#pls share i spent way too long on this bracket

[our-flag-means-love]

welcome to elliot flagmeanslove's

STEDE BONNET OUTFITS TOURNAMENT

do you have Opinions about stede bonnet's outfits and need to make your voice heard? well you're in luck! there's now a bracket for that!

round one (left half) starts around midday EDT on saturday, july 27th, and each round will last a week.

please consider reblogging to spread the word!

idk if this has been done before but i don't care i'm doing it anyway <3

additional info, guidelines, and image description under the cut!

i'll be tagging all the polls with "ofmd" and "stede bonnet", but if you're not interested and don't want them clogging up the tags, you can block "stede outfits tournament".

voter fraud all you want, i'm not a cop.

there will be no variations of the same outfit (e.g. nightgown with cap compared to nightgown with eye mask) with ONE exception that felt important, which was the full godfrey thornrose outfit and the outfit in the "you wear fine things well" scene, aka godfrey minus the jacket and wig.

there are a few variants with the battle jacket and depression robe, and i didn't want to narrow it down to just the ones with the nightgown or just the ones with a shirt and breeches, especially because those overlap with other entries too, so the battle jacket and depression robe are both just In General.

there were also a few minor outfits i just plain had to cut in order to reach a power of two. sorry to the outfit from when stede left home and both of his childhood flashbacks, maybe next time.

these were seeded partly randomly but mostly by my own judgment, because ime random seeds always feel even less fair. i first sorted them based mostly on aesthetic appeal and general fandom opinions—but also importance of scene(s) to a lesser extent—into groups of four (all the #1 seeds, all the #2 seeds, and so on), then randomized which would be in each quadrant, then played around with them a bit to make them pretty from there (roughly even distribution of s1 vs s2, not all episode 4 flashbacks are in the same quadrant, etc). if you have a problem with this, no one's forcing you to participate.

[ID: A tournament style bracket. It has "Stede Bonnet's Outfits Tournament" written at the top. The background is a half-opacity photo of the bow of The Revenge. The bracket is made up of a series of rectangular white bubbles, connected in pairs. On the left half of the bracket, the first column has sixteen bubbles, the second has eight, the third has four, the fourth has two, and the fifth has one. This arrangement is mirrored on the right half. In the center of the image is one larger bubble with "Winner!" written under it.

Only the thirty-two total bubbles in the outermost columns contain words. From top to bottom on the left are: turquoise suit (1.1); nightgown (1.6-1.8); blankets only (wink emoticon) (2.7); wedding suit (1.4); steve irwin (1.7); dream (2.1); depression robe (1.7-1.8); run me through (1.6); goldfish (2.3); peach suit (1.6); brown suit (1.8); theatre kid (1.6); slut era (2.6-2.8); act of grace (1.9); ed's leathers (1.4); and naval academy (1.9). From top to bottom on the right are: cursed suit (2.5); meeting mary (1.4); back home suit (1.10); battle jacket (1.1-1.6); godfrey thornrose (1.5); anniversary (1.4); cut-open shirt (1.2); red flag (2.2-2.3); YWFTW (1.5); long may he roam (1.10-2.5); blue suit (1.5); fab pants (1.4); ran aground (1.2); treasure map (1.7); white suit (1.3); and british uniform (2.8). All of the inner bubbles are blank. /End ID.]

[upsidedownwithsteve]

pls remus x reader having a fight, smutty ending

18+

“You’re being stubborn,” Remus pointed out.

His voice was level and calm, quiet as always and it only irked you more. Your boyfriend was leaning against the chest of drawers in your shared room, glasses perched on his nose, his shirt sleeves rolled up and arms crossed. He looked soft, but more alive than he had last week after the full moon had come and gone.

“I’m not,” you replied. Stubbornly.

You were on the bed, somewhat sulking, face half pressed to the pillow as you peered from behind a bundle of blankets at the boy. The argument was an age old one, the same discussion about you being there for Remus during the full moon, helping the rest of the boys keep him safe.

“The whole point is to keep others safe,” Remus always said. “Not me. And especially you. You’re the one I want to keep the most safe.”

