mate. Hips couldn’t, wouldn’t stop. He rut through long  orgasm, howling. Still bucking his hips, he seized his mate in his arms, turning him while the pair were still connected. Now facing one another, and joined at the hips, he collapsed after more final thrusts, body pressing atop his partner. Protecting his mate. Panting and growling contentedly, he drifted off. Seed would stay inside, keeping his mate fertile, bred. His muzzle pressed deep against the crook of his mate’s neck as his eyes closed.

[othersystems]

here was the timeline of  2000s music/clothes (*from suburban memory)  for younger genz who i see making some crucial timeline mistakes!-

2000-2002

nu metal- korn, limp bizkit, slipknot, insane clown posse

poppunk- blink 182,NOFX, MxPx, the ataris, etc, less than jake, reel big fish ska

eminem 

around 2002 was garage rock revival the stroke, the white stripes etc

spiked hair baggy pants for men 

middle lip ring, eyebrow ring. those star tattoos everyone got. spiderweb elbow tattoo

spencers

kind of indie/emo-lite on looks for “alt” culture- messangers bags covered in pins, flippy hair for women

2002-2004

popunk second wave- good charlotte, simple plan, avril lavigne, yellowcard

popunk men with the lng hair in front spikey in back haircut, clown tear makeup

second wave “emo”- taking back sunday, thursday, straylight run

secondwave nu metal- linkin park

metalcore- avenged sevenfold, atreyu, bullet for my valentine etc

outkast blows up

bands like converge or at the drive in or the locust for 15 year old boys midway on their journey from “corporate alt rock they play on fuse (see above)” to “underground music” or 80s hardcore

“rand0m sp0rk >.<” culture

Bam Margera, HIM, CKY

invader zim, emily the strange

flash games, bored.com, xanga

drawn on converse, lowrise flare jeans, lowrise skirts over jeans, skate shoes

hot topic, bondage pants

everyone making their own fansites, height of messageboards, quiz sites

hot topic goth, fauxhawks

von dutch hats, volatile platform sneakers 

beginning of hummer/eat the poor culture

G Unit clothes/upper middle class white teen boys appropriating rap culture

beginning of mainstream crunk music

“indie music” blowing up modest mouse, franz ferdinand,

beginning of the saddle creek reign- bright eyes, cursive, the good life, tilly and the wall

garden state, the shins

2004-2006

fuse, mtv2, vh1

height of paris hilton, juicy

big zip up black band sweatshirts, lots of rubber bracelets

third wave “emo”- my chemical romance, the used etc

second wave “screamo”- hawthorne heights, senses fail from first to last

“i cut myself” live journal vibe, postsecret

gorillaz have their second wave

beginning hints of scene- fall out boy, people wearing long necklaces, mirror peace sign selfies. teen girls wearing thrifted young boys pajama tops

duckface, starbucks, uggs, northface jackets

Ed hardy

grindcore- job for a cowboy piq squeal bree music 

teen boys wearing womens jeans

side lip piercings, strectched ears

folk punk scene, kimya dawson, paul baribeau, ghost mice, defiance ohio, 

flip up hats, fanny packs, rat tails, house shows, anarchism, food not bombs, zines, bicycle culture ppl building “tall bikes”

soulja boy

2006-2008

the life and death of scene which comes and goes with myspace

skinny jeans/bright color skinny jeans, *rawr*

raccoon hair, “brass knuckle” jewelry, lots of eyeliner

end of mall goth, directly replaced by scene

continuation of consumer culture, duckface, starbucks, uggs, northface jackets but also guido, spray tan

Tap out replaces Ed hardy for men

beginning of white people ukulele covering rap song culture

“acoustic guitar in the woods”- iron and wine etc

“weird diy aesthetic” - dan deacon, animal collective

MGMT, juno etc adding to mainstream awareness of “hipster” culture

second wave of twee

every “alt” teen finds and obsesses over neutral milk hotel for some reason

reign of judd apatow

lil wayne, everyone knows the word to a milli

2008-2010

rise of facebook

texts from last night

scene overwhelmingly perceived as trashy, morphs into brokencyde vibe

edm, dubstep

lady gaga, the beginning of poptimism

chillwave- neon indian,toro y moi, washed out

hipster runoff and “the end of alt”

american apparel, lcd soundsystem

in these years vnecks transition from “american apparel alt guy” to “tech bro” very sharply

the cobra snake/last nights parties party pic culture, santos party house, cory kennedy

