#no art tag agony never ends

[spraykit]

ok here s the full thing

[helielune]

and stalling only goes so far when you've got a head start

[cheaploafs]

he is so normal, promise

[synamartia]

[ Featured Artwork © lustylita ] ❀ [ Featured Divider © cafekitsune ]

[ Story © synamartia ] ❀ [ Text banner created via TextStudio ]

Content Warnings: Alastor x Reader ; Afab!Reader ; No pronouns or Y/N used ; Use of gendered pet names like "good/dirty girl" ; Explicit / MDNI / 18+ ; Sexual situations ; Sex pollen trope (Love Potion) ; Oral (m + f receiving) ; Spanking ; Dirty talk ; Praise kink ; Dom!Alastor ; Dacryphilia ; If I missed any, let me know! Word Count: 6,183 Summoning: @hazelfoureyes ; @minkdelovely ; @sugoi-writes ; @fraugwinska ; @lustylita Author's Notes: Ya'll ready for this? don't lie now Alastor's dialogue will be in bold red, thoughts in italics red, and Reader's will be in blue. Tagging my darling moots and the lovely Kat for allowing me to use her art for a series banner~! If you would like to be added to or removed from the tag list, let me know via ask! And thank you again to Mink and Danny for helping me nail down Alastor's dialogue! You're the best! ❤

You weren't sure how you ended up here - bent over the large desk in Alastor's bedroom, but you weren't particularly worried about the circumstances surrounding your... situation. You could vaguely recall speaking with the Radio Demon about an issue regarding one of the many drug stashes belonging to Angel and what exactly each piece of paraphernalia could be - specifically, what the small spray bottle filled with a pink liquid might have been. Had you known it was an aerosolized product of Love Potion by the Vees, you never would have sprayed it on Alastor - having mistaken it for one of Angel's various colognes.

At first, the man who towered over not only you, but the entirety of the hotel staff had been upset with you, ready to give you a proper tongue-lashing for your carelessness. However, that was before the potion took effect- his original intentions went right out the window the moment it did. You had to hand it to the Vees; it only took 7.8 seconds for Alastor's pupils to dilate and his ears to flatten against his head as the drug took hold of his senses. Alastor barely held on to his sanity the second the drug went into effect - it took every single fiber of his being, every ounce of self-control to stop himself from tearing at your clothes and having his way with you right then and there. Had it not been for the distant murmurs and subtle hisses at the nearby bar, he would have. But he wouldn't subject you to such ignominy, no matter how inebriated by that god-awful concoction he was. Alastor was, first and foremost, a gentleman.

Alastor leaned in close - his face mere inches from yours, a frenzied look in his half-lidded eyes as he inhaled the distinctive spicy aroma that your minty toothpaste had given your breath. He'd rather not waste any time talking, but the one thing that horrible, awful, wonderful drug couldn't override in his brain was the innate, inherent need for consent in such acts. He could only hope you would have some mercy on the few remaining ribbons of his tattered soul and provide him with the only word he wanted to hear - yes. "I- ... I'm so sorry, Alastor- ... S-sir! I mean, M- ... Mister Alastor! I thought it was just a... a cologne..." You started - at first mistaking the look of lust in his eyes for one of malicious and sadistic intent. You had heard the rumors (who hadn't?). So when you noticed his wraithlike shadows swirling around your form and felt one of his tentacles wrap around both of your ankles, you immediately thought that you were about to be the next voice heard on his radio broadcast.

"It seems this... cologne..." you heard his voice ring out as your world went black for a few moments - the caliginous haze having engulfed both of your forms. You felt a slight breeze with how fast the darkness transported Alastor and you from the foyer up the grand flight of stairs and down the halls. At first, you had assumed he was taking you to his studio to broadcast your screams of agony for all of hell to hear. However, you were pleasantly surprised when the smoky substance dissipated, and you found yourself in the safe confines of Alastor's bedroom. "... is an aphrodisiac so potent that it's affecting even me," he said, having remained in the same bent position as he began to size you up.

"I- ... I know. I realized too late," your voice trembled as you stared back at him, fidgeting with your nails nervously. "I'm so sorry, Alastor - I'll be more caref- ...?!" The deer demon pressed a singular clawed digit against your lips to prevent you from any further stammering, shushing you as his eyes traveled down to the valley between your breasts.

"If you're truly apologetic, why don't you show me, hm?" he asked you smugly, pointed teeth parting for a moment to pull his bottom lip between them. He bit down lightly, waiting for your consent as patiently as he could manage. He refused to touch you any further until you had given him the go-ahead; he was a demon, sure - a pretty damn bad one, at that. But this was one thing he would never forego. "Will you help me through this high? After all, you are the one at fault here." You could've sworn your head was about to explode from all the blood rushing to your cheeks at that exact moment. Did he just ask you that? There's no way Alastor - one of the most feared Overlords to have ever walked the scorched wasteland of hell in recent memory; the one that broadcasts the screams of the souls that he eviscerates and atomizes for miniscule slights; the demon that has made friends with an entire town of cannibals (except one - ugh, Susan) and has brunch with their Overlord every Thursday; the man that is unapologetically contumelious and has brazenly challenged the king of hell; THE GODDAMN RADIO DEMON - is shamelessly asking if you would let him fuck you... right?

This had to be dream or an illusion of some sort. Yeah, that had to be it. But, in all honesty, it would be a lie if you said you hadn't thought about any of this - about how his lips tasted; what his nails would feel like being raked up and down your back; how far down your throat you could take him; the sweet, sweet sting of his cock stretching your walls open; or what it would feel like to have rope after rope of his hot seed spurting inside you during his climax. You wondered if he was vocal during sex, and what he would sound like while he chased that rarely sought-after release. Would it just be whimpers and sighs, or would he say the filthiest of words while he rammed his shaft into you with reckless abandon? You assumed the latter since Alastor loved to talk; to hear himself talk - you hoped he would whisper all the ways he wanted to defile you right before doing just that.

Alastor tugged your bottom lip down to reveal your bottom row of teeth as you stared at him in both bewilderment and awe, your brain struggling to process this whole exchange. After a few more moments of silence passed, you shifted your gaze down his torso to the already prominent, still-growing tent within his trousers. Using the same clawed hand that had pulled down your lip, Alastor lifted your chin so that you were forced to look him in the eye.

"Do you want this? I need an answer, Mon Ami. Now."

Having been pulled out of your dazed imagination, you took one more moment to compose yourself before responding. With a frantic nod of agreement, you threw caution to the wind as Alastor's eyes took on a subtle glow, causing your heart to race at from just the idea of sleeping with him.

C'est la vie, right?

He didn't allow you much time to think after that, immediately leaning down so that he could wrap his hands around the backsides of your thighs and hoist you up so that you were at eye-level with him. With a couple long strides, you found yourself being set down on the desk. Easing your legs apart as gently as he could, Alastor stepped between them and brought his hands up to the button-down shirt you wore, the fine layer of sweat resulting from your earlier fear of disembowelment causing patches of the white fabric to become translucent. In one swift motion, all the buttons went flying across the room as he ripped it open, exposing the black lace bra you wore beneath it. He looked like a man starved by the way his predatory gaze traveled over your half-nude form.

Your heart was pounding in your ears as you still struggled to make sense of everything that's happened so far, the anticipation of whatever else may come consuming you. Hands shaking and breath rapid, you nervously brought your hands to the black bow tie wrapped beneath the lapels of his crimson dress shirt, your trembling fingers having difficulty in undoing the knot at first. You noticed the subtle flinch and how Alastor tensed when you finally managed to get the tie undone, quickly moving your hands south to undo the buttons of his suit jacket. Inebriated or not, Alastor still struggled with any physical contact that wasn't strictly on his terms. In an attempt to ease his discomfort, you pulled your hands away and looked him in the eye. "Is it okay if I touch you?" you asked him. A moment passed, and then another; then he nodded his head, granting you permission to slide his coat off his shoulders and down his arms to fall to the floor.

Eyes locked with his, you could tell he was still a little tense; so, you took things a bit further in the hopes of calming his nerves. "I'm going to unbutton your shirt now. Is that okay?" you announced, awaiting his approval once more before you continued to undress him. With another nod, Alastor let out a barely audible sigh when he felt a sudden rush of cool air on his torso a few seconds later - his shirt now being untucked and fully unbuttoned. You took a moment to take in this rare sight: Alastor's clothes disheveled and chest bare, eyes frenzied as he began to relax into your touch little by little. The tips of your fingers traced the outlines of his toned pecs down the center line of his abs and along the few tufts of cherry red hair that were the beginnings of a happy trail (fuck, now you owed $10 to Angel) - and then back up again to his broad shoulders. Alastor practically ripped the cufflinks from his wrists, a shiver running up his spine as you moved your hands past the lapels of his shirt, pushing the fabric off in the same manner as his suit coat.

With his upper garments now pooled at his feet, Alastor let one of his arms wrap around your waist and pull you to the edge of his desk - his groin coming into contact with yours. You held his gaze as one of your hands came up to wrap around the back of his neck, your other going behind you to help support your weight as you began to shallowly roll your hips against his clothed length. A soft moan escaped your throat at the friction you created, causing Alastor's muscles to tense, his spine going rigid beneath your touch. "... Do that again," he commanded you, his cock twitching within the painfully restricting confines of his trousers. He hadn't expected such a simple noise to have this profound of an effect on him physically. "Make that noise again," he rasped, pushing his hips further into you as his other hand pushed your pencil skirt up to reveal your undergarments.

"Hhhmmm... Alastor," you obliged, adding his name in a husky whisper as you rolled your hips against his once more. Alastor growled in response just before crashing his lips down on yours, swallowing the moans that were pouring from your throat. How has he never noticed the ethereal way his name sounded rolling off your tongue until now? He wondered what it would sound like being screamed so loud, that dick Lucifer could hear it all the way up on his 'holier than thou' high horse throne. You inhaled sharply through your nose as you felt a claw tug and then eventually tear at your matching black lace panties (he was SO buying you a new set; this was your favorite pair, damn it!), your skirt now bunched up at your waist, leaning your lower half completely bare.

Breaking the kiss, you pulled back just enough to see Alastor's face - eyes half-lidded, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, a thin layer of sweat accumulating on his face and torso from the prolonged proximity. "Alastor..." you whispered his name again and his cock twitched again against the now much too uncomfortable fabric. You moved to sit up straight, bringing both of your hands to the buckle of his belt, stilling them as you opened your mouth to ask if he would let you continue. Before you could even form the question, Alastor was already granting you permission to free it from the agonizing confines of his pants with a feverishly desperate nod; his free hand maneuvering between your bodies to stroke a solitary digit through your folds. "My, my," he chuckled, voice teasing as he pushed his finger past the first ring of muscle of your embarrassingly slick entrance. "We've only just started, and you're already this aroused?" he clicked his tongue against his teeth as he teased you, deriving pleasure and amusement from the pout you gave in response.

"Dirty girl."

"I- ... It's your fault," you chided him, throwing his earlier statement back in his face. "You're the one to blame. So, are you going to help me or not?" you asked him in a mocking tone of voice, sticking your tongue out in the process. Alastor leaned in closer to your face - pretending to go for another kiss, only to lightly sink his teeth into the tip of your tongue and pull it further out of your mouth. "A-ah!" you yelped in surprise just before he wrapped his lips around the already sore muscle, sucking gently to ease the pain for a few moments. When he pulled away, he gave you a playful wink just before adding a second digit to your heated core. "I suppose I could help you," Alastor teased you right back, slowly pumping his digits in and out, careful not to hurt you with the sharpened edges of his nails.

"... But I want to hear you beg for it first."

Before you could react, Alastor pulled himself free of you and yanked you to your feet; spinning you around and forcing you to bend over the edge of his desk with his slender fingers wrapped around the back of your neck - keeping you in place. He used his other hand to wrangle both of yours, holding them together at the wrist and pressing them into the small of your back as he kicked your feet apart.

So now, here you were - bent over the smooth surface of his desk; trapped, exposed, and completely helpless.

"Come now, Mon Cher. Let me hear you beg me to fuck you," Alastor commanded you, releasing your neck and bringing that same hand down to spank against the bare skin of your ass. A yelp escaped your lips at the sudden sting of his palm striking your rear, your cheek pressed against the cool wood as you tried to angle your head just right to look back at him. Chewing on your bottom lip as you contemplated his command, you were trying to decide which route was more beneficial: compliance or defiance.

Another slap resounded throughout the room when Alastor struck your bottom again, harder this time as a warning to make up your mind quickly. Deciding that compliance would get you to that first release faster (albeit less fun), you opened your mouth to acquiesce. "P-Please!" you started, "... please, Alastor... I need you..." you whispered shyly, the words somehow making your face heat up even more. But it wasn't good enough, since Alastor smacked your ass again. "You can do better than that," he stated matter-of-factly, rubbing the palm of his hand against the reddened skin where he had struck you. Biting your lip again, you closed your eyes and tried to muster up the courage to say out loud all the thoughts running through your dirty little mind. You hoped no one was nearby to hear any of this (not that Alastor would let them live for very long if they did hear your escapades). Swallowing the saliva that was building up in your mouth, you let out a shaky breath before opening your eyes and craning your neck further back to look at Alastor again.

"Please! Please, please, PLEASE fuck me, Alastor ...! I need it so bad! I wanna feel your cock in me, please! I promise, I'll be good!" you started out, your face now rivaling Alastor's ruby hair in terms of color. "I'll be good, I swear!" you tried to wiggle your hips against his still clothed cock (having only succeeded in undoing the belt buckle and zipper before he whipped you around), only to feel another harsh slap to your ass, warning you to behave. "Please just fuck me- ...! Make me cum on your cock. I wanna cum on your cock! Alastor..." you whimpered, earning a short chuckle from him in response as he slowly began to grind against your backside, providing you with some much needed friction. "Good girl," he murmured while rubbing soothing circles on the red imprint of his hand forming on your ass cheek. Leaning over you so that his lips were right by the edge of your jaw, he let his tongue roll out and run along the length of it until he came to your ear, sharp teeth nibbling at the sensitive lobe.

"Une si bonne fille pour moi."

Alastor stood up straight once again and moved his hand between your bodies, opting to push three of his long digits into your waiting heat this time. He relished in the surprised gasp that escaped you followed by a prolonged moan, curling his fingers slightly as he started to build a pace. "A-Alasss- ...!" you tried to say his name, but the angle that his fingers were pushing in and out of you had you seeing stars even though he had just barely started, his knuckles rubbing against that one spot you always had trouble reaching with your own hand. You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, your walls clenching around his fingers when you felt his thumb press against your puckered hole. Letting go of your wrists, Alastor brought his now free hand down to grab at your ass and spread your cheeks apart to get a better look; he prodded gently but never pushed past the first ring of muscle. He wanted to but felt it could wait for another time - IF there was another time after this. He didn't want to push your boundaries too far for the first time around.

"Oh, fuuucckk!" you drawled out, eyes fluttering closed as that oh-so-familiar coil began to tighten in your lower abdomen. "That's it, good girl," you heard him praise you, his words causing your muscles to tense further as he pushed you closer and closer to the precipice of ecstasy. Your hips began to roll involuntarily against his hand after a few minutes, your body automatically seeking that sweet, sweet release even faster. "Just like that, ride my fingers just like that," he whispered, the praises he was singing to you making your walls clamp down on his digits even tighter. "O-oh fuck! Ala- ... Alastor! Fuck, fuck, I'm gonna cum, oh my god!" you cried, your eyes rolling into the back of your head, hands holding a death grip on the edge of his desk.