After Remus suffered a nasty wound on his shoulder that you’d spent the week cleaning and redressing, you brought up the topic again, asking him to let you help. You’d have your wand, you countered, you’d have James and Sirius too.

“That’s not the point, sweetheart,” he’d try and console you. “I’m not putting you in danger. And I’m the danger.”

The argument had already went on too long, words exchanged in the living room and kitchen as you both wandered aimlessly around the small flat, ending in the bedroom only to glare at each other from across the space. Now you were pouting, not ready to give in but Remus was sighing, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes with a finger and thumb. He crossed the room, pushing off of the dresser with one foot until he was standing at the edge of the mattress.

“Are you still sulking?” He asked, curving a warm palm around your bare calf.

“Yes,” you said petulantly. You turned, looking up at him from the sheets with a frown. “You’re not dangerous, Remus.”

You knew that was a lie, a softening of the truth, perhaps. But calling the boy in front of you a danger seemed completely ridiculous. Remus was worn woollen sweaters and crumpled shirts, sleep mussed hair and the smell of old books and mint leaves. Despite what he turned into, claws and teeth and all, you couldn’t imagine your Remus as anything other than gentle.

Normally, Remus would respond with a frown of his own, another lecture about his condition, how he loses control, how’s he not himself, how he could truly hurt you - and what that would do to him. Instead, he pulled at your leg, dragging you with surprising strength until your ass was at the edge of the mattress, your legs bracketing him between.

He quirked a brow and suppressed a smile, his gaze playful as his hands smoothed up your thighs. “I’m not dangerous?” Remus asked.

You parted your lips, ready to answer. But nimble fingers, calloused and silver scarred, made their way under the big T-shirt you were wearing, a single digit tracing the seam of your folds. You didn’t have a response.

“Cat got your tongue, pretty girl?” Remus mused softly, his voice still a low, soft cadence. He smiled, honey sweet. “You don’t think I could just—” Remus pushed a thumb to your cotton covered clit, rubbing in slow, hard circles with each word. “—Eat. You. Up?”

You whined, breath caught in your throat, your face appearing from where you’d pushed it huffily into your pillow in favour of gazing up at the boy. Doe eyed, softer, the fight leaving you with each pass of Remus’ fingers over your underwear. He snapped at the elastic at your inner thigh.

“Still wanna argue?”

You shook your head.

Remus grinned, wide and bright and entirely dangerous looking, his free hand pulling swiftly at his belt buckle. “There’s a girl, hm? Take your shirt off for me, sweet thing, lemme see you.”

[sleepingdeath-light]

yandere hcs + yandere s/o ; grelle

requested by ; anonymous (21/10/23)

fandom(s) ; black butler

fandom masterlist(s) ; hub | specific

character(s) ; grelle sutcliffe

outline ; “may i request a (maybe yandere?) grell x yandere reader pls?”

warning(s) ; mutual obsessive behaviour, unhealthy dynamics, toxic codependency, mutual possessive behaviour, yandere!grelle, yandere!reader, references to murder and other such violence

grelle was someone that was just so very easy to love — as beautiful as she was ruthless with a killer sense of style to boot, really you were doomed to fall for her from the start

… even if back then she was still obsessed with getting the attention of that disgusting demon (even thinking his name was enough to leave a bitter taste in your mouth; that beast was best forgotten now that your love had moved on to better and brighter things)

you’d spent so long trying to capture her attention — even going so far as to start killing people just to catch a glimpse of your beloved reaper and have the opportunity to smother her with all of the affection and praise she deserves

and, bit by bit, your efforts started to pay off as grelle began to seek you out of her own accord and linger long after the souls of your victims had been collected just to be able to spend that bit longer with you

you spoke about anything and everything — well, rather, she spoke and you listened with stars in your eyes, barely able to focus on her words as she mindlessly started to play with your hair and just touch you like it was no big deal — anything from her work struggles to her current assignments to that blasted crush of hers was discussed, and even things beyond that

things more personal

things that made you love her even more

and your worshipping of her very being made her obsession swiftly pivot from sebastian to you — sealed with a passionate kiss over the still warm body of a man you’d slaughtered just to see her and bracketed by her lovingly smearing blood over your cheeks with the pad of her thumb