“hipster” “williamsburg culture” blown up, wavves, best coast etc

the beginning of the reign of the micro genre “witch house” etc

burial, grouper etc

“irony” becoming mainstream, tim and eric 

“indie folk” becoming mainstream car commercial music- edward sharpe, foster the people, mumford and sons

rage comic reddit culture, beards, bacon

tyler the creator, earl sweatshirt, lil b, nicki minaj alt white ppl have new interest in hiphop, see it as experimental, start of the end of “rap is crap” racist thing

velour sweat suit culture starting to fade, more variance in clothing styles. black lace up boots, floral skirts becoming popular, beginning of 90s nostalgia. men wear cardigans

lookbook.nu , tavi gevinson, alexa chung

less prep vs scene/goth/punk more “everyone is kind of alt so there is no alt”  (500) days of summer is nail in the coffin

[the-atlas-sister]

The First Date (Damian Wayne X Reader)

So in this, you are the daughter of Green Arrow, Oliver Queen (NOT THE ARROW VERSION!! THE ANIMATED AND COMIC VERSION), and Black Canary, Dinah Lance. Also in this Dinah is dead and you have taken on the role of Black Canary

"Done!" Abby (moi!!!) exclaimed, tying the hair tie in my hair. "Aw, you look so good!" She backed up, admiring her work.

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, smiling slightly. "I mean, I usually look beautiful but now I look even more beautiful," I joked.

"I know," Abby said, making me chuckle.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. "What time is it?" I asked.

"Six on the dot," Abby said, looking impressed. "Wow."

"It is Damian," I shrugged before my eyes widened. "I'm going on a date with Damian Wayne."

"Chill," y/b/f said, noticing my panic. "You asked him out, remember?"

"But-"

"Hey Damian," y/b/f said from the living room.

I looked at Abby, a panicked expression on my face. "You're okay," she whispered before leading me out of the bathroom.

Damian looked at me before mumbling something in Arabic. I was rusty when it came to other languages but I thought I caught "Beautiful..." which was enough to make my entire face turn red.

"Hey," I said, putting on a confident face. "You look good." My eyes scanned him. He wore a pair of nice black jeans and a matching skin-tight turtle-neck.

"You look..." His eyes scanned me.

"Gorgeous? Beautiful? Sexy?" I guessed, smirking at Damian blushed.

"Yes," Damian said, making me blush.

"Okay... well," Abby said, pushing me forward. "You two have fun," she said as I slipped on my shoes. "But not too much fun." She eyeballed Damian in a very best friend way. "And have her back by 10."

"And be safe!" Myloh added.

"Bye guys," I said, quickly ushering Damian out the door before closing it. "Sorry."

"I had a similar conversation with my brothers before I left," Damian said before cringing slightly. "Although it was a bit more-"

"I don't want to know," I said, shaking my head. "So, what do you have planned, Mr. Wayne?" I asked, walking down the apartment hallway.

"That's a surprise," Damian said with a stoic face.

"Not a huge fan of surprises," I said as we reached the elevator.

"You'll like this one," Damian stated matter-of-factly, pressing the button to the last level.

"Is that a fact?" I challenged as the elevator lowered.

"Yes," Damian stated, making me tilt my head. "I did some research and I'm sure you'll enjoy this."

"I don't know if that was meant to be sweet but it came off as creepy," I chuckled, leaning on the elevator wall.

"I just meant- I asked Abby what you're interested in," Damian explained, slowly going pink.

"What'd she say?" I asked, both worried and curious.

"She explained your love of movies, books, the stars, and food," Damian stated as the doors slid open.

"So, which did you choose?" I questioned, walking backward out of the elevator.

"Still a surprise," Damian smirked, following me.

"Mhm, game on Mr. Wayne," I said, turning around and walking out the apartment building's front doors. My eyes widened a bit as I saw Damian's motorcycle parked in front of the building. "Seriously?" I asked, looking at him as he stood next to me.

"Complaining?" he asked, looking at me sideways.

"Not as long as I get to drive," I chuckled, approaching the motorcycle.