When you felt Alastor shifting behind you, you opened your eyes and lifted your head slightly to see what he was doing - quickly finding him on his knees and moving in until his mouth replaced his fingers. Alastor let out a loud groan once he finally had a taste of you, tongue rolling out and through your slick folds, drinking in your essence like you were an oasis in the middle of the Sahara Desert. His left hand held your cheeks apart as Alastor licked and slurped and sucked, shaking his head back and forth against your core every few seconds. The tip of his nose tickled your other hole while he used his right hand to rub circles on your clit, his long tongue rolling over your g-spot whenver he would dip it inside you. You could feel your release coming at you like a freight train now, one of your hands shooting back to grab hold of something - his hair, his antlers, anything in an attempt to ground yourself. "Good girl!" his words were muffled as he kept his face pressed against your core, lifting your leg to rest on the desk before returning it to your clit, pressing down harshly on the bundle of nerves.

A loud groan rumbled through his chest as you squeezed the base of his antler, the action causing his cock to twitch and throb, begging to be released from its confines and satiated. "Don't stop, please don't stop!" you begged, your jaw falling open into a silent cry as your release began to crash over you like a tsunami. Alastor drank you in, slurping loudly at the fluids that dripped from your tight cunt, savoring your taste while he struggled to not blow his load before he even had a chance to get inside you. He pressed his face even further against your core, mouth open wide as he swallowed everything your body had to give him. How long had it been since he felt this thirsty - this starved for someone else's touch? Alastor couldn't remember the last time he was this aroused, this fucking hard. What the fuck did the Vees put in that troublesome potion?

As the pleasure coursing through your veins began to subside, your muscles relaxed and your grip on his antler loosened, occasionally tensing once more whenever you felt the tip of his tongue on your throbbing clit or the sharp edge of his teeth glide against your puffy lips. You lowered your head to rest on the polished surface, trying to catch your breath as Alastor pulled back from your heat - enjoying the way your pussy would clench around nothing when he lightly raked his claws over your reddened ass cheek. Picking up his forgotten shirt from before, Alastor used the fabric to wipe what was left of your release from his chin, discarding it after as he rose to his feet. "You did so well for me," he praised you, reaching to tuck a strand of loose hair behind your ear. Leaning over your slumped form he let his lips brush against your jaw, then your cheek and then your temple. "Hmm..." you hummed in response, trying not to let the fatigue take over before you could get to the main course. "Do you need a moment? Would you like to stop?" Alastor asked you, taking notice of your display of exhaustion.

Quickly, you turned your head and pushed yourself up. "No! No, I can-" you paused for a moment to stifle a yawn. The incident in the foyer that led to all of this occurred near the end of your workday, so you were fairly tired when this started. The unexpectedly hard orgasm wasn't helping any, but the promise of even more is what kept you going. Besides, you couldn't be the only one having fun here, especially since you had already agreed to help relieve him. "... I can keep going. I wanna keep going," you insisted, lowering your leg as you pushed yourself up straight, turning to face him fully now. "For you," you added, staring up at him with a look so amorous it made his breath hitch in his throat, catching him off guard. Cautiously, you raised your hands to gently cradle his face, standing on your tiptoes so you could place a soft peck on his smiling lips.

Bringing yourself back down to stand proper, you began to trace your hands down his neck and chest, not missing the way his muscles still tensed at your touch. It was going to take some time, you realized, to get him to a point where he welcomed your touch rather than shy away from it. You hoped that he would give you that time, outside of this incident that you so clumsily caused, of course. When your hands reached the waistband of his pants, you looked up at him and waited for his permission to continue - something small and near insignificant but nevertheless something he still appreciated. He would have to reward you for your thoughtfulness later. Nodding his head, Alastor watched as you slowly pushed both his trousers and briefs down past his hips to his knees, eventually falling to his ankles, his aching cock springing from its prison and slapping lightly against his lower abdomen. He looked away for a moment, unable to hide his growing discomfort with being so bare in front of another person.

Gently, you pressed on his jaw with your left hand to bring his narrowed eyes back to your face. "Hey," you called. "You can trust me, Alastor," you assured him, knowing full well that was only part of the problem. Mouth twitching, Alastor stared at you as you leaned in to place tender kisses to his chest, your eyes never once leaving his face as you sank down to your knees before him. "I promise," you spoke, voice gentle, hands tracing the defined muscles of his abs and gliding along the dips of his pelvic v. Bringing one hand up to rest on his thigh, your other gently wrapped around the base of his cock. Humming softly as you smiled up at him, you rubbed your cheek against his length, then grazed your lips over his leaking tip. "I just want to make you feel good," you continued to assure him, catching the shaky sigh he gave in response to your touches. Experimentally, you let the tip of your tongue dart past your lips and against his crying slit, his entire body tensing as one of his hands moved to tangle within your tresses.

You stared up at Alastor with such innocence in your big doe eyes - he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from forcing his cock as far down your throat as it could go. "Is that okay?" you asked after a couple more licks to his slit, savoring the salty taste of his pre dribbling out. "Will you let me make you feel good, Alastor?" you asked him so sweetly, voice dripping with honey as his name rolled off that devilish tongue of yours. You really knew how to push his buttons. With a drawn out moan vibrating through his chest and static crackling through the air, you barely had time to fully open your mouth as he pushed his hips forward and guided your head down until your nose brushed against the carmine strands at his base, his head tilting back at the long anticipated sensation finally washing over him as he breathed out a singular,

"Yes!"

Immediately, you had to fight back the urge to gag and pull away when he pushed your head down. Had it not been for his fingers laced through your hair holding you in place, you would have. You whined at the sudden intrusion, not expecting him to push so much of himself inside your mouth so quickly; his tip nearly hitting the back of your throat. Alastor tried, he truly did, to keep control and allow you some time to adjust, but the explicit desire for release was beginning to cloud his senses now that he had your lips wrapped around his dick. He gave a few shallow thrusts, trying not to go too far before you adjusted to his wide girth. After a few seconds to do just that had passed, you hummed softly as a signal that you were okay to go further now, to pick up the pace - the vibrations sending a couple unexpected shockwaves up his spine. You stared up at him, admiring the way his Adam's apple bobbed slightly when he swallowed hard, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Curling your tongue around his length, you pressed upward as you started to bob your head, sucking lightly and moaning every few seconds to send vibrations through his whole being. "Fuck..." you heard him whisper with each drag of your muscle on the underside of his shaft, keeping one hand wrapped around his base and squeezing lightly the part you were unable to swallow. On occasion, whenever you would pull back far enough, you would angle your head slightly so that his tip would rub against the ridges of your palate upon re-entry, causing him to inhale sharply and clench his hand, tugging on your hair each time.

You could feel his thighs tremble every time you moaned around him, sucking harshly and hollowing your cheeks, pressing your tongue up even harder to create more friction and bring him closer to his orgasm. You slurped and sucked; some drool mixed with precum beginning to froth at the corners of your mouth with each drag. "That's it, that's it," Alastor murmured as he lowered his gaze down onto you. Struggling to keep his release at bay for just a few more minutes, he nearly lost it when he saw that you were still looking up at him with those beautiful wide eyes, tears pricking at the edges and threatening to fall at any moment. "Oh, yes- ... That's my good girl, fuuuccckkk!" he breathed, relishing in the way you tried to breathe through your nose while choking on his cock.

Hearing his moans and praises were such a huge ego boost, so you decided to take it a step further by removing your hand from the base and letting it settle on the side of his thigh. Alastor let out a small grunt of disapproval at the loss of your tight grip and reached to guide your hand back, but he stopped and let his jaw fall open when you pushed yourself further down on his cock, his tip now bullying the back of your throat with each bob of your head, every thrust of his hips. He was so close after only a couple minutes of you sucking him off; he couldn't tell if it was a result of the Love Potion or not being intimate with anyone for a significant amount of time, but he didn't really care. He just knew that his head was going to explode (among other things) if he didn't paint your mouth white and shoot his cum down your throat right fucking now.

You brought your left hand down to cradle his balls and roll them between your fingers, rubbing your thighs together in an attempt to create some much needed friction. Alastor's breathing was becoming heavier and faster with every second that passed, your tongue now moving back and forth in time with each drag; your messy slurping and moans increasing in volume causing him to see stars. "Goddamn... It feels so good!" he whispered, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth as he brought his other hand to nestle in your messy hair along with the other. Alastor was beginning to lose what little control he had left as his thrusts became more frantic, more wild and frenzied. "F-fff... uuuhh-!" he whined loudly, guiding your head down as he pushed up, your nose lightly slamming against his groin as he began to full on face fuck you.

"Fffu- ...! Oh, fuck yes! Fucking- keep going, just like that! Haahhh- ...!"

You were able to breathe through your nose, but not well enough as the edges of your vision began to go dark; your ears being filled with the sloppy 'glug, glug, glug' sound of Alastor ramming his cock in and out of your mouth at a speed you didn't think possible. Clenching your eyes shut as you let him use you to chase after his high, you tried to focus more on staying conscious only to have Alastor roughly tug on your hair, then lightly slap your cheek until you opened them again. You stared up at him with a dazed expression, your eyes teary and brows furrowed as he let one hand travel down to grip your chin. "Don't you dare look away from me!" he demanded, static rippling through the air and lights flickering, his eyes shifting to radio dials and his red sclera turning black, his grip bruising as his pace quickened. "Mm- ... mmpph!" you tried to hum in response, but the sound was swallowed by the other noises he was dragging out of you.

"Is this what you wanted?" Alastor asked as you tried to keep up with his brutal pace, fat tears now rolling down your cheeks as he began to lose himself in the pleasure you offered him. If you could, you would have nodded, but his tight grip on your hair and chin was making it difficult to do anything else except take it. "Is this what you wanted, darling- mmmpph! ... Wanted me to fuck your face like this? Hm? Is this what you fucking wanted?" he groaned loudly as his climax grew closer and closer, his antlers growing longer and his girth increasing in size with each thrust. His brows were knitted together as his nose scrunched slightly, the coil in his lower abdomen tightening to an almost excruciating degree and ready to snap any second, eyes narrowed and pointed teeth grinding together as he sucked in air quickly with each movement. "Do you want it? Take it like a good girl? Hohhh- shit!" You tried to nod once more, but again his bruising digits held your head in place, so you blinked rapidly at him, hoping that he would understand what you were trying to convey.

"That's it, that's it, take it all- Oh, fuck you're so good for me-! F-fuck, I'm cu-!"

A couple more seconds went by and you were barely holding on when you felt his hips stutter and his grip tighten further on your hair. With one final thrust, Alastor was thrown over the edge as the first ropes of his warm seed shot out and down your throat, holding your face flush against his pelvis. He let out a strangled cry of gratification as he held your head in place, your nose buried in the neatly groomed crimson bush at the base of his shaft. He used the hand that had been holding your chin to catch himself on the edge of his desk, his upper body having lurched forward when his orgasm hit, arched over your kneeling form. His abs flexed with every spurt of his cum, every blissful wave that came crashing down on him, his thighs quivering as he tried to remain upright and catch his breath. He was quite vexed, unsure if it was a lack of intimacy or the results of that drug that caused him to experience such an intense release, but he didn't really care to know right now.

"Mmph! Nngghh!" Alastor heard you humming, his entire body twitching from the overstimulating vibrations as you began to frantically tap at his thighs, trying to get him to let go so you could get some much-needed oxygen into your lungs. He pulled your head back by your hair gently and you started to cough and sputter, chest heaving and drool coating your chin. He took several seconds to catch his breath, as did you, before clicking his tongue in mock disapproval at your messy state (as if he wasn't the reason behind it) - his subtle disposition to passive-aggressively disparage all those around him momentarily breaking through this rarely seen state of vulnerability.

You brought your hands to your face, swiping at the tears that spilled from your eyes with one hand while covering your mouth with the other - a sad attempt at stifling your coughing fit. Alastor untangled his fingers from your messy strands and, in an uncharacteristic display of what most would assume is affection, smoothed them out delicately as he reached to take the hand that was wiping away your tears. He pulled you to your feet before waving his hand through the air, a glass of water manifesting a moment later with a puff of green and black smoke. He offered it to you as your coughing subsided, which you gladly accepted.

"Forgive me, darling. It seems I lost myself in the heat of the moment," Alastor apologized, having regained full control of himself now - the only signs of his uncontrolled frenzy being his shirt and coat lying in a heap nearby and his pants and briefs bunched at his ankles. You took a much-needed swig of the water he had given you, only giving him a small smile in response as you reached to rub your sinuses to ease the pain he unintentionally caused. You wondered if it would cause any petechiae bruising later (it would); what with how rough he had been with you. If it did, you assumed Angel would have SOME type of numbing agent for your throat - or, at the very least a concealer if the bruising formed on your face too.

[ Master Post ] ❀ [ Chapter One ] ❀ [ Chapter Two ] ❀ [ Chapter Three ] ❀ [ Chapter Four ] ❀ [ Chapter Five ]

[leftoverghosts]

i am drowning

there is no sign of land.

Patrick's announcement hit you like a tennis ball to the gut. He had just gotten back from winning the junior US Open, but instead of celebrating together, he was ending things between you. The sharp sting of disappointment cut through your heart as you struggled to make sense of it all. This wasn't the end of your relationship, though.

find part two here.

patrick zweig x reader. patrick x tashi. mentioned tashi x art.

warnings: angst. like angst for the sake of angst. sex at the end. some curse words. not for minors. p in v sex. use of she/her for reader. no use of y/n. patrick sleeps with reader for a bed.

nori says: hiiiiiii, i've been lurking in the challengers tag and now have something to contribute. this is heavily inspired by the break up scene in whiplash. it just feels so patrick coded. also, i love tashi, it's not her fault that the boys were weird about her. send me ideas if you want to! xoxo.

word count: 4,818

2006, September. Per Se Restaurant, Manhattan.

“Also, Patrick has a girlfriend.” Art had told Tashi, and Patrick had responded with “I do not”.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

“I can’t believe your dad let us use his reservations. This is the coolest thing ever! I feel so grown up,” a cheerful voice interrupts Patrick’s thoughts, pulling him back to the present moment. Sitting across from you now, celebrating his triumphant win at the Junior US Open, he can't ignore the guilt and doubts that gnaw at him. Though you were never officially a couple, there were undeniable feelings between you two and Patrick had pursued you relentlessly. He couldn't resist your sweetness, especially since you’ve been friends for so long and despite being just a teenage boy with wandering eyes fixed on tennis skirts, even he understands that you genuinely care about him.

Patrick thinks with all the agony that the thing between his legs can muster, that he’s an asshole, that he shouldn’t of fucked up this situationship only to chase after a girl who made him compete for her attention. Part of him hates himself for betraying your trust and pining after someone else, but the other part of him is drawn to Tashi in a way he can't explain. She gets him, but more importantly, she understands true tennis.

Patrick fidgets with his cup of water, tracing your name on the condensation as if it holds some sort of salvation. But deep down, he knows that no amount of apologies or excuses can change what he has done.

"Listen, I have to be honest with you," Patrick finally speaks up, his voice strained with emotion.

You pause, feeling a sense of unease settle in your stomach as you wait for him to continue.

"I can't keep pretending that this is going to work out. My dreams of becoming a professional tennis player are consuming more and more of my time and focus. And when I am with you, all I can think about is training and winning matches."

As his confession sinks in, your world tilts on its axis. The realization hits you with startling clarity - his passion for tennis surpasses everything else in his life, casting a shadow over what bloomed between you. You always knew that tennis was important to Patrick, but you never fully understood just how significant it was until now. Your mind flashes back to all the times you thought tennis was just a hobby for him, a way to cope with his parents' high expectations. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you realize that this is not how you imagined your relationship with Patrick ending. You try to hold back your emotions, but they overflow despite your best efforts.

"You'll probably start feeling like I'm ignoring you and get mad that tennis is more important to me than our relationship," he continues, regret evident in his eyes. "And if you ask me to ease up on my training, I won't be able to comply because this is my passion. It's what I was born to do."

"Where is this coming from, Pat?" you ask, your voice trembling with hurt. You had never wanted to come between Patrick and his dreams, but now it seems like there was no other option.

“It’s been building up for a while.” In the midst of shattered expectations and unspoken regrets, Patrick's gaze meets yours fleetingly before retreating, unable to withstand the weight of your hurt and disappointment. The truth hangs heavy in the air - priorities laid bare, futures diverging like roads leading into different horizons. "Because sooner or later, we will start resenting each other for not understanding our priorities. It's better to end things now before they turn toxic."

"I can't believe this, I thought we were in this together." Your palms are clammy and your heart races as you try to process everything. You had been nothing but supportive of him, rearranging your schedule whenever he came home from the academy just to spend time with him. But now he’s telling you that it wasn't enough.

"We were, but I wanna be one of the greats.” He sighs.

“And would I stand in your way?”

“Yeah.”

“You know I would, you're sure about that?” You ask, wishing this would just stop. “Yes.” He reaches out to take your hand, but you pull away, unable to bear his touch after what he's done. "I'm sorry," he mutters, his face contorted with guilt and sadness, and the knowledge that he’s a liar. That this conversation is only happening because he’s chasing greatness and Tashi Duncan.

"I'm just a naive girl to you, aren't I? Someone who will never measure up to your grand ambitions.” As the words tumbled out of your mouth, your voice quivers with hurt and disbelief. You couldn't comprehend how someone that you love could make you feel so worthless. “You'll leave me behind as you chase after greatness," you cried out, feeling utterly small and insignificant in his eyes. “You don’t understand me. You never have." His accusation is like sharp, dagger-like punctuation mark, ready to cut off any lingering hopes and pierce through the heart of your relationship.

You look at him, feeling a mix of anger and heartache. "Why did you even bother pursuing me then? If your tennis career was always going to come first?"

"I'm sorry," he finally says, his voice heavy with remorse. "I never should have said those things."

His apology hangs in the air, hollow and insufficient. The bustling restaurant fades into the background as you try to comprehend the sudden change in your reality.

"Sorry doesn't fix this, Patrick," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Patrick runs a hand through his curly hair, frustration etched across his face. "I know, I know. I'm messing everything up. It's just... there's so much pressure. The tennis, my parents, the academy. And now..."

He trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished. You lean forward, searching his face.

"And now what, Pat? What aren't you telling me?"

Patrick's blue eyes meet yours for a moment before darting away. "There's someone else," he admits quietly.

Your heart shatters into a million pieces, each shard piercing your chest with unbearable pain. The revelation hits you like a serve you never saw coming, leaving you breathless and disoriented. You struggle to find words, your mind reeling from the betrayal.

"Someone else?" you finally manage to choke out, your voice barely audible over the clinking of glasses and murmur of conversation around you. "Who?"

Patrick shifts uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding your gaze. "Her name is Tashi. We met at a party after the tournament. She's... she understands tennis in a way that—"

The name strikes a chord of recognition. Tashi Duncan. You've heard whispers about her – the rising star in the tennis world, known for her fierce determination and unmatched skill on the court. Suddenly, everything clicks into place. The late-night phone calls, the distracted looks, the growing distance between you and Patrick

"That I never could," you finish for him, bitter understanding washing over you. Of course. Of course it would be someone from his world, someone who could match his ambition step for step.

"I think she could make me really happy," Patrick says, his voice pleading for you to just get it.

“You know, I really do hope that you make it. I hope you get to be number one or whatever,” You let out a wet scoff, he could have at least let you finish your meal. “But I’m glad that I’ll never understand you, Patrick.”

With those words, the conversation comes to a halt as you both sit in stunned silence. The waitress brings over your food, but neither of you have an appetite anymore. Patrick pushes his plate away, his stomach churning with guilt and regret. He realizes now that breaking things off like this is a mistake, he’s a coward, he shouldn’t have met up with you in person.

2019, August. Parking lot of a Roadside motel, New Rochelle.

Patrick slams his fist against the side of his beat-up Volkswagen Tiguan in frustration, feeling the sting of anger and disappointment course through him. His phone remains pressed to his ear, waiting for you to pick up, but it rings on with no answer. He begins and deletes a desperate text to you, twice, before finally you're calling back and he answers on the first ring. “Hey! Got a weird favor to ask you. Your new place is near Westchester, right?” His voice trembles with nervousness as he taps his fingers anxiously against the car door.

“A whole year, that’s a new record for you. Run out of money already?”

“Shit,” he swears under his breath, trying to use some charm or magic to convince you. “You know how the tour goes. I’ve been struggling to stay afloat. But uh, how’ve you been?” He forces a smile through the grimace as he thinks about his current financial state - a checking account with only $70 left. It’s a far cry from the greatness he once promised he was leaving you to pursue.

“Go to hell, Patrick.” The line goes dead and he pulls the phone away from his face, staring at it in disbelief as if willing you to call back. He knows you, so he waits anxiously until a notification with your name appears again on the screen, accompanied by a new address.

Same day. Private residence, Bronxville.

Everyone knows that Patrick's parents have stopped providing financial support for him, and even though your own father would be furious if he knew you were aiding this deadbeat, you can't bring yourself to let him go without. It's only the occasional bit of cash for gas or food, but Patrick always finds a way to repay you in ways that you didn’t even know you needed. There is an unspoken agreement between the two of you that hangs heavily in the air.

Despite everything, you can't turn him away completely, even knowing he will never truly change. Tennis is his first, great love and with the Donaldsons in town, you can't help but think Tashi might still be his second. And you, you are nothing more than a temporary lifeline – a benefactor to someone who will never truly appreciate your sacrifices.

His heart races with guilt and desperation as he parks his car and approaches your door. He knows he doesn't deserve your help, but the familiarity of these meetings brings a sense of safety.

You watch from your living room window as Patrick's battered Volkswagen pulls into your driveway. The sight of him emerging from the car, all scruffy charm and desperate energy, sends a familiar pang through your chest. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the encounter to come.

As Patrick approaches, you open the door before he can knock. He stands there, looking simultaneously sheepish and hopeful, his eyes searching your face.

"Hey," he says, his voice soft. "Thanks for... you know."

You scoff at his attempt at gratitude, your bitterness cutting through the air like a knife. "Is that supposed to be a thank you? I didn't know you knew how to use manners," you retort, your tone dripping with resentment. It's not like you to be so angry, but Patrick always has a way of bringing out the worst in you.

You step aside, allowing him to enter and close the door after him. Patrick's eyes dart around your new place, taking in the tasteful decor and the obvious signs of your success.

"Nice place," he comments, his voice tinged with a hint of envy.

You shrug, maintaining your emotional distance. "It serves its purpose."

Patrick nods, fidgeting with the hem of his worn t-shirt. The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken words and shared history.

At thirty-two years old, in the final stages of your cardiology fellowship, your father still treats you like a child who is expected to become an astronaut neurosurgeon, or some other fantastical career straight out of a Barbie movie. Meanwhile, your mother constantly laments about not having any grandchildren to spoil, as if that is the sole purpose of your existence. You often snap back with sarcastic remarks, such as suggesting that your cat could use a new diamond-encrusted bowl, a sharp retort that only serves to deepen the tension between you. The truth is, you yearn for an escape just like Patrick did. If you had any talent for tennis, you would have run away long ago.

Patrick clears his throat, breaking the heavy silence. "I, uh... I really appreciate you helping me out. I know I don't deserve it, after everything."

You let out a humorless laugh, crossing your arms over your chest. "You're right. You don't deserve it. But here we are."

He takes a step closer, his gaze intense and pleading. "I never meant to hurt you. Everything just got so complicated, with tennis and Art and Tashi and—"

"Don't." You hold up a hand, cutting him off. "I don't want to hear about her. Or about tennis. I’m not sixteen drooling over you anymore. I don’t need to pretend that I care. That's your world, Patrick. It always has been."

He looks down, shame and regret etched across his handsome features. "I know. I fucked up. I fuck everything up."

Despite your anger and resentment, a part of you softens at his vulnerability. You've known Patrick for so long, seen him at his best and his worst. And even after all the heartbreak, there's still a connection between you that refuses to die.

"Why do you keep coming back here, Pat?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. "Why me?"

Patrick lifts his gaze to meet yours, and for a moment, you're transported back to that fateful dinner at Per Se, when your world first began to crumble.

"Because you're the only one who really knows me," he admits, his voice raw with emotion. "The only one who sees past the bullshit and the bravado. Even when I don't deserve it."

Your heart clenches at his words, the irony in them isn’t lost on you.

“I still hate you.” You say as you step forward and wrap your arms around him, feeling the solid warmth of his body against yours. Patrick stiffens for a moment before melting into the embrace, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. "For everything."

You close your eyes, allowing yourself this moment of vulnerability, of connection. Tomorrow, you'll go back to your separate lives - you to your fellowship and the weight of your parents' expectations, Patrick to his endless pursuit of tennis glory and the shadow of Art Donaldson. But tonight, in the quiet of your home, you can pretend that things are different, that the choices you've made haven't led you down such divergent paths.

As the embrace lingers, the air between you shifts, charged with a familiar tension. Patrick pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours, asking a silent question. Your breath catches in your throat as his gaze drops to your lips, and you know what comes next.

It's a dance you've done before, a temporary escape from the harsh realities of your lives. And as Patrick leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, you let yourself surrender to the moment, pushing aside the hurt and resentment that has festered for so long. His hands roam your body with a desperate urgency, as if trying to memorize every curve and contour before this fleeting connection inevitably fades away.

You melt into his touch, your own hands tangling in his curly black hair, pulling him closer. The kiss deepens, a clash of tongues and teeth. Patrick's fingers find the hem of your shirt, slipping beneath the fabric to caress the soft skin of your waist.

A moan escapes your lips as his touch ignites a fire within you, a burning desire that consumes rational thought. You tug at his clothes, needing to feel his skin against yours, to lose yourself in the physicality of the moment.

Patrick responds in kind, his lips trailing hot kisses down your neck as you head towards the bedroom. You stumble together, a tangle of limbs and half-shed clothing, until you fall onto the bed in a heap.

For a moment, you stare at each other, chests heaving, eyes dark with want. His lips trail scorching kisses down your neck, his stubble rasping against your sensitive skin.

"Pat," you gasp, arching into his touch as his hands touch wherever they can reach.

He pauses, hovering above you, his eyes dark with desire and something more, something akin to regret. "Tell me to stop," he whispers, his voice strained. "Tell me you don't want this."

But you can't. Because despite everything, the hurt and the anger and the years of distance, you do want this. You want him, even if it's just for tonight, even if it's a mistake you'll regret come morning.

"Don't stop," you breathe, pulling him back down to you.

Your shirt is discarded, followed by your bra, as Patrick's hands and mouth map the newly exposed skin. He lavishes attention on your breasts, his tongue swirling around each nipple until they peak into hardened buds. You writhe beneath him, your nails digging into his broad shoulders as the pleasure builds.

Patrick's lips trail lower, blazing a path down your stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans. He pauses, glancing up at you through his lashes, silently seeking permission. You lift your hips in response, and he tugs the denim down your legs, taking your panties with them.

Exposed and vulnerable, you fight the urge to cover yourself, to hide from the intensity of his gaze. But Patrick looks at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, his eyes filled with a reverence that steals your breath.

"You're perfect," he murmurs, his hands skimming up your thighs, spreading them wider. "I never deserved you."

Before you can respond, his mouth is on you, his tongue delving into your folds, lapping at your most sensitive spots. You cry out, your back arching off the bed as he works you with expert precision, stoking the fire that burns within you.

Patrick slips a finger inside you, then two, curling them just so as his tongue continues its relentless assault on your clit. The dual sensations are almost too much to bear, and you feel yourself hurtling towards the edge, your body tensing in anticipation.

"Pat, I'm going to—" you gasp, your words cut off by a moan as he redoubles his efforts, determined to unravel you completely.

And then you're shattering, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of blinding ecstasy. Patrick works you through it, his fingers and tongue gentling as you come down from the high, your body trembling with aftershocks.

He crawls back up your body, pressing tender kisses to your skin as he goes. When he reaches your lips, you taste yourself on his tongue, a heady reminder of the intimacy you've just shared.

"I need you," you whisper against his mouth, your hands fumbling with the button of his jeans. "Please, Patrick."

He helps you undress him, kicking off his jeans and boxers until he's as bare as you are. His erection springs free, hard and heavy against his stomach, and you reach out to wrap your fingers around him, reveling in the velvety softness of his skin.

Patrick groans at your touch, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. "Condom," he grits out, reaching for his discarded basketball shorts.

You wait impatiently as he rolls the latex over his length, your body thrumming with anticipation. When he settles between your thighs again, the blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance, teasing you with the promise of fullness. Your breath hitches as he slowly pushes forward, stretching you deliciously as he fills you inch by inch. A low moan escapes your lips at the exquisite sensation of him inside you, his thick length pulsing with need.

Patrick stills for a moment, giving you time to adjust, his forehead pressed against yours as he struggles to maintain control. "God, you feel incredible," he rasps, his voice strained with desire. "I've missed this. Missed you."

The confession tugs at your heart, a bittersweet reminder of the connection you once shared, the love that never quite died despite the pain and the years apart. You cling to him, your legs wrapping around his waist, urging him deeper.

He begins to move then, his hips rocking against yours in a steady rhythm that builds in intensity with each thrust. You meet him stroke for stroke, your bodies moving in perfect sync, as if no time has passed at all. The room fills with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, the mingled gasps and moans, the whispered words of encouragement and praise.

Patrick's mouth finds yours again, his kisses deep and demanding, as if he's trying to pour all of his unspoken emotions into the press of his lips. Your fingers tangle in his curly black hair, tugging lightly as the pleasure builds, coiling tighter and tighter within you.

He shifts the angle of his thrusts, hitting that spot deep inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. You cry out, your nails raking down his back, leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake. Patrick hisses at the sting, but it only seems to spur him on, his movements becoming more frantic, more forceful.

"Touch yourself," he commands, his voice rough with need. "I want to feel you come around me."

Obediently, you slip a hand between your bodies, feeling the heat and sweat radiating off of Patrick's skin. Your fingers glide lazily over his chest and down towards the area of need. However, unsatisfied with your own rhythm, Patrick's fingers boldly enter your mouth, collecting the saliva and making you involuntarily gag. Without hesitating, his fingers make their way back down to their intended destination, gently nudging yours out of the way. His thumb finds your clit, tracing tight circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves. The added stimulation sends electric shocks of pleasure coursing through your body, causing your inner walls to flutter around his throbbing cock.

You arch into his touch, your hands now exploring the hard planes of his chest, tracing the lines of his happy trail.

As Patrick moves within you, his eyes lock with yours, and for a moment, you can almost pretend that this means something more than a temporary escape, a fleeting connection in the midst of your fractured lives. But deep down, you know the truth.