"No," Damian said, standing next to me. He grabbed one of the helmets before handing me the second one.

"I know how," I frowned.

"No," Damian repeated before blinking. "Strange, that felt familiar." He then shook his head before getting on the bike. "Come on," he said looking at me. I rolled my eyes but climbed on the bike behind him. "Hold on," he said before putting on his helmet.

"You sure you don't want to drive as a way to get me to hold on to you?" I teased, resting my head on Damian's shoulder. Damian tensed up, making me chuckle. "I was kidding," I reassured him, putting on the helmet and grabbing his shoulders.

Damian cleared his throat. "I-I respect you, but for your own safety, I suggest you put your arms around my waist."

I blushed, wrapping my arms around his waist. Damian started the bike and drove out of his parking spot. My grip tightened as Damian sped up and we reached the highway. I grinned under the helmet as the adrenaline rushed through me due to the speed.

***

"You have to take me on your motorcycle more often," I said, letting out a breathy laugh and taking off my helmet.

"It's not really mine," Damian corrected, taking off his helmet and getting off the bike.

"But with Promythous-" I furrowed my brows, placing the helmet on the bike's seat.

"That was Robin's bike," Damian explained, leading me to the secret destination. He had parked a block away from the surprise place, just to keep the secrecy. "Damian Wayne does not have a motorcycle."

"Who's-" I continued, getting into pace next to Damian.

"My brother's," he shrugged with a small smug smile.

"You stole your brother's motorcycle?" I asked, laughing slightly.

"He told me, women love men with motorcycles," Damian said. "So I took that as an invitation for me to 'borrow' his." He smirked to himself at the thought. "Also, my other brother said I should. I'm not one to listen to him but, I did enjoy the idea of stealing Jason's bike." I smiled at his mini-rant. He seemed to notice. "I'm sorry for oversharing," he said, his face returning to it's neutral state.

"No, it's fine," I reassured him as we turned a corner. "It's nice hearing you talk more."

Damian blinked, obviously surprised by my answer. "What... would you like to talk about?" he asked slowly.

"You," I said. "I don't know much about you."

"O-oh," Damian stuttered, which was a rare sound. "I grew up with the League of Assassins."

"The group your father trained with?" I asked, interested to learn more. "Lead by Ra AlGugl?"

"My grandfather," Damian confirmed. "When my father was training, he met my mother. She- she tricked him into having... intercourse with her. That's how I was created. My father left before I was born and I was raised by my grandfather and mother. I was trained from birth to be the master assassin. I was supposed to be the best. There was no room for error."

"That doesn't sound like a fun childhood," I said.

"I suppose not," Damian hummed. "I loved my grandfather very much, or more admired him. He told me we would destroy the world and rebuild it in our own image." He scanned our surroundings, almost as if he was imagining how he could make each detail superior.

"That's still partly your mindset isn't it?" I asked, making Damian's gaze turn to me. "You see the world and people and just imagine how you can make them better." Damian blinked. "You even yourself believe you're better than everyone. You think you'll be a better Batman, a better hero."

"I don't-"

"I'm not critiquing, just observing," I stated. I blushed under Damian's intense stare. "I-I interrupted, I'm sorry. What about your mother?"

"She's dead," Damian said.

"Oh," I said.

"She wasn't a mother anyway," Damian continued. "Last I saw her she tried to create an adult 'perfect' clone of me and killed him."

"And I thought my dad was hardcore," I mumbled. "How did she...?"

"Helicopter crashed after trying to kill me, my father, and Grayson," Damian said almost casually.

My eyes widened. "You didn't deserve it," I said as we turned yet another corner. Damian turned to me. "You deserved a loving childhood. Not one with a group of assassins and Batman."

Damian's eyes softened. "I did get, what you call, a loving childhood with my father," he said. "He would set up movie nights. And my brothers are... overly loving, at least Grayson."

"He's Nightwing, right?" I asked, grinning a bit. Damian nodded. "I've met him. He has a bit of an older brother feel. And I'm sure he understands how hard it is to grow up with someone like Bruce."

"He has made it very clear he does," Damian scoffed. "As had Todd." I gave him a questioning look. "Red Hood."

"Oh, never met him," I mumbled.

We walked in comfortable silence for a minute.