This is all you can ever have with Patrick - stolen moments of passion, brief respites from the weight of your respective burdens. Tomorrow, you'll go back to being strangers, two people whose paths diverged long ago, held together only by the tenuous threads of history and desire.

With each deep thrust, Patrick stokes the fire building within you, pushing you closer to the brink of release. The fingers of his other hand dig into the soft flesh of your hips as he drives into you with increasing urgency, chasing his own climax.

"I'm close," he pants, his breath hot and ragged. "Give me another one. Come with me, baby. I’ve got you."

The endearment slips out unbidden, a echo of the past, of the tender moments you once shared. It's enough to send you tumbling over the edge, your walls clenching around him as euphoria floods your senses. Patrick follows a heartbeat later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he spills himself inside you, his hips jerking erratically with the force of his release.

As your breathing slows and reality seeps back in, the weight of your history, of all the unspoken words and unresolved hurt, settles heavily in the room. Patrick rolls off of you, disposing of the condom before collapsing onto the mattress and pulling you to him.

For a long moment, you lie tangled together, chests heaving, hearts racing in sync. Patrick's weight is a comforting presence, his face buried in the crook of your neck as the aftershocks of pleasure gradually subside.

But as the haze of desire dissipates, reality begins to seep in, cold and unforgiving. You feel Patrick tense against you, his body growing rigid as the magnitude of what you've done settles over him. He moves away from you, tugging on his boxers in swift, mechanical movements.

The silence that stretches between you is heavy with unspoken regrets, with the bitter knowledge that this changes nothing. You pull the sheet up to cover your nakedness, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable in the harsh light of aftermath.

You turn your head to look at him, taking in the familiar lines of his profile, the curl of his lashes against his cheek. "What are we doing, Pat?" you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He sighs, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "I don't know," he admits, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "I just... I needed this. Needed you."

Your heart clenches at his words, a bittersweet mix of longing and resignation. You know you should put a stop to this, to the cycle of hurt and temporary solace that keeps bringing you back together. But the pull between you is too strong, the history too deep.

"I can't keep being your escape, Patrick," you say, your voice trembling slightly. "I can't keep pretending that this means something more than it does."

He turns to face you then, his lake blue eyes searching yours, a flicker of something raw and vulnerable in their depths. "What if it could?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "What if we could make it mean something more?"

For a moment, you allow yourself to imagine it - a life where you and Patrick find a way to bridge the gap between your worlds, to build something real and lasting. But the dream fades as quickly as it forms, the harsh realities of your lives intruding once more.

"I wish things could be different," Patrick murmurs, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. "I wish I could be the man you deserve."

Your eyes search his face for a glimmer of the boy you once knew, the one who stole your heart with his reckless charm and unbridled ambition. "We both made our choices, Pat," you whisper, your fingers reaching over to brush a stray curl from his forehead. "We can't go back.”

Patrick moves to sit on the edge of the bed, his back to you, shoulders hunched with the weight of his thoughts. You watch him, your heart aching with a familiar longing, a desperate wish for things to be different.

“I don’t even know what you really want from me. I doubt you do either. You’re just latching onto me because I’m something steady to grab a hold of.” Your voice is soft, tentative. “Look at me, Pat.”

He flinches at the sound of his name, as if the mere utterance is a painful reminder of the intimacy you've just shared. "Don't," he says, his tone flat, emotionless. "Please, just… don't."

You swallow back the words that threaten to spill out, the confessions and pleas that will only fall on deaf ears. Because you know, deep down, that Patrick will never be yours, not in the way you want him to be. His heart belongs to the court, to the thrill of the game, to the relentless pursuit of greatness that has consumed him for as long as you've known him. And the more it alludes him, the more desperate he is to obtain it.

And you? You're just a temporary port in the storm, a fleeting respite from the chaos of his life. A reminder of the girl he left behind, the love he sacrificed on the altar of his ambition.

Patrick stands abruptly, reaching for his discarded clothes. He dresses quickly, efficiently, his movements sharp and purposeful. You watch him in silence, a lump forming in your throat as the weight of the moment settles over you.

“Will you stop?” You sit up, pulling the blanket around you. “Just sleep here for tonight, Pat. You’re being difficult for no reason.”

Patrick's steps falter as he turns to you, his grip tight on the fabric of his shirt. His face is a mix of anger and frustration, but then it transforms into a vulnerable expression that catches you off guard. He runs a hand through his hair before letting out a heavy sigh. "I know I shouldn't ask after what happened between us...but will you come watch me play tomorrow?"

[dresden-syndrome]

26/VII-1978. State Security department No. 64, Burgas region, People's Union Republic of Bulgaria, EESU.

"Full name?" Iva Kostadinova Milcheva.

"Date of birth?" 7th of April, year 1950.

"Registration place?" City of Burgas, "Prvi Internatsional" street, **** **** **.

"Ethnicity, citizenship?" Bulgarian, citizenship of EESU.

"Employment?" European Communist Party, chairman deputy of Burgas municipal committee.

The same unchanging questions and answers, learned by heart and thrown in an emotionless bureaucratic manner. Who knows how many thousands of them Iva had to fill before; in this country, it's just a part of life. Only this time she was made to sit in what looks like interrogation room, the guards standing besides and the light of table lamp straight to her face. Trying to keep calm and still, like she always used to, just as if today is not the most horrible day in her life.

"What did you bring me here for?"

During her Party career Iva managed to cooperate with State Security quite a lot; although wary of them, she viewed them with respect rather than fear. This day, when they called her to get in the black Volga for a visit, she didn't think anything could go wrong - saying no to State Security invitations has never been an option anyway - until they cuffed her hands and turned to the unknown direction.

"You've been accused of assisting in a right-wing revisionist conspiracy against the socialist regime. Did you know that?"

Arrested. Arrested for political crimes.

It's somewhat like an accident; nobody is safe from it, everyone prays it doesn't hit close to home yet it feels like it won't happen to you right until it does. As experienced as she was, Iva couldn't yet believe that. Isn't it that only the spies and enemies end up there? How could she, who always loved her motherland more than life itself, become one?

"No. I didn't participate in anything."

There were no answers in her head, no time to plan what to say or do for a better outcome. Only one task of immense willpower. Not to cry. Not to scream out loud. Not to think of her breaking future. Stay calm. Do what they say. Even if it gets worse. Even as she feels the cold steel lock on her wrists and her eyes cover by a thick cloth.

"Take that one to cell 2-18."

As Iva exited the main hallway, held by guards by each side, into what seems to be a staircase, a horrifying scream struck her ears from below. It sounded like someone cried out in pure agony, abruptly ending with a sound of doors locked at that lower floor.

"Just what they deserve."

After a long disorientating walk through quieter upper floors, the blindfold falls, the cuffs unlock and the door shuts with an unpleasant metal bang. A cold lonely prison cell, for a couple of weeks or for the rest of her life. Nobody knows.

The nice summer day which began with a cup of strong coffee, two cigarettes and a nice walk along the beach filled with Soviet tourists and ice cream shops finally comes to an end.

Art tag @painful-pooch @prismpanic @generic-whumperz @suspicious-whumping-egg @onlywhump @whumpedydump @whumpthefifth @monarchthefirst @sunshiline-writes @project-xiii @3-2-whump @unforgivenn

[vaderkin-is-a-lightning-rod]

Hello everyone!!

We’ve got a lot of amazing pieces of art and fictions for the Vaderkin Creative Exchange 2024! I’m super proud of all of you. 💜

On this day, until the 31 August...

🎊 🎉 🎨 THE CREATIVE FESTIVAL OFFICIALLY OPEN 🎨 🎉 🎊

For the artists and writers who had this idea for one of the prompt they received but didn’t have time to make it — this is the occasion!

For creators who missed the deadline and wanted to join the event — this is the occasion!

For people inspired by one of the drawings, or by one of the fanfiction scenes — this is the occasion!

How to participate?

On Tumblr: Tag your work Vaderkin Creative Festival 2024, precise the work that inspired your art, and mention the server blog @vaderkin-is-a-lightning-rod so we can repost you.

On AO3: Tag your work Vaderkin Creative Festival 2024, precise the work that inspired your art, and add your work to the vaderkin_creative_exchange_2024 collection

This is an event to give you the chance to draw fanarts or write fanfiction on the amazing creations this event produced. You don’t need to have signed up to the event nor receive / made a gift for it. You can make a fic or an art inspired by a fic which itself was inspired by another art, make a fanwork inspired by an art of the event, and begin an art fight! The only limit, is that it must be linked in some way to one of the event works.

Basically, be inspired, draw, write, and have fun! 🥳

Vaderkin Creative Exchange 2024 Masterlist

Fanfiction

Sáinnithe by @sinvulkt for @squad-724

Field of Dreams by @fanfictasia , TiranaSorki for @mina-jamsin-derulo

Letters by @fanfictasia , TiranaSorki for @mina-jamsin-derulo

Dying Stars by @fanfictasia , AminaGila for @acryliccassetteart

Heaven Swallowed the Smoke by AshCatchem for @nightingalewritings

As Everything Burns by @fanfictasia , RivanaRita for @zero-max

Paths by @wisechaosglitter for @sunrisemcashao3

Eyes on Ahsoka by @rinn-e for @mina-jamsin-derulo

Beyond the Stars: The Enduring Legacy of a Galactic Hero, 20 Years Later by Squidwonder for @tramp-fiction

grudging sacrifices by @unlikecharlie for @cinderfeather

just like a photograph by @withyourrhythm for @omaano

Is this the droid you want to die on? by @adragonsfriend for @ladyv-aka-via

Flightless by @ravenite-void for @fancyfrey

Fragments of a Dynasty by @tantive404 for @ravenite-void

Under the Moonlight by cherrycourage for @artmelody

Present, Past, and Future by @wendingways for @mina-jamsin-derulo

knowing how it goes (but never how to stop it) by MillionLights for @vandervoiz

The Restless Devourer by @vandervoiz for @sinvulkt

in thousands of agonies - i exist by @femmefangirl for @asteral-feileacan

Brillant and Blue by @nightingalewritings for @sinvulkt

In Common by @pat-the-togorian for @fanfictasia , RivanaRita

Angel of Fire by @asteral-feileacan for @starlesssky72

How to date a Time Traveling Jedi (quickest routes, no shortcuts) by @zero-max for @yatsukisakura

Don't Look Them in the Eye by @cinderfeather for @piroporopi

Art

A Scar In the Eye and [Panel 2] by @piroporopi for @vandervoiz

Alone by my side by @nightingalewritings for @tantive404

In from the desert by @nightingalewritings for @adragonsfriend

Vaderkin Creative Exchange 2024 art by @jarenka for @rinn-e

They were great and a family by @ravenite-void for Melly (ao3)

Through time and into darkness by @ravenite-void for @wendingways

Art for Vaderkin creative exchange 2024, The Winter Picnic and Art #2 by @wendingways for @unlikecharlie

[ART] Your Mistake by @asteral-feileacan for @fanfictasia , Tirana

No Respite From The Past and A Cord Unsevered by @vandervoiz for @letitrainathousandflames

Artwork by @artmelody for @pat-the-togorian

Vader kidnapped, Disaster trio (or with Padmé) being a family, Eldritch Dragon Anakin, Anakin transforms, horrified and Vaderkin falling from the sky by @fancyfrey for @sinvulkt

Beginning at the end by @mina-jamsin-derulo for @artmelody

Eyes on the future by @mina-jamsin-derulo for @christina-stark-skarlet-stileto

Until The Night Ends by @mina-jamsin-derulo for SquidWonder

Artwork by @starlessskys-artblog for @ravenite-void

The Clone Wars: 20 Years Later! Exclusive Interview with General Anakin Skywalker-Amidala by @tramp-fiction for @wisechaosglitter

To protect, Anakin... Or Vader?, Blob Vader get BOOPED and Surrender by @sinvulkt-art for @cinderfeather

The restless devourer, The dark wyrm, The puppeteer by @sinvulkt-art for MillionLights (ao3)

Anakin and Fives shenanigans by @omaano for @fanfictasia , Amina

Of Shotguns and Band-aids  by @zero-max for @asteral-feileacan

Artwork by @ladyv-aka-via for @shevek

Massive Mer Ani by @squad-724 for @zero-max

Medusa Vader by @squad-724 for @nightingalewritings

March on the Temple by @acryliccassetteart for @fanfictasia , Rivana

Panel by @yatsukisakura for @withyourrhythm

When Your Boss is Very Heavy by @cinderfeather for MaDonz(ao3)

[Art] Mom did it better by MaDonz for AshCatchem

Chaos by @fanfictasia , RivanaRita for @femmefangirl

"I'm prepared to sacrifice my life." by @sunrisemcashao3 for @starr234

This is the fourth step of the Vaderkin Creative Exchange 2024 event. You can find the full event rules here.

[inquisitornocturn]

𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖒𝖔𝖘𝖆 𝖎𝖓 𝖗𝖚𝖇𝖊𝖔, 𝖘𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖓𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖔

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 1 - 𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔴𝔢𝔟

“Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.” – Cesar A. Cruz

⫸ pairing: Cazador Szarr/f!high elf reader

⫸ tags: no y/n used etc, POV second person, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, canon-typical violence, asphyxiation, physical abuse.

⫸ story summary: Accompanying your father, the General of Baldur's Gate, has always been a duty that bores you near to death, but for first time you feel completely unnerved as you come to Szarr mansion. The family's patriarch is a strange man and so is his wife and son. Son, who seems unperturbed by anything, until he's left alone with you that is. Then and only then, Cazador shows emotion and what kind of a threat he is. You realize soon - behind those dark eyes there's something dangerous lurking and your future soon becomes inescapably intertwined with his.

work contains illustrations, credit at the end

⫸ word count: 5,825

⫸ author note: oh god where do i even start. this fic has been for a very long time in the making, and plot has been reworked so many times i nearly lost count. besides drastic changes and rewrites - he it is. i want to thank artists who kindly worked with me to bring more life to this fic with their skill and as cheesy as it sounds - i want to thank people who constantly supported me through planning and every other agony that i went through while i was figuring this work out. i call this my magnum opus and i can only hope that those who read it buckle up for the journey. it's going to be a wild, dark ride. enjoy♡~

⫸ chapter list: [link]

“Vice is ever most dangerous when lurking behind the Mask of Virtue.” ― Matthew Gregory Lewis

1021DR

A throne, carved from stone and elevated over the rest of the hall with steps leading to it. Steps are draped with red carpet, askew in parts, and there’s candles everywhere. The evening is coming, casting only slivers of orange sunlight through the gaps in heavy bronze colored curtains, making the room sink in darkness if not for the candles and a fireplace. You glance around with only your eyes, feeling unnerved and on edge, not even knowing why.

Your father is on your right, a tall figure with long white hair that he keeps loose on his back, and his silver eyes are looking ahead of him with seriousness of a warrior about to engage in a battle. You have seen this look before, the look that tells you that your father, the recently appointed General of Baldur’s Gate army, is taking his opponent seriously. Except this time his opponent is not a raging zealot or a horde of goblins, it’s a man.

This man, when you finally return your gaze to him, doesn’t look very intimidating except for the throne he’s sitting on and his relaxed pose. With knees parted and his back lazily leaned against the backrest of his seat, this man exudes power through his body language, even with how his jaw is resting easily on his knuckles or how fingers of his other hand tap lazily against the armrest. You take the man in: black long hair, straight, draping to his waist, red piercing eyes gazing down from an upturned, arrogant face. His nose is straight, his lips are pulled into a tiniest of smirks and his garb is embroidered with bronze threads of light gold silk. A garment to show status, not practicality.

“Lord Varitan Szarr, I am grateful you granted an audience.” Your father begins and you glance at him, unable to stop yourself before you do. Granted an audience? You never heard him speak like this before, even to the Duke. “Can I assume you have been informed about the purpose of my visit?”

You look back at the patriarch of the Szarr family. He’s not speaking, not yet, because he’s clearly observing your father with sharp eyes. Led by curiosity you glance at the chair on the left to the throne, noticing a woman there. Her black hair is put up and her dark eyes are watching you. When your gaze meets hers, a shiver runs down your spine. You turn your eyes away, not sure if the woman is trying to provoke you or make you uncomfortable, but either way – you are not willing to play the games of strangers.

When your eyes move to the right of the throne you see a young man sitting in the second hair. He looks maybe around your age, maybe few decades older, you can’t quite tell, but it’s hard to tell such things even among the elves. His uncommon appearance, just like Lord Szarr and the strange woman, tell you that he is related to the man in the throne. Young elf doesn’t seem to see you as he watches your father, his dark eyes fixated on the General, his hands resting on his thighs in a disciplined manner, and you can’t help but notice that he has same length hair as Szarr patriarch. Could he be the young man’s father? The resemblance is definitely there, to the woman as well.

Your observations don’t last more than a long moment and your eyes instinctively snap to the speaker, Lord Szarr, the moment he opens his mouth.

“Yes, I have been informed. I hear you are reforming the army, is that correct, General Cradith Sylven?”

“It is.”

“I hear you want my son to be part of it?”

A pause short as a heartbeat and yet you still notice your father hesitating before he responds with a voice that betrays none of his own thoughts. That’s something you always admired in him as he taught you how to be a soldier just like him.

“That’s correct.” A curt, short reply and another pause before he continues. “I’m sure that young Lord Cazador would benefit from such position.” General gestures to the young man and you follow the direction with your eyes, seeing how the one named Cazador is focused on your father, his eyes watching with silent curiosity.

“Would he now?” Lord Varitan laughs and your eyes are drawn to him when he moves, getting off the throne and making one single step to Cazador, placing a heavy looking hand on the young man’s shoulder, but not receiving any reaction as he does so. “What do you think, child, would military strengthen your character?” Patriarch laughs but nobody else finds humor in his words, not even your father who often jokes with other soldiers about how every child needs a sword in their hand to gain a spine.

Awkward silence is cast upon the hall as only Lord Szarr’s laughter seems to be echoing off the walls, and you notice how he squeezes Cazador’s shoulder, tight enough to turn his fingernails white, yet the young elf seems completely unperturbed by it, sitting in silence before his eyes suddenly turn to you and meet your curious gaze.

You almost lean back from the intensity of his dark eyes that bore into you, and you nearly look at your father, instinctively wanting to ask for help, but then you frown and arrogantly raise an eyebrow at him, as if challenging him, and Cazador’s gaze slips from you to your father once more. You can barely hold your smirk down – a victory, however small.

“How old is your daughter, General?” Lord Szarr speaks again once his amusement settles and you watch the man descent the steps from his throne, approaching you and your father, making you suddenly realize how tall he is.

“Hundred and ninety-seven, Lord Szarr.” Your father replies calmly and the patriarch stops once he’s in front of you. He faces you specifically, his gaze cast down on you as he confidently reaches out and takes a strand of your long hair into his fingers, caressing it without pulling at it.

“Beautiful flower, General. But made of steel, I can tell already. I hear you’ve trained her to be a quite skilled little soldier?” there’s something mocking about how the man talks about you and you frown, albeit you otherwise don’t move a muscle. Your expression is noticed immediately and the Szarr patriarch lifts an eyebrow at you, eyeing your stance as you keep yourself straight and proud, just like your father taught you.

“I would suggest you talk about my daughter in more respectable terms, Lord. I’m sure you wouldn’t appreciate such things being said about your wife or son.” Your father immediately verbally steps in and you feel relief. Yes, you could respond, snap back, mock, maybe even physically take down this pompous ruler of his household, but you know better than to act upon your anger. You’ve been taught better than this.

Lord Szarr drops the strand of hair he was holding the moment your father finishes speaking and you watch him turn from you and face your father at last. General Cradith is not short by any means but even he has to turn his face up when speaking to this self-important man.

“My wife wouldn’t mind, I’m sure of it.” He laughs and then crosses arms on his chest. “My son wouldn’t either. Is that right?”

“Yes.” A singular reply comes from Cazador, making you briefly glance at him.

“Good. And you, Donnela?” without being looked at, the woman is addressed, but she slightly bows her head anyway.

“Yes, my dear.” Her voice is smooth, soothing even.

“Good, good.” Lord Szarr laughs and uncrosses his arms to place a palm on your father’s armored shoulder. “Now let us go somewhere more private to discuss your proposition, I’m sure the children will be fine without us.” His eyes snap to his wife. “Donnela, make sure that Cazador entertains our esteemed guest while I talk to General.”

You glance at Lady Donnela and then at your father, question in your eyes but he just nods.

“Get to know the lad, I’m sure he’s a pleasant company.” He says and you immediately want to reply and say that you doubt it, but instead you remain quiet and obediently nod. Not the time or place to be snarky with your own father. This Lord Szarr obviously is a tricky man to interact with, so when your father nods to you in return, you exhale slowly and watch him being led away to a door on the side of the room.

Once the men are gone, with the door tightly shut behind them, Donnela raises from her seat and looks at Cazador with an emotion you can’t call anything but contempt.

“Go, do as your father says.” Her voice is nothing like it was before, not soothing or pleasant anymore, but instead sharp and demanding. “Go, you idiot boy!” She snaps at him before even a moment can pass since her previous words and you yourself nearly flinch at them, but not Cazador. He raises to his feet and without looking at his mother, descends the few stairs and walks to you.

“Come. They will take a while.” He says in a tone that’s quite blank and you frown but nod, following him.

As the young man leads you outside of the hall, you throw one last look into Lady Donnela’s direction, noticing her smoldering gaze that speaks of hatred cast upon her son, and you wonder why, but Cazador opens the door, letting warm evening air enter the chilly room and the sunlight looks so welcoming now, after spending time in the dark hall even for as little as you did.

You two walk out and approach the balustrade of the mansion, glancing upon the fields and the houses down below. You know that Szarrs are building the palace in Baldur’s Gate, but here, in Anga Vled, you find the view quite bucolic, relaxing even. The streets can get so busy after all.

Cazador leans over the balustrade, draping his arms over it and looks into the horizon as you take a spot on his right, looking to the setting sun yourself. Silence follows and how long it lasts you’re not sure.

“She’s not my mother.” Cazador suddenly speaks and you look at him, seeing his long black hair whisp in the light breeze. He’s beautiful in this moment, you admit to yourself. His features so unusual for elves and yet you can’t deny that he’s handsome.

“Really? Lord Szarr seemed to insist that she is.” You comment and you hear the young man scoff.

“He insists everyone is a family.” A puzzling comment, but you don’t have time to think about it before Cazador speaks again. “Well, she is my mother, but she forgets that more often than not.”

Silence.

You don’t know how to reply so you remain quiet for a time, thinking about what he just said.

“I call her aunt, it seems more fitting.”

Ah. You understand now.

Yet you remain quiet for some more time, unsure if you should address what Cazador just said or let your suspicion that his mother is actually also his aunt too go unspoken, so you try to think of something else to talk about.

“Do you want to join the military?” you ask with your throat quite dry and Cazador looks at you, his waist-length hair wisping across his face and he moves his hand to tuck rogue strands behind his pointy ear. A smile appears on his face, tainted with same arrogance his father showed before.

“If anything, it would get me out of this barn.” He smirks and you raise an eyebrow at that. Szarr mansion surely is not as luxurious as some houses in Gate but calling it a barn seems a bit much. And spoiled, it sounds very spoiled to you.

“You’re not going to survive through the training if that’s your attitude.” You can’t help your snark as you smirk back at him and Cazador pushes himself off the balustrade, stepping towards you, his eyes narrowed.

“And who are you to judge me, hm?”

“My father says I was born with a sword holding hand.” You grin at him, feeling superior than Cazador. You’ve been training how to fight since you were a toddler, you’re not sure if Cazador’s pale skin and slender fingers are telling the same story. He seems the type to spend bent over books instead of holding a weapon, but his towering figure does intimidate you to a degree, and you swallow as you look at him, your eyes locked on his while a moment passes charged with tension.

You are caught off guard when Cazador’s hand shoots up, grabbing you by the throat and squeezing so tightly you immediately cannot breathe. Your eyes widen at the assault and you try to pry his fingers away while the young Master begins lifting you as if trying to elevate you to his eye level. Yet when you’re on your toes he bends over you, bringing his face close, and you see a chilling joy in them because of your struggle, because how you gasp for air. His other hand now clasps over your open mouth as if he doesn’t want to risk even a smallest sound escaping you, and a wicked smile appears on his face. Pure, unadulterated delight is reflected on his face, tainted only by how cruel it is. He’s terrifyingly beautiful as he looks down on you like this, like the death itself.

“Quite a little soldier you are.” Cazador hums in near sing-song voice that’s barely above a whisper, you and only you are meant to hear it. “But not quite sharp as you reckoned, don’t you think? You could be dead. You can be dead if I just keep this going for a moment longer.” He chuckles and pure fear begins spreading in your chest. With your eyes still wide you stare at him, gripping his hand and trying to pry it away from your neck while your lungs burn for air more painfully with each passing second. “But don’t worry, you’re too important to damage.” Szarr finishes with a whisper and with one last gleeful look at your shocked, fearful face he releases your neck.

You land on your feet, immediately stepping backwards from him. Your fingers instinctively move to your sword by your side and you tug at it only to stop when Cazador raises his hand at you, smirking with satisfaction at this little display of power he just showed to you.

“Calm down.” He laughs while your heart beats fast in your chest and you gasp for air with your face twisted in anger. Cazador upturns his palm with a wide smile, now looking less cruel but still amused. “Give me your hand.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Yes.”

“You little-“

“Give me your hand.” Cazador’s tone is suddenly sharp, cutting you off mid-swear and if you could frown any more you would.

However, begrudgingly you realize that in the end he didn’t harm you. On top of that, you suspect he’s trying to make a point and, despite your anger and your wounded pride, you are still curious about what that point is. So with some reluctance you release the handle of your sword and straighten your back, showing pride with which you were born when you step closer and place your hand in his. Cazador’s smile is soft when you do as he wants and then he tugs you towards him.

“What are you doing?!” you gasp with sudden blush on your face when you’re pressed chest to chest with him, but young Master just takes your hand more comfortably, placing his other on your waist and begins leading you to music that only he can hear.

Shocked and quite speechless, you try to follow his steps until you recognize the pattern and let him lead you, turning and spinning, dancing with you while he watches you go through several emotions: shock, then anger again for being treated like this, then curiosity accompanied by a slight blush.

“You dance well.” He comments and you smirk at him.

“I’m a noble too, not just a soldier. I attended my fair share of balls and battles.”

“I can tell.” Cazador says and stops, pulling you by your hand and making you spin around, then tugging you to his chest again, this time your back to him as if you’re a marionette he’s controlling, pulling you by your strings.

His arm wraps around your waist and your hand is released only for you to feel his fingers around your throat once again. Your heart skips a beat in fear and he can feel it, because he’s pressing his fingertips against your jugular. You gasp and stay still, with your hands on his arm on your waist, as Cazador makes you look into the horizon, to the setting sun that’s slowly letting the sky become darker as it loses the orange coloring. His touch is firm, yet gentle and warm.

“Look, what do you see?” Cazador asks in a quiet voice and you sweep your eyes over the sky, then over the fields and houses.

“Life.” You respond in a voice that matches his and you feel him begin to rub the underside of your jaw with his thumb.

“Indeed. There’s life. In the sky, on the ground, in the earth.” He continues, the warmth of his chest against your back soothing you, the flicker of fear that you just felt snuffed out at last. You feel strangely safe, even with his hand on your throat after letting you know exactly what he can do. “Do you think you can protect that life, soldier?”

Cazador’s question puzzles you slightly, he’s still getting to the point and you’re becoming impatient. So you turn your head slightly, to look up at him and the dark, calm gaze of his eyes meets yours. The closeness makes you feel flustered but you try to hide it.

“I don’t look to protect life, Cazador. I enjoy the rush of the battle, the feeling of victory, the blood on my hands.” You finally respond and notice a glimmer of surprise in his expression before he grins, obviously satisfied with your answer. His thumb props your chin just a little higher as he leans closer, his eyes not leaving yours.

“I’m sure they scream beautifully when you kill them.” Szarr whispers with same terrifying glee that you saw on his face when he was choking you and you can’t help but find it… appealing. Yes, that’s right. He’s crazy, insane, absolutely nuts, that’s what you tell yourself, but somehow how he acts, how he talks, it makes your blood run faster.

And so you break into a grin of your own.

“They do.” You pause, wondering if you should share the secret you never uttered even to your father and decide that you can, that Cazador will understand the joy of a good fight, the adrenaline of it all. “If I have time, I make sure that they suffer as much as they can.” Your whisper is so quiet that Cazador has to lean even closer to hear it, and when he hears what you’re saying - there’s like a spark in his eyes. He’s surprised, pleasantly so.

“Then I would be glad to ride into a battle with you, my Lady.” He whispers back and you blush slightly, feeling like you both suddenly formed a strange connection, found someone who shares the same view of a good fight and good victory.

But the moment, that is clearly turning intimate somewhat, is suddenly interrupted by the opening door and a loud, angry scream.

“Release her at once!” Lady Donnela’s voice is shrill and Cazador flinches at it, but he doesn’t let go of you just yet. His eyes move from your face and to his mother, a moment passes and you finally feel his hands leave you.

Blushing now for being caught like this you step away from him, your eyes downcast as you don’t want the woman to see that you’re embarrassed, but she quickly walks to you both and then you hear a slap. Shocked, you look up to see that Donnela just slapped Cazador so hard the sound is still ringing in your ears, but he doesn’t look phased. In fact, his face is completely calm and you can only imagine the red mark blooming on the right side of his face as Donnela now turns to you.

For a moment she looks worried as she grips your jaw to look at your face, her eyes scanning your neck, as if she is expecting Cazador was trying to hurt you, but the moment she finally pays attention and notices your blush, Lady Szarr realizes that it wasn’t the case at all. Her expression becomes a painting of rage and her nails dig into your jaw so painfully you frown.

“Stay away from him.” She warns and you blink few times in surprise, not quite sure what she means by that. Stay away for his sake or… your own?

Donnela releases your jaw and looks at her son with anger, then reaches out and grabs his long hair in a fist, beginning to walk back inside and drag Cazador with her. With utter shock at such display of abuse you stand frozen, not knowing how to react, but Cazador himself doesn’t look distressed, if anything his face is completely blank as he follows his mother back inside, and in couple seconds you are left alone, the door closing.

You exhale slowly, trying to understand what just happened, and begin walking to the door yourself when you hear a crashing sound. You run now, swinging the door open only to witness Lady Donnela on the floor, a candelabra broken by her side and Cazador standing over her, with same emotionless mask across his face. Donnela’s face, on the other hand, is both shock and rage.

“Leave! Now!” She shrieks at her son and Cazador only shows a small smirk before he nods and walks off, without giving you or her another look.