"Here," Damian said, stopping in front of a small and quaint ice cream shop.

"Ice cream?" I asked, giving him a lopsided grin. "On Friday."

"You said you and your mother used to always had ice cream on Fridays," Damian said shyly.

I let out a small laugh. "You- this is really sweet," I said, a bit surprised. I remembered when I told him that detail about my childhood.

***Flashback***

"Tell me more about your mother," Damian said after a while of silence. "I assume she's where you got your power?"

"Yeah," I said quietly, looking up at the ceiling. "She was- awesome. She was the first Black Canary. Trained in thousands of martial art styles."

"You're telling me things I already know," Damian stated, making me look at him.

"She was a pretty cool mom," I chuckled, crossing my legs on the bed. "She couldn't cook though. That was something she wasn't taught. She'd always make time for us to have an ice cream night. Every Friday." I smiled at the memory. "Sometimes she'd come back from patrol at midnight then wake me up, just so we could still eat ice cream."

"Do you still do it?" Damian questioned, turning to face me fully. "With your father?"

"Not usually," I stated, trying not to sound bitter. "He's usually busy with the Justice League and his company."

"How did she die?" Damian asked softly, making me go stiff.

"I was thirteen," I recited. "She and my dad went to face Prometheus. It was just in the early stages of my training-at least for the Canary cry, so I wasn't allowed to go. I- I remember my dad calling the house. He told me he'd be home soon, but something happened to Mom. Apparently, Prometheus slit her throat. She didn't want anyone to find out her identity so she insisted that only Martian Manhunter or Batman operated on her."

"But it was too late," Damian assumed. I nodded.

"Dad and I hardly even spoke after that," I sighed. "It hit us both- hard, but after a year, we got through it. He's still protective though."

"What about your powers?"

"I don't use them," I stated. "My mom died before we got far in training."

"Why don't you continue?" Damian asked. "I assume the league would be open to help or your friends."

"I can't," I sighed. "My vocal cords are too old."

"That sounds like an excuse," Damian stated. "I was unaware you were a quitter, Queen."

***End of flashback***

"I just figured you'd enjoy it," Damian shrugged, turning his head to the side to hide his smile.

"I do," I chuckled. "Although this is very cliche."

"I have seen as such in many of the movies Grayson forced me to watch," Damian admitted.

"Thank you, Damian," I smiled before rushing towards the outside counter, Damian following. "Hello!" I said to the person at the counter.

"Hello," the person said. She was a pretty girl, seemingly teen age with flawless makeup. She looked like she belonged at Dutch Brothers.

"I would like two scoops of y/f/i.c (your favirote ice cream) in a cup, please," I said before turning to Damian.

"Awesome," the girl said. "And you?"

Damian glanced at me. "None for me," he answered.

"You're not going to get anything?" I asked.

"I've never had ice cream," Damian admitted.

"Never?" I asked in shock.

"No," Damian said, his face showing me he didn't understand the problem. I scanned his face before turning to the girl.

"He'll have one scoop of almond in a cup," I stated.

"Alright," the girl smiled. "Be right with you."

"I said I didn't want any," Damian said, looking at me.

"You've never had it and you can't just sit there watching me eat," I protested. "Plus, I think you'll like it."

"Why is that?" Damian challenged.

"I'm an observer of people and you seem like an almond guy," I summarized.

"Explain your thinking Miss Queen," Damian said.

"Well, almond is more of a traditional Arabic ice cream flavor (please correct me if I'm wrong, I got this off the internet), and knowing you, you prefer salty and savory over sweet," I explained before leaning back and spreading my hands like I was presenting an amazing discovery.

"We shall see," Damian just said.

"Here," the girl chimed in, interrupting our discussion. She handed us our ice cream.

"Thank you," I said. I placed my ice cream on the counter before pulling out my wallet, but Damian had already paid. "I was going to pay," I said as he handed me my ice cream.

"It's proper etiquette for the man to pay," Damian said, leading me away from the ice cream shop.

"But it's not required," I chuckled. "Besides, we're both the children of billionaires." Damian didn't answer as he led me to a small park beside the shop. "I'll just pay next time."

"Next time?" Damian asked, stopping in front of a blanket with a projector on it.

"Yeah," I smirked. "If I haven't scared you away."