You stare at Donnela and finally snap out of your stupor before you rush to help her get up, but she pushes you away with hatred in her eyes.

“DO NOT TOUCH ME!”

You recoil immediately and just watch her quickly scramble to her feet, not even giving burning candles on the floor a glance, before she too rushes off out of the hall, leaving you alone. Utterly shocked you stand as you are for a moment, trying to understand what just happened, but when you begin smelling burning wood you walk to the broken candelabra and snuff out the candles. Then your eye catches a glimpse of something, a shine that appears right under the heavy curtain as you are putting out the flames.

After carefully looking around to see if there’s anyone else here besides yourself, you step to the curtain and kneel with one knee picking the shiny object up, then stand up and turn to the nearest candlelight to see better what it is.

You realize that the object you picked up is a pocket miniature, usually meant to portray passed loved ones that their family members can carry with them. You have seen some of your father’s soldiers carry these before and you become intrigued because you suspect Lady Donnela dropped this during whatever altercation happened between her and her son.

When you flip the portrait you see a young man, clearly an elf, sketched with a pencil instead of being painted, situated in a beautiful silver frame. You can’t tell the color of his hair or eyes, the picture carrying only the shades of grey, but you notice an emphasis on white streaks of hair framing his sharp features. What catches your attention most is this elven man’s eyes, because it seems that whoever drew this - they were captivated by the look of his piercing gaze. Regal in outfit, you assume him to be someone Lady Donnela might’ve cherished.

For a moment you just look at the picture, wondering who he is. He doesn’t seem to be related to Szarr’s, they have their unique looks making them stand out among other elves, but whoever this man was, you realize that Donnela is still attached to him enough to carry his portrait with her.

Once again you lift your eyes and look around, finding no one present in the hall except for the sounds of soft crackling fire, and you wonder what you should do while you wait for your father. The answer comes for you in a form of footsteps nearing the hall.

As Cazador returns you notice his completely calm expression. He doesn’t pause before walking to you and you just watch him approach in silence, not knowing if you should address what you have just seen, but before you can speak he’s right in front of you, eyes darting down to the object in your hands and he raises his eyebrows ever so slightly. Without a word he extends his hand, palm up, beckoning for you to place the miniature there. After a glance to his open hand you do as he wishes and young Master quickly pockets the item.

“Who was he?” you speak before you can consider if it’s a good question to ask and Cazador gives you a smile that you can see is strained.

“A friend of a family.” A pause then he clears his throat. “He’s close to Donnela.” You look at Cazador for a long moment, wanting to know more. Not because you’re overly curious about this person, but because you simply don’t know what else to say or do.

Yet before you can formulate a proper thought, the door opens and you both look in the direction of the room where your father disappeared with Lord Szarr. They both exit, smiling and seemingly relaxed.

“Child, come closer.” Varitan waves his son closer once the two men stop and your eyes meet your father’s, but you can’t exactly read his face except for the fact that he seems more relaxed compared to how he was when coming here.

Cazador, without a word, walks to his father and Lord Varitan smirks at him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. You realize that they are both nearly exact same height, making even your father stand shorter than them which is usually not the case and you approach as well, not needing permission.

“It has been decided that the boy will join Gate’s army for some time.” Patriarch of the family speaks up again and you watch him, wondering what’s the reason behind his decision because you already learned that Cazador is quick and sharp, even against someone as skilled as you. “He won’t make a military career, but I’m sure that under General Cradith he will learn a lot, won’t you, child?”

“Yes.”

“Since Lord Varitan informed me that you do have a degree of training, which you acquired back in your homeland, it was decided that you will start at the similar position as my daughter.” General says and you frown at that. This… this new recruit is going to have same position as you? You glance at your father but he either ignores your pointed stare or doesn’t see it, because he continues without skipping a beat. “Being a family member of a noble household, I’m sure Cazador knows how to take on some responsibility. Is that correct?”

“Of course he does, he is my son.” Lord Varitan answers and you now look at him, trying to keep your face neutral but finding yourself disliking the man more every time he opens his mouth.

“Then it is settled. When young Lord is ready, please do send me a letter so that we can welcome him appropriately.” Your father speaks and you finally look at Cazador, still finding that mask of nothingness across his face, completely unreadable, completely still. Even his eyes look void of emotion as he stands by his father, frozen like a statue.

You wonder what’s going through his head. You wonder if he’s happy to be promised an escape from his mother, maybe even his father, because the way he gripped Cazador earlier comes back to your mind with vivid intensity. Knuckles turning white, fingers meant to hurt, to remind him of what, his place? Or that he can’t escape, not forever?

“Of course, of course.” Lord Szarr grins and his crimson eyes look unpleasant when accompanied with his sharp smile, making him look more predatory than polite and you want to leave, as soon as possible. This mansion makes you feel like you’re in a den of wolves, or worse.

“Very well then.” Your father goes out of his way to shake Varitan’s hand and you nearly grimace at that without even knowing why, but the idea of touching the Szarr patriarch unsettles you deeply. “Come on then, let’s go.” General turns to you and with relief you nod.

When your father passes you, you turn to follow him, not sparing another glance at the dark-haired elves as you notice Lord Varitan also turn to walk away, but suddenly you hear words spoken to you.

“I guess I’ll see you soon, little soldier.” Cazador’s voice is quiet, meant only for you and you stop, turning just enough to see his face, to see the arrogant smirk on his face and he steps to you, confident and proud, his eyes now burning with excitement.

“Don’t think it’s going to be easy, recruit.” You reply with a grin, not wanting to let him feel as if he’s somehow better than you, stronger than you, and Cazador raises his eyebrows as he stops in front of you. He tilts his head slightly to the side then leans close to your face, staring deep into your eyes as if daring you to step back from him for invading your personal space, yet you stand your ground, letting him get as close as he dares, letting your own arrogance show on your face.

“I’m sure you will make army an interesting challenge to me.” Young Master’s voice is barely above a whisper, you feel his breath on your skin when he speaks, and you begin to feel blush coloring your cheeks, this closeness is too much for you, too intimate, his dark eyes becoming all that you can focus on, all that you can see.

Yet you’re not the one to admit defeat, no matter how perceived or imaginary it is. You stay still, looking back even if your palms begin to sweat. You know he’s challenging you and you are accepting it, he’s some spoiled noble after all, however capable in surprising you he was for a moment, when it comes to real fights you know, you are sure, you would best him. You have no reason to let him think he can intimidate you, so you don’t.

“Don’t make me break your neck on the first day, Szarr.” You taunt and Cazador’s grin widens, he’s pleased with your answer.

“We’ll see about that, Lady Sylven.” He too addresses you by your last name and you raise your eyebrow at him, but pause when you hear your father call for your attention and you exhale slowly, annoyed to be interrupted, but Cazador just leans back from you. “See you soon.” He says with ego dripping of each syllable and you briefly cock your chin at him, then turn and walk off, catching up with your father who’s lingering by the hall door. But entire time you walk away you feel eyes on your back, it makes you grin to yourself.

When you and General walk out of the mansion into a gently dark evening, your father glances at you as you both walk to your horses that you two took to come here from the encampment outside the Gate’s walls.

“What was that about?” he asks and you snap out of your thoughts, giving him a quick look.

“Nothing. He just told me he’s excited to join the defenders of the city, father.” You lie and quickly approach your horse, taking the reins that you tied to a wooden fence, but your father stops you by grabbing your shoulder.

When you look at him, you see that his eyes are serious, his lips pressed into a thin line, worry of a father with seriousness of a General.

“Don’t get involved with that boy, you hear me?” he says strictly and you stare at him completely baffled, not sure how to even react.

“What? Why?” you let out a nervous laugh, unnerved by his sudden mood change, but General’s fingers linger on your shoulder for a little longer before he releases you and gently presses his palm onto your cheek.

“I have a bad feeling, that is all.” Father sighs, making you feel even more confused.

“Surely you can’t judge anyone’s mettle based on what… bad feeling?” you realize you sound defensive, in a moment General’s worried expression is changed by a frown.

“My gut feeling saved my life on the battlefield multiple times before. So did yours. Do not underestimate it just because the boy is charming.” He responds and you know you’re blushing now, but you frown, still slightly defiant.

“He’s not charming, father. We just talked while waiting for you and he seemed like an interesting person.” You lie again, the memory of Donnela’s abuse flashing in your mind and then quickly disappearing. You don’t want to tell him about that either and you realize that you’re lying on Cazador’s behalf already. It makes you feel uneasy inside.

“Heed my warning, child.” Lord Cradith begins and removes his palm from your face, his hard eyes pinning you in place. “Szarrs are bad news. Be very careful with the young Master.”

You can’t argue, not when he’s using his commanding tone, this will not bode well if you talk back, so you just curtly nod and he seems to relax at that, then even smiles.

“Good. Glad you understand.”

With that you both untie your horses and mount them. As your father begins leading towards the encampment you pause and look back at the Szarr mansion, all stone and wood. At the second level of it you notice something in the window: a pale face and black hair, and at first you think it might be Cazador, until you suddenly recognize red eyes and a sharp, unsettling grin.

Grin that looks too wide to be natural.

⫸ end note: thank you @sadist69 and @alienrat-art for wonderful illustrations that helps bringing this story to life♡~

[bullet-prooflove]

For Remy Scott FBI Most wanted request please

No. 30 - We cry tears of mascara in the bathroom

TIA

Companion piece to:

Interruptions (NSFW) - Remy hates being interrupted.

Million Reasons - Remy realises he can't give you what you deserve.

When Remy learns the truth about his brother Michael it breaks his heart. He thinks he feels it literally fracture in his chest. He picks up his phone to call you but then he remembers…

He broke up with you last month. He hasn’t spoken to you in weeks.

That agony in his chest, it stabs at him all over again because you are the one person he would go to with this kind of thing, the only person he trusts to talk out his thoughts and his feelings.

He’s in the bathroom when the tears come, in the shower with his eyes closed. All he can think about is the time that’s been wasted, that poor man in prison wasting away from cancer, dying before he can see his exoneration. Remy had been cruel to him at their last meeting, he things he’d said…

He can never take those back.

You’re waiting for him in the kitchen when he steps out of the bathroom, dressed in soft navy blue robe. You push a freshly made cup of tea towards him and something inside of him just aches so God damn badly. Despite the fact he’s ended things, despite the fact he’s hurt you you’re still here checking in on him.

“I heard about Michael, about his case.” You say softly. “I wanted to make sure you’re ok?”

“No.” He says quietly, his voice breaking a little. “I’m not.”

“Can I…” You trail off before clearing your throat and starting again. “Can I hug you?”

“Please.” He whispers because he needs to feel something other than this anguish, this guilt that dogs his soul. “I just need to know that there’s someone that gives a shit right now.”

Your arms wrap around him, holding him close and he buries his face into the curve of your throat because you, you’ve always been his shelter from the storm, you’re the person he feels safe with, the one he trusts to always have his back.

“I’ve got you.” You tell him, your lips brushing over his hairline. “I promise you, I do.”

Big Fan of Remy?! Get added to his tag list!

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[papurgaatika]

Last Words of a Shooting Star

Characters: Sarah Miller

Minors DNI with my work please !!

A/N: Howdy..... ummmm. So mitski,,,, yeah that's it. Whoopsie. Thank you @joelsdagger and @carlynkurin for looking over this,,, always glad to have yall ask me wtf my problem is <3 <3 Tags: angst, canon compliant, major character death, song fic, third person pov Word Count: 633 Remember that TLOU is created by a zionist so please look at the resources at the end of this fic and in my bio on ways to donate and educate yourself!!

Summary: Outbreak night, from her side. Set to lyrics from Mitski's Last Words of a Shooting star: https://open.spotify.com/track/7gn3NdQez9Pwbqak4gspz5?si=865e47a42fdb4c36

All of this turbulence wasn't forecasted, Apologies from the intercom

The TV was static; the radio had been going on and off for hours, but it was eerily silent now. Warnings to stay inside, warnings to get out while you can, it was overwhelming. The upheaval and absolute disarray on the streets was a sight that she could barely take in. This was her home, her city, the one she loved and it was turning into a walking graveyard in front of her. “Don't look,” plays in her head over and over again, the pain in her leg blistering, her eyes brimming with tears of both fear and pain “Keep looking at me” echoes with the other words, but with them come the screams and the gunshots. The nauseating sounds that just almost drowned his voice out. The voice that would always put her at ease because it meant she was safe. That despite the mayhem, she would be okay. He was there to protect her. 

And I am relieved that I'd left my room tidy, They'll think of me kindly

When they come for my things

She finds herself unable to tear her gaze away from him; The blood on his face, the look of fear behind his eyes, an emotion she had never associated with him. He was strong, the strongest in her eyes. Despite the circumstances she takes a moment to glance at the watch on his wrist, the one that she had fixed for him. Fleeting memories slip into her mind, ones of other birthdays she had celebrated with him. The tradition of putting frosting on his cheek and nose after he blew out the candles, the collection of various macaroni art projects she had made over the years, how year after year the one gift she would give him was a clean room. That it was the one day out of the year she could spare him the grief of cluttered toys and clothes. She was glad she had managed to keep her room clean today, glad to know that when this was over they would enter a place of peace and serenity. 

I always wanted to die clean and pretty

But I'd be too busy on working days

She wasn't truly sure what was happening. Why his voice quaked, why his hands held her tighter, why the bright light was glaring into her eyes. She was trying to stay calm, to center her breathing like he had taught her. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight, and repeat. 

In for four. We’re safe, we’re safe 

Hold for seven. We’re not sick 

Out for eig- We’ve just been through hell. 

She doesn’t make it through eight, a blood curdling scream cutting through her breaths as they fall. 

So I am relieved that the turbulence wasn't forecasted

I couldn't have changed anyways

Her breathing is shallow, the blood seeping through her shirt like the juice she had spilled on the carpet as a baby. The pressure of his hands on the wound leaves her feeling like all the air had been punched from her lungs, but she knows that he would keep her safe. Agonizing cries are falling from her lips as her hands grip onto him like a lifeline, like a child holding a finger, until she isn't anymore. 

I am relieved that I'd left my room tidy

She hopes he can see her room again. The carefully folded clothes, and neatly stacked books. The posters she had so lovingly put up on the walls, and the photos of him she kept. She hopes that he knows it wasn’t his fault, that he wasn’t to blame. Hope he realizes that even in agony, even on the brink of death, she felt safe in his arms. 

Goodbye

A/N: From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free READ: This account stands with Palestine unequivocally, and so— I require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE; 1, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. silence is complicity, do not scroll past this. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS.  Thank you for reading, and free Palestine

[spraykit]

i have eatern your insides, you are no longer crispin, you are open cheetoes bag

-📟

[xxsquideyesxx]

The pain of love - Aemond Targaryen x Fem!reader (oc)

characters: Aemond targaryenxOc, past!Aemond Targaryenx Alys River, Future!HelaenaTargaryen xAemondTargaryen, Visenya Targaryen, Oc!Targaryen

Warnings: cheating, sad story with a hopeful ending, this is really angsty. Also I want you to know that HelaenaxAemond is for Helaena's safety, but Aemond never slept with her or anything, he just wanted her as a sister, it was more a way to keep his sister alive since the greens were losing. Visenya lives and is queen which means all of Rhaenyra and Daemon's children as lo Strong died in the war. After what Aemond did, he practically lived in selibate.The only living greens left were Helaena and her children who gave up their claim to the throne, and Aemond who became black. Lucerys died at the hands of Aegon II because I want it to be so.

Note:This is the first time I write about The Dragon House, so I'm sorry if there are any mistakes or errors. I hope you like it and if you want me to keep writing about this fandom or tag me in my next ones please share and give it a heart. It would help me to reblog and comment thank you! English is not my first language, sorry for the mistakes.

_____________________________________________

In the dark days of the Kingdom of the Seven Kingdoms, when the shadow of the dragon loomed over the land, Prince Aemond Targaryen was in his prime. A brave and reckless knight, with silver hair and purple eyes, Aemond was a man whose destiny was intertwined with fire and honor.

Prince Aemond was married to the beautiful Lady Miriam, a lady of noble birth. With her golden hair and porcelain skin, she radiated incomparable sweetness and grace. However, although Aemond had pledged eternal fidelity to his wife, human passions are a wild torrent that sometimes sweep away even the strongest.

On a cold and dreary night, Aemond encountered the witch Alys Rivers, whose black hair and dark eyes reflected her unsettling power. Alys had a gift for mysteries and the forbidden arts. Her enigmatic figure attracted the prince like an irresistible magnet.

"Prince Aemond, you have awakened my darkest desires," Alys whispered with a captivating smile. "I know you have sworn allegiance to Lady Miriam, but love can be a dangerous maze."

Aemond, in his pride and weakness, fell to Alys' temptation. Together, they indulged in a forbidden passion and their secret encounters multiplied. But, like flames burning in fire, deception can never be hidden for long.

Time passed and Aemond began to realize the darkness that surrounded him. His love for Miriam had faded into the shadows of betrayal, and guilt weighed on his soul like a crown of thorns.

One day, when Aemond finally decided to end his infidelity and confess his sins to his wife, tragedy struck mercilessly. Lady Miriam gave birth to her son, but her life faded away along with the last breath of life she gave to her child.

Agony filled Aemond's heart as he held his son in his arms, a child destined to grow up without his mother's sweet guidance. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he cried out to heaven, begging for a second chance to make amends for his mistakes.

"Forgive me, Miriam. My greed and selfishness have torn us from your arms," Aemond whispered, his voice cracking with regret. "I swear by the gods old and new that I will protect our son and raise him with love and honor."

The death of Lady Miriam was the bitter price Aemond paid for his selfish acts. But from that day on, the prince redeemed himself and became a dedicated father and an exemplary knight.

Years later, Aemond and Miriam's son, Prince Rhaegon, grew up under his father's care and love. Aemond taught him the values of loyalty, sacrifice and righteousness. Together, father and son became a unifying force, restoring hope to a kingdom that had been devastated by treachery and war.

_____________________________

Prince Aemond Targaryen learned that true love is not just a fleeting feeling, but an unwavering commitment. Though he had fallen into the clutches of temptation, he found redemption and built a legacy based on truth and loyalty. Aemond would never forget the price he paid for his deception, but his pain became an eternal flame that drove him to be a better man and an exemplary father.

The days after Lady Miriam's tragic death were somber and filled with grief for Prince Aemond Targaryen. Grief and remorse coiled in his heart, while the flames of guilt consumed his dreams each night. On one particular night, Aemond was plunged into a deep and vivid sleep, where he was transported to an ethereal and mystical realm. There, in a landscape bathed in a heavenly light, he found lady Miriam, radiant and wrapped in a soft white robe.

"I know the truth, Aemond," whispered lady Miriam, her voice echoing in the air like a sweet and distant melody. "I know of your treacherous acts, but I also know of your sincere repentance."

Tears welled up in the prince's eyes as he knelt before her. "My beloved Miriam, my heart is full of remorse and pain. I can never forgive myself for the harm I have caused you."

Miriam's smile was compassionate and full of love. "Aemond, although my life was taken from me too soon, the time we shared together was filled with happiness and joy. The love I felt for you transcends even death."

Aemond looked up, his eyes red and swollen from crying, searching for answers. "Do you forgive me, Miriam, despite all I have done?"

An aura of peace and forgiveness surrounded Miriam as she extended her hand toward him. "My dear husband, life is a road full of mistakes and learning. We all make mistakes and what matters is how we pick ourselves up and redeem ourselves. I forgive you, Aemond. Allow me to carry that weight of your actions and leave in peace."

Miriam's words resonated deep within Aemond's being, filling him with a mixture of gratitude and sadness. He took Miriam's hand, feeling its soft, comforting warmth.

"I promise you, Miriam, that I will dedicate the rest of my life to honoring your memory and raising our son with love and righteousness," Aemond whispered with determination.

Miriam nodded with a smile filled with pride and tenderness. "I know you will keep that promise, Aemond. The future of our house depends on you."

The dream slowly began to fade, and Aemond clung desperately to the image of Lady Miriam. He knew he had to face reality and assume his new role as father and leader.

Upon awakening, Aemond found himself with a new sense of purpose. He remembered Miriam's words in his dream and found comfort in her forgiveness. He vowed to honor her every day of his life and become the man she always knew he could be.

From that day forward, Prince Aemond Targaryen carried Miriam's memory with him every step he took. With a heart full of love and gratitude, he vowed to be a beacon of hope and righteousness in a kingdom ravaged by darkness.

As the years passed, Prince Rhaegon Targaryen, son of Aemond, grew into a brave and handsome knight. His heart, however, belonged to Princess Visenya, daughter of his uncle Daemon Targaryen and his sister Rhaenyra Targaryen. From the moment they met, the spark of love ignited between them, like a fire burning unchecked.

Aemond watched intently the blossoming of love between his son and Visenya. He saw in Rhaegon's eyes the same passion and devotion he had felt for Lady Miriam. His heart was filled with joy and at the same time with concern, for he knew all too well the complications that could arise from a love entangled in the tangle of his family's history.

When Rhaegon decided to court Visenya, Aemond offered his advice and support. He knew that his son was brave and wise, capable of making decisions that would lead to a prosperous future for both of them. Thus, Rhaegon and Visenya met secretly, under the blanket of the starry night, swearing eternal love to each other at every encounter.

Finally, the day came when Rhaegon and Visenya decided to unite their destinies in marriage. It was a time of celebration and hope, but also of trepidation, for the shadow of the Dance of Dragons still lurked in the kingdom.

Aemond made sure that his son's wedding was splendorous and memorable. The seven kingdoms gathered to witness the union of two powerful lineages, and promises of eternal love were sealed with oaths and blessings.

As the war between Queen Rhaenyra and her uncle Aegon progressed, Aemond found himself at a crossroads. His loyalty to his sister and his family was strong, but he also recognized that he could not betray the sacred vows he had made to Lady Miriam.

He decided to protect and respect his sister Helaena Targaryen, though he knew he could never love her the way he had loved Miriam. He took her hand in marriage, sealing a pact of loyalty and care, but in his heart, the memory of Lady Miriam still burned like an eternal candle.

The war came to an end with the death of Aegon and Rhaenyra, and peace settled over the Seven Kingdoms once more. Aemond, however, knew that his time was running out. As he grew older, he felt the weight of his promise to Miriam grow stronger, and his desire to join her in the afterlife grew stronger every day.

Finally, the time came for his departure. With his heart filled with honor and faithfulness to Miriam, Aemond said goodbye to his loved ones and closed his eyes for the last time.

The entire kingdom mourned the loss of a noble prince and a brave knight. His legacy was marked by his dedication to the memory of Lady Miriam and his unconditional love for his son and sister.

In the annals of history, the name of Aemond Targaryen was remembered as a man who sacrificed his own happiness for the welfare of his family. His life was a testament to honor and loyalty, and his death was the ultimate act of love for his beloved Miriam, joining her in eternity.

Visenya's coronation as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms marked a new chapter in the history of House Targaryen. Alongside her, Rhaegon assumed his role as king consort, ready to support his beloved in all her decisions.

With the coronation of Visenya as queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Rhaegon as king consort, hope and love bloomed once again in the land. The years passed and the fruits of their love materialized in two children: Aemond II and Miriam II.

Fate, with its curious irony, intertwined the paths of Aemond II and Miriam II in an unexpected way. From a young age, the two royal heirs met and discovered a deep and special bond that transcended kinship. In their hearts, a pure and genuine love began to grow, defying the rumors and shadows of the past.

The people, captivated by the history that seemed to be repeating itself, watched the relationship between the two young heirs with suspicion and hope. Some feared that tragedy might repeat itself, while others were confident that this time fate would grant them a lasting and happy love story.

Finally, Aemond II and Miriam II decided to marry, defying the doubts and fears that surrounded them. United by love and determination to build a better future, they vowed to rule the Seven Kingdoms in love and harmony, following the legacy of their ancestors.

Under their reign, the Seven Kingdoms flourished in an era of peace and prosperity. Aemond II and Miriam II ruled with wisdom, justice and compassion, guided by the love they shared and the lesson of their predecessors. The townspeople found hope in their union and saw in them a symbol of hope and redemption.

The story of Aemond II and Miriam II became a legend in the Seven Kingdoms. Their unwavering love and dedication to their people were admired and remembered for generations. Their reign marked a new chapter in history, where love and commitment became the pillars of a unified kingdom.

And so, in the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, Aemond II and Miriam II ruled together, building a legacy of love and harmony. Their story proved that, despite adversity, true love can prevail and that even in the darkest of times, there is hope for a bright and promising future.

And so, their love endured through time, uniting the Seven Kingdoms under their reign and leaving a legacy of everlasting love.

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

Tags:

[nonbinaryaubrey]

pretty muuch everyone in the cast has some minor inconsistencies between their artbook cover artwork, ingame art work, and sprites. (this is INCREDIBLY nitpicky i do not care thaat much.. but still. wanna point it out. also i am DEFINITELY missing things i am not going too in depth here i am soo eepy)

some small examples:

sunny:

in sunny's official artwork, and all of his in game artwork, his vest is completely black, the only time this isnt consistent is in his actual pixel sprite

--

Omori:

he has a preeetty simple design? so his never gets too inconsistent. but at times his sock length are changed.

(socks higher up)

(socks lower than the knees)

--

Kel:

Obviously, DW!Kels shirt changes constantly between artworks. cant even be annoyed at this one that shirt looks like agony to draw, altho his sprite loses the more pastel coloration.. altho i think this is just kind of a consistent thing with the dw sprites, so i wont point it out much with them.

RW Kel doesnt have.. anything suuuper noticeable ?as far as i can tell. but his sprite and actual artwork definitely have.. inconsistencies (skin tone, along with the stripe on his pants)

--

Aubrey:

DW Aubrey doesnt have anything suuper inconsistent i believe? so i wont bring her up. and we have already talked about RW Aubrey. her outfit is. WILLDLY inconsistent between artworks, even in the game itself. (im NOT getting into other official artworks here but . her shoes too i believe tend to not stick too one design)

--

Hero:

for DW Hero, just inconsistencies with the stripe thickness, the collar part of his pajamas, and.. whatever the part near the hands are called being either solid white, solid blue, or striped

for RW Hero.. oh boy. His shirt collar

Official artwork (and tag photos) it looks like this ^

in his talk sprite, its still a vneck but with a white stripe

when he saves you from drowning, it looks like this

even his pixel sprites have inconsistencies between eachother

(normal)

(hospital)

good fucking lord man .!!!

--

Mari:

not too much with her actually!! main thing is. inconsistencies with her having shoes or not. (if u want a bit in non-in game comparisons, some official art has her dw self wearing socks when in game i dont think shes ever shown wearing them?)

--

Basil:

and to end it all off, lets move onto Basil. !!!

(going to point this out first, in a LOT of both RW in DW Basil's actual artwork, he has 2 little tufts of hair at the top of his head, but in both his talk sprites and overworld sprites, its missing)

for DW Basil there is.. 2 things i think?

1: the flower crown. it varies.. a LOT between artwork. kind of obvious.

aaand. 2. his shirt . in most artwork ^ like shown above, it has a rounded tshirt neck. but in one specific artwork, it shows it being a collared shirt with a button

for RW Basil.. i dont think theres much?

kiiind of the same issue as sunny? tho less obvious ig. his shirt is shown as dark green in the official artwork, but as a muuch lighter green in the sprite.

also in his battle sprite, he loses that... little part between the vest and the collar of his shirt? idk what to call it.

i beliiieeeve thats.. it for them all? i think i am missing things apologies .but i dont feel like looking thru the wiki anymore . and i have no space left for imgs pretty much

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Final Hour (Linked Universe fanfic)

(@artisticgamer, @ludoluck sorry I keep forgetting to tag you guys for my writing)

Inspired by @kikker-oma's amazing Fierce Deity art. Love your talent and your creativity, Oma! <3

Summary: When everything goes horribly wrong, Time desperately attempts everything in his power to fix it. Wind instead chooses to be the self sacrificing Hero, but the end result isn't what Time expected it to be.

(AO3 link)

The clocktower tolled.

He saw her. He saw Zelda standing in front of him, sad and beautiful and aged beyond her years, just like him. He saw her morose smile, the tears threatening to spill from her eyes, her steady resolve despite it all. He saw her play the ocarina as she grew ever smaller and farther away while his hand reached out desperately for her.

The clocktower tolled.

He saw her. He saw Malon smiling sweetly at him, bright and beautiful and innocent, like how he used to be. He saw the freckles on her cheeks pull as she giggled and called him by that nickname she’d made up a lifetime ago. He saw her eyes grow fierce with a desire for adventure as she worked with an unruly mare. He saw her twirl as they danced together.

The clocktower tolled.

He saw them. He saw Anju and Kafei’s love and desperation and acceptance in their eyes as they held each other, as she said they’d greet the morning together while his hand held hers in a white knuckled grip. He saw them tremble as he turned and ran outside.

The clocktower tolled.

He saw them. He saw the Heroes of Hyrule, how they were all young, experienced, hurt, filled with power and hope and light. He saw how they emanated a strength that couldn’t be quantified, an inherent resolve and determination to their core that shone through and resonated between each and every one of them, a shared bond and unbreakable spirit. He saw their uniqueness, their wonder, their gifts and quirks.

And he saw them fall, one by one.

The clocktower tolled.

They’d been wounded. They’d been weak. They’d just fought multiple hordes and had been desperately trying to get to the nearest village. They’d known it hadn’t been far, from the forest they could hear the bells of a clocktower in a nearby town.

There had been a split in the path. Time had chosen the route.

The clocktower tolled.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It couldn’t happen.

The black blooded dragon roared again, held at bay by the few still standing. He heard a scream, and a body collapse on the ground. He couldn’t even tell who was still standing anymore; he’d been one of the last to fall. Nearly everyone had stilled, no longer writhing in agony or sheer force of will.

Except for Wind.

The sailor groaned as he desperately crawled forward, reaching above Time, whose hand was overhead as he’d been grabbing desperately at one of his items when he fell, as he’d been willing to throw his life, sanity, everything away in a frantic attempt to fix this.

The wooden mask barely was within his grasp, propped by a finger.

Despite the severity of the situation, despite the cold silence of his companions, despite the clocktower ringing in his ears, a reminder of time after time of facing death and life and everything in between as his entire journey flashed before his eyes, he wanted to save Wind from this. The mask was too dangerous for anyone else. What good would such a victory do if the child was lost to the darkness?

“Please, Wind… no.”

He had other methods he could call on.

He had other items he could use.

The Hero of Time was nothing if not relentless. He never gave up. Never. Not even now, not even when he was bleeding to death, when the world around him blurred and dulled, when his mind was screaming and running into the past rather than focusing on the present. Not even now. He’d spent a lifetime perfecting three days over and over and over until he could get everything right and save everyone. He refused to let this be any different.