"Not at all," Damian said, sitting on the blanket. He motioned for me to sit down and I obliged.

"Try the ice cream," I said excitedly. Damian glanced at the tan-colored ice cream before taking a scoop and eating it. I stared at him, waiting for some type of reaction. His eyes widened before he took another scoop. "I told you!" I smirked.

"Coincidence," Damian scoffed but took more bites.

"Mhm," I hummed, leaning back on my free hand. I looked around, noticing a screen across from the projector. "You set this up?"

"Pennyworth did," Damian corrected. "Although I choose the film."

"Oh really?" I asked. "What'd you choose?"

"y/f/a/m (your favirote animated movie)," Damian stated. My face lit up. "Abby told me it was your favorite. Although I don't understand how or why a film made for children would be your favorite."

"You've never seen it have you?" I asked. Damian shook his head. "Then you'll figure out that it's not really a children's film. And you'll discover the superior soundtrack."

[cheekygreenty]

Little Witch - Part 10

The Darkling x Reader

*I’ve changed this part like 5 times so if there’s any inconsistencies I do apologize 😝

In a perfect world, you and Aleksander would have spent the day in his luxurious bed surrounded by his soft silk sheets. You felt an overwhelming feeling to open up to him, to tell him everything that happened to you since you saw him last, nearly a century ago, but life has a way to ruin perfect opportunities.

Wars didn't take breaks or vacations, they got more deadly as time went on and each side got more nervous as more people gave their lives to the cause. A solution was necessary and from your understanding, Aleksander still had the same plan as he did all those years ago he just had a different way to go about them. No doubt Alina was at the center of them.

You had business to attend to too. The first on the list was a meeting with the council. The King and his advisors were to be there to 'greet' you with open arms, but you were sure you'd have to put on a quick performance of your abilities to satisfy their curious minds.

Maybe that's why he gave me the shadows, to ensure my position. You quickly brushed off the thought. It didn't really matter to you why he did what he did. You had your shadows back. He claimed protection, but you knew there was a different reason behind it as well. It seemed too quick and too easy in your opinion but who were you to judge what kind of trust he truly had in you. You felt comfort that you always had piece of him wherever you went.

On a lighter note, you could finally wear a black kefta. The thought itself had you quickly leaping out of his bed and skipping to your chambers in a mere robe through the secret passages of the Palace. You didn't want anybody to see you leaving his quarters, not in the state you were in. You needed to grab a Healer and get rid of those very visible marks on your neck that Aleksander took his time creating. He intended to mark you as his own but jokes on him, you never wanted to belong to anybody but yourself.

Time passed and servents scurried in and out of your chambers, carrying information from here there and everywhere. You were already overwhelmed with tasks and your position wasn't even announced to the Palace yet. You were still the mysterious Grisha that served with the Darkling, not for.

Your vanity was covered in papers and reports in handwriting you had trouble reading and your bed had maps strung across it. Aleksander truly meant it when he said he would get you started right away and share his responsibilities as soon as he got the chance.

When the time finally came, you were escorted to the Grand Palace with Aleksander walking right next to you. The conversation was devoted to work and nothing else, Fjerdan intel, rumors of West Ravka and Zlatan, and upcoming skiff journeys but you didn't mind. You were damn good at your job, having started out in the First Army and then joining the Second Army had given you experience not even the General had, it's what made you the first pick when dealing with plans involving otkazat'sya soldiers, they respected you. I wonder if they will now.

You had spent 3 years in the First Army once upon a time. You came from a wealthy merchant family, a family full of drunks and abusers and cowards. You gave up the feeling of a full stomach and duck-feathered beds for the rations of the army once your mother admitted to you being a bastard and not worthy of the family name. What a shame. Look at me now.

You never knew what you could do, but a slip-up with a Tidemaker had you served to the Darkling on a silver platter. He was meaner then, more unforgiving. Your years spent with him after that had changed him, made him better in your eyes. You fell for him, hard, even though there was so much death and destruction in his wake. When you love somebody, it’s easy to see past all of the nasty stuff and focus on whatever is left of the good and Aleksander still had an abundance of if.

You could still remember his cold stare as he asked you what the hell you were. After pleading with him that you didn't know and his Heartrenderer confirming it, he whisked you away to the Little Palace where soon enough you had become his equal, if not his superior.