“You said…” Wind pleaded desperately, his voice trembling, tears and blood and phlegm rolling down his face from what little of it Time could see. With a hiccup, he continued, “You said it’s for emergencies, right? It’s okay, I’ll save you!”

I’ll save you. A last, desperate, pleading promise. The others couldn’t be saved, but Time was still here.

Time’s hands fumbled around his belt, desperately searching for the item he needed.

The clocktower tolled. The dragon roared again, any obstacle between it and the last pair of heroes long gone.

The mask slipped from Time’s finger, a rough disappearance as if it had been pulled.

“Sailor,” he tried again, his voice barely above a whisper, his world spinning and fading fast. He had to move.

Wind screamed.

The noise jolted Time out of his stupor, adrenaline feebly trying to awaken what little life essence he had left in him. He had enough energy to look up and see a figure towering over him where Wind originally had been crawling.

The monster bore Wind’s curls, bleached white. It bore Time’s armor, with a decorative fairy pendant dangling in the breeze as it stood stock still. Wind’s face was older, chiseled, once-chubby cheeks pulled taught over cheekbones that shouldn’t be so developed. Its eyes glowed, contrasting the purple and blue markings that cut across its face.

The Fierce Deity.

Time let out a desperate breath, unable to speak anymore, and watched helplessly as the cursed mask made Wind’s possessed body march across the field towards the dragon that awaited him. He couldn’t see the fight, but he could hear it. He heard the grunts, deeper than they should be, the fierce battle cries, the screeches from the dragon as its opponent landed cut after cut. He breathed hastily, feeling his heart quicken, feeling his body begin to grow numb, and he again searched desperately on his belt for the one thing that could change everything.

Warriors was gone. Sky was gone. Four was gone. Legend was gone. Hyrule was gone. Wild was gone.

Twilight was gone.

Time was going to be damned if he would let Wind fall in the worst way possible.

The clocktower tolled.

The dragon screamed, and the earth shook.

And then everything grew silent.

Time gasped for air, trying to raise his head, wanting to call for the young sailor, for the brightest ray of sunshine in the group, for the one last surviving member.

He couldn’t move.

So this is how I meet death? He wondered. On the verge of tears, an utter failure to all who depended on me?

He remembered the people of Termina. He remembered how they all faced death in their own ways. He thought of Cremia and Romani, of Anju and Kafei.

Goddesses. He missed Malon so desperately right now.

Heavy footsteps approached him, and he blinked, the world coming back into focus long enough for his body to scream that he couldn’t take any more of this. A blurry image hovered over him, and he squinted, confused, until his mind registered who he was staring at, and his hands finally found the item they’d been searching for.

The Fierce Deity knelt down slowly, eyes fixed on him. When his knees sank into the ground, he reached slowly, sliding a hand behind Time and pulling him into a seated position. Time cried out in pain with the motion, and the cursed deity paused only a moment before reaching his other hand towards the Hero of Time’s fumbling hands, pulling the ocarina from their grasp. Time tried to protest, tried to fight against his possessed successor’s hold, but he was too weak to do anything. Then amethyst rose into his periphery, and he looked down to see the Ocarina of Time hovering in front of his lips.

“Play, Link,” the Fierce Deity said, Wind’s higher voice pitched into a deeper timber and holding power and energy the boy didn’t usually possess. “Save them, as you always do.”

Time stared at the deity, his fears and thoughts stolen away. The pair was frozen for a moment, the world pausing around them, time itself holding its breath in anticipation. A gentleness fell over the cursed deity’s face, and Time felt the thumb behind his back caress him once, ever so softly. Understanding slid between the two, a heavy, bone deep realization that dug into Time’s mind more than he could fathom in the moment, a certainty and safety and assurance and comfort that he'd somehow always felt but always ignored. He let out a shaky exhale and, with trembling hands, took the ocarina from the Fierce Deity.

And he played.

The world turned white.

Time felt warmth engulf him, like an embrace from tender arms. Magic sparkled inside his mind and heart, a familiar friend, singing and resonating with his song like fairies humming together, a melody entwined in mystery and grace. His horizon shifted, and he was on his feet, set there gently as if floating through the air. The warmth spread from his core to his extremities, the numbness in his fingers dissipating, the stabbing pain of his own armor piercing his gut dulling into nothingness. The blood on him washed away with invisible waters, and an airless breeze blew the dirt off his body. He continued to play, the melody growing steadier as his strength returned, his determination steeling him, tightening his weakened muscles and bringing an assurance that he hadn’t felt since Termina.

Save them, as you always do.

Oh, the countless times he’d played this hymn, this spell, this prayer. Oh, the countless times he’d clung to it desperately as he tried again, the numerous times he’d played it in tears at his failure, the many times he’d nearly belted it in fortitude as he prepared with renewed hope and a plan in place.

Save them, Link.

“Really, old man? You’re playing your ocarina right now? We have wounded, we need to get moving.”

Time’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Legend’s voice.

They were all there, tired and hurt but alive. Sky was leaning against Hyrule, eyes half closed but body stiff with stubbornness, while Hyrule held him with a fierce protectiveness. Legend was watching him impatiently, scraped and bruised but relatively unharmed and clearly anxious to get help for the others. Four and Warriors were bringing up the rear, watching everyone’s backs and growing ever more confused by the turn of events. Wind hovered with some distress between Sky and Wild, who was the other most injured member of the group, though the champion was well looked after in Twilight’s hold as the rancher carried him on his back.

Twilight.

Time stared at him too long, meriting a worried expression from the rancher. “You alright?”

Blinking the oncoming tears away, the eldest Link took a deep breath and nodded. “Let’s keep going.”

“That’s what I said,” Legend grumbled, turning back towards the road ahead.

“Yeah, but which way?” Twilight asked, staring at the fork in the road.

The clocktower tolled.

Time pointed left.

“But I can hear the bells to the east of here,” Hyrule noted as he steadied Sky a little. “Shouldn’t we take the path on the right?”

“We’re taking this one,” Time said firmly, brooking no argument. The group followed him silently as he tried to reorient and move ahead like nothing had happened.

His hand slipped into his adventure pouch subconsciously as they walked, and the group started to talk amongst themselves, their voices the most beautiful things he’d ever heard. His heart rate began to normalize, and he closed his eyes, basking in the safety of seeing and hearing everyone alive again.

His fingers brushed against wood in his pouch, and they tingled with warm energy that climbed all the way up his arm, through his shoulder, and into his core. He took another steadying breath, clutching the mask tenderly as an entirely different set of emotions nearly knocked him to the ground, confusion and relief and hope and fear and curiosity above all else.

Another time. Today he tread ahead cautiously and protected his family.

Today he saved them, as he always would.

[dontcallpanic]

A bit late as always but I was tagged by the incredible @patolemus and the wonderful @gege-wondering-around to do a WIP-Whenever!

If you happen to be reading this, do yourself a favour and go and check out their WIPs! I am still reeling!

Disclaimer: This is still the Strange Small Town au but it's something i've written recently and its wildly unedited at the moment - and I'm dyslexic so please, please, please tell me if I have a dumb typo. I will not be embarassed - nothing can embarass me anymore, not after repeatedly mixing up tests and testes for my (bound and submitted) disseration!

________________________

A book tucked high up on the shelf catches his eye – B. H. Lore

He doesn't know why this one in particular grabs his attention but he finds himself slipping it off the shelf before he can think twice.

What surprises him more than anything else, though, is how the book is entirely handwritten. He frowns, quick fingers leafing though, scanning page after page of elegant script and unbelievably detailed drawings of... monsters?

Honest to god, straight out of an arcane legend, monsters.

Stiles arches an eyebrow, hardly daring to believe that the first book he selected is an actual, real life, bestiary.

It looks genuine too, Stiles can see where the pen has dug into the paper, tiny blots of ink scattered from the ends of words. He can feel the indents, see the imperfections in the ink, the discolouration of time. The cover seems like leather, embossed with faded gold lettering. In short, this book is old as balls. And if it's not autentic well, it's one hell of an art project.

Stiles hmms to himself, teeth pursing his lips together as he turns this anomaly over in his mind.

This book looks like it's straight out of someone's private collection, so what is it doing on a publicly accessible library shelf?

His fingertips tingle, a shock of anticipation thrilling through him. He feels as if he might actually be getting somewhere now. Somehow he knows this book has the answers to his questions. Well, maybe not the ones about human combustion, but definitely the ones about red-eyed monsters lurking in the woods.

His hands still of their own accord, the book falling open to an ink sketch of a large, ancient tree and a chill shivers down his spine. He's never seen anything like it. The sheer detail is... breathtaking.

The drawing spans the entire width of the book, intricate roots twining down to fall off the edges and long branches stretching out like fingers. All along the limbs of the tree, there is writing, minute, cursive and arcane. He leans forward bringing the book closer, nose almost touching the page as he squints to make out what it says.

Sing over bones...

“Interesting choice."

Stiles jumps, startling to attention and nearly drops the book. He fumbles it, bouncing the book physically between his palms, his face screwed with the agony of trying to protect the delicate, leather bound tome from complete destruction.

The book falls open as his palm gets a grip on the back cover and Stiles watches with the kind of slow motion that only horror can bring as an entire ream of paper slips from the front and scatters like glass across the floor.

The world freezes as Stiles stares at the destruction around him before he slowly, ever so slowly, turns his head to look at the woman who's eyes are now blazing with a fury that could set fire to his entire soul.

“In my defence,” he starts before the red-headed Valkyrie can even open her mouth. “You startled me.”

__________________

For next week, or whenever, always no pressure whatsoever tags are: @patolemus @gege-wondering-around @hellameyers and whoever else wants to share! As always thank you for reading and I hope nice things come your way!

[gomzdrawfr]

the agony of imperfections and lost

a prodigy once soared, melody adored with perfection now suffers with pieces and symphony left unfinished a silent pain with wrist betrayed each notes falter, with the end replaced by sniffles and pain

☾⋆⁺₊♫✩°｡

AU: pianist!Raven and piano technician!Price

between classes and lectures I've been doodling an AU for my cod oc Raven :] it's the first AU I've ever thought of for a very long time and I didn't start writing and drawing a few things until recently (my friends are huge enablers ah ha)

this AU is heavily inspired by the anime Your Lies in April so if this familiar that's why

Prodigy Raven who used to swoop every piano competition stopped participating one day due to various reasons.

She can no longer finish any pieces.

It starts off with pain, and then progresses into fits of spasms and shakes on her wrist.

That was however, not the main issue.

As she will herself to play more to overcome the issue, another problem raised where notes and tune muffles out as she approach the end of any song, rendering her unable to map out the tempo and the feel of the piece, which was the most crucial aspect in performance((and also hence why the art wrote "when will the sounds return"))

again and again, she attempted to play and only met with tears and pain at every end, and so she stopped playing.

It wasn't years later when her friend invited her to a concert hall that she would attempt playing again, and met a man with an unmistakable beard she thought she will never meet again.

here is a fic I wrote below, you can listen along with the spotify song linked below, and as always I hope you enjoy this lil blurb ⸜(˶´ ˘ `˶)⸝

tags: a lil angsty and mentioned of struggles with chronic pain

𓍢ִ໋. 𝄞 ✧˚ ༘ ♪ ⋆｡˚.𖥔 ݁ ˖♬ ♪₊ ⊹

Raven found herself at the concert hall, involuntarily dragged there by a close friend who was settling some business with the hall owner. Having no interest in the conversation, she idly wandered around.

Eventually her attention was drawn to the main hall, the area was dimly lit with only one light shining above a magnificent grand piano on the stage, when was the last time she had even seen a grand piano?

The golden words that etched on the front of the piano captivated her, "Steinway and Sons", and she ran her fingers delicately along its shiny polished surface, despite promising herself not to touch it.

how could she resist when such a beauty is in full display within her reach?

Perhaps there was a lingering wishful hope within her that pulls her through the haunting echoes of her past struggles.

Perhaps this time it would be different, after all, it's been so many years.

As she took a seat and opened the fallboard, she knew she had to play something.

Little did she know she was not alone in that hall.

John Price, a famous piano technician was scheduled to carry out his tuning services on the grand piano, has arrived earlier than the expected time in order to explore the place.

It gives opportunity for him to figure out the environment, and to assess the condition of the place.

To him, a piano was like the heart of the human body, requiring care and love with every factor taking into account, such as the air moisture content, exposure of sunlight, humidity, temperature...the list goes on.

As he walked onto the area from the backstage, he was surprised to see a figure seated at the piano. When he wanted to call out, the tune of a song stopped him.

A familiar melody, a classic.

He recognizes this song, however, with the way the sound and notes were played, it felt as if he was listening to it for the first time.

Liebesleid. Love's sorrow.

As he pause and listens, watching as the fingers of Raven danced around the black and white, he felt himself washed by the emotions of the piece.

remorse, pain, emptiness and cheery? was it hope? yet he can't help but felt bittersweet.

Each note was played with perfection, the pauses, the tempo and the timing were accurate, and with the sway of the pianist, he could feel the emotional depth infused into the piece.

And yet as the song approach the second half of the song, something in the air shifted.

The tempo increased, the intervals between notes were shorten, and slowly wrong notes emerging as well, with some keys played with more force and vigor.

Eventually the song stopped, and only the sound of stifled sniffles filled the air as the figure slouched forward.

((if you're curious and still listening along on spotify, the errors starts around 2:42 she stopped around 2:57))

"It happened again"

Raven thought as she struggled to control the shaking of her hands, and the tears streaming down her cheeks.

"it hurts....it hurts so...so much"

She lets out a shaky breath; it wasn't the pain of her wrist that was eating at her.

It was the act of not being able to complete a piece.

She pressed her palm up her eyes, a weak attempt to stop the shaking of her arms and the tears that kept flowing.

A hand on her shoulder was what brought her back to reality.

Startled, she looked up into a pair of blue eyes, with gentle gaze that melted away her panics.

"You alright, luv?"

The man asked, and Raven composed herself, wiping over her tears as she gave a weak nod.

She apologizes for the state she was in, gingerly stepping up from the bench, only to be met with a chuckle and another reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"It was beautiful"

He complimented, nodding his head towards the piano as Raven pauses.

"no, it's not", she thought internally, but just gave another thankful nod.

"thanks"

John raised a brow at that, taking note for her answer.

"something tells me you disagree, hm?"

She wonders for a good moment if she should speak her mind, and after deciding that the chances of meeting this man again is slim, she gave her comments.

"I didn't finished it"

She spoke, glancing back at the piano as her eyes soften as the echoes of her instructor came to mind.

"you're not worthy to even be in the same room as the piano if you can't finish the piece. It's not just about the techniques and music theory only, you need to focus on the flow and the dynamic of the piece, honor the composer, bring the composer's vision to life." "alright, play it again Raven, how bout putting your body into it this time huh? I've seen others played better than that" "you know you need to win, make me proud dearie"

"well, a song doesn’t need to be complete in order for it to be good"

His voice brought her back as she frowns slightly, the older male simply smiles as he goes on.

"what matters is how much you put your heart into it"

He takes a step forward to her.

"and you, certainly poured your soul into that song, hell, felt like I was listening to Fritz Kreisler himself, ha!"

She could only blink as she chuckles, a warm feeling embrace her heart as she hummed.

"you flatter me...uh-"

"John. John Price."

He extended his hand out as he smiles.

"Raven."

She smiled, shaky hands now no longer tremble as she gave the firm handshake. Something tells her that this will be the first of many more meetings.