'I actually wanted to ask you something about one of the Grisha in the Palace. I seen her with Alina, red-hair, big blue eyes... she wore a white kefta?' You said as you wlaked down a mirrored hallway in the Royal building.

'Oh, that's Genya Saffin. She works for the King and Queen.' He said with an underlying tone of irritation.

'What does she do? She wears a white kefta so I'm just curious'

'She's a tailor. Member of the Corporalki. She should be wearing red, I know. But trust me the time will come' He ushered us both into a guarded room of glitering gold and pearly white walls. So tacky. I could make out the king slumped in an overdone throne-like chair.

'Moi tsar' you and Aleksander bowed much to your distastes. You hoped nobody had seen the brief look of disgust wash over your face as the Lanstov King rose and gave his advisors a raised eyebrow, signalling to you. A man wearing a navy uniform looked at you like a piece of meat ready to be devoured. I'm gonna throw up.

'Deputy General Y/L/N is it?' He took your hand in his own sweaty one gave it a wet kiss. 'You Grisha are always easy on the eyes aren't you?'

You took a step back and cleared your throat. 'Yes, Moi Tsar, it is an honour to make your acquantance' You tried so hard to keep your fists at your sides.

'And what can you bring to the war table, apart from the newest fashion' He let out an obnoxious laugh and his advisors followed. They all looked smug and spoiled. None of them had any idea what the real world looked like and yet had the audacity to sit this council. I'll show them what it means to be powerful.

Aleksander stepped away to the side and gave you a nod. You slowly unravlled your fist and plunged the room into darkness while simultanseoly blowing a strong wind throughout the space, letting papers fly in all directions and the fire go out. You relit it, and every candle in the room. The man in the navy unifrom got the runt of your powers, as you slowly medled with his heart until he breathed a worried laugh 'Stop it Girl'.

But you didn't stop, you carefully stared at the chair the man sat in and pushed it just enough for him to let out a yell. You accidently let out a chuckle that was meant to be in your head. You felt Aleksander move toward you 'All right, that should be enough' He said visibly amused too. You let it all drop.

'It's Deputy General to you' You looked at his fearful face that tried to cover by fixing his jacket and whiping away invisible dust off of his shoulder.

'I must say I am impressed. With the Sun-Summoner and... you, we will have West Ravka and the surroundings begging for our alliances.' He sat down on his chair once again and pointed to an empty one across from him and to the right of Aleksander, who unbeknownst to you had already seated himself.

'Please, Deputy General, do take a seat, we have business to tend to'

****

A painful 2 hours later you and Aleksander walked out of the Grand Palace. You had a headache and your hands hurt from clentching them so hard.

'I'm assuming you sitting the King's meetings for me is off the table now?' Aleksander mused and all you could do was give him a side-eye.

'I think I want to kill him'

'In due time'

You weren't even surprised. If he didn't do it himself you definitely would have taken one for the team. That man is unbearable; like a child in a grown man's body.

As you wallked into your home, Aleksander gently took hold of your wrist and pulled you in the direction of his quarters.

'Come'

Your head was pounding too much to say no so you obliged. The hallways were bare of people, not a Grisha in sight.

You reached his war room doors and walked in after him. He pulled out a map and laid it down.

'I've sent out a First-Army search for the Stag.'

You paused. The headache suddenly gone. Morozova’s Stag. He had tried once before and failed. The weeks following his failure sent him into a frenzy, he questioned Morazovas journals and almost burned them all, but you had gotten to him last-minute. You never doubted the stag to be real. You just never believed he would use it. He's powerful on his own unless- it's for Alina.

You audibly sighed and leaned your back against the table. Alina.

'Does she want it?'

'Does that matter?'

‘Of course it matters!’ You scorned but he stayed silent.

You turned to look at him and whispered 'What are you planning this time?' He had been dropping hints here and there, but so far there was no plan you knew of. 'I can't help you if I don't know the plan'

'No. You're better of not knowing anything. I can't lose you again' you turned you head and looked at his side profile.

'But you need me. I'm powerful, I can lead an army'

'If anything happens you can take over for me then, Deputy.' He cocked a sad smile and left a lingering kiss on your forhead before he left you standing in the war room alone and confused.

Part 11

Taglist

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