needless to say she had you wrapped around her little finger and she fucking loved that fact about you

yes the chase is fun, but having someone willing to do anything for you is absolutely priceless — and grelle slowly found herself becoming protective over you and your affections

your love for her was like a disease that spread through every ounce of her being, twisting her and impacting every little part of her life

it had her spatting and battling with other reapers that tried to keep her away from you or reprimand her for her sloppy work (she never really cared for the details but now she finds herself rushing through assignments and goring her cases just to get to you faster)

it infected her with a jealousy so fierce that she ended up mutilating and murdering any man or woman that got too close to you for her liking, even taking the lives of family members and friends that ate too much into the time that should have been yours to share as a couple — though she always made it up to you by spoiling you with attention and affection and praise afterwards

it made her so protective that she resorted to locking you up in a space she’d claimed as your shared home just so you weren’t able to slip away from her and get hurt — but that didn’t stop her anxiety from creeping up on her during her working hours and inflicting her with a debilitating panic at the idea alone of losing you

(she knew you wouldn’t dare abandon her through your own means or even through death, but still she couldn’t imagine living her afterlife without you)

it was undeniably unhealthy, but neither of you cared — in fact you both thrived in a twisted sort of way

you threatening and killing people out of jealousy or just to get her attention made heat race straight to her core and made her all the more attracted to you — meanwhile her murdering your loved ones and any perceived threats to your union only proved that your love was mutual and worth protecting in your eyes

her tying you up to keep you safe was inconvenient and at times deeply uncomfortable, but the way she’d collapse into your bound form with tears of relief streaming down her face as she showered you with affection made all of that worth it — and, besides, you’d do the same to her in a heartbeat if you could

the two of you thought of each other all hours of the day, whether together or apart, and even still you couldn’t get enough of each other

you were obsessed enamoured with her

she coveted couldn’t get enough of you

and you’d do anything if it meant keeping her eyes solely on you and not on her boring boss or that egotistical butler — even if that meant losing everything you’d ever known and ever loved

because she was all that mattered

[yvaquietdays]

idealising the past and dreaming about the future

Last week, after I made the blog public, I received some pretty beautiful messages. Most of them were from folks who had been in the exact same position as me, whether living with depression or anxiety, or simply finding it tough battling through life’s disappointments. It was incredibly comforting knowing what I believed when I wrote that last post was so resonant; we’re all going through the same bullshit.

But a friend in particular, his name is Mat. He commented publicly on my post with some words that got me thinking. Imma share this here:

If I was arrested for any crime at all it would be for idealising my past self. That and eating too many biscuits. Who I was, who I thought I was. I laughed more, I cared less, I subscribed to nobody else’s version of me. But then I got depressed and worried all the time, and I lost that part of myself. The happy-go-lucky, ball of energy, motivated, determined young woman, gone. As slow and as unnervingly noticeable as a fart. Much in the way that Mat reminisces over his “extroverted, confident ‘me’“, I reminisce heavily upon the teenage me, the one who had stars in her eyes and never wavered in her confidence of her abilities.

Except, when I really think about it, when I’m honest with myself, and I face my self in the mirror, I know that isn’t true.

All that I’ve lost, really, are my rose tinted glasses.

I grew up.

I was never motivated, I was never determined. I was lucky. I can’t reminisce about the person I was because I know more about myself now than I did before, and I think the hardest part of climbing out of the pit of your mental un-health is accepting that life goes forwards, not backwards. I can’t unlearn all the things I’ve learnt since I noticed three years ago that I wasn’t happy. The truth is, I was unhappy before that. I’ve been fighting off that frequency sadness for as long as I can remember.

So I can’t go back and rewind the clock, because all I have is now and I don’t want to be that sad girl anymore. I’ve been thinking a lot about cycles, the 7-year-life cycle in particular. Wait, though- Before you flick back to whatever you were doing before you decided to read my blog, bear with me. Aside from whatever spiritual or philosophical connotations the idea might have, let’s look at it logically for a second. The first seven years of our life we spend smelling and touching and feeling out the world around us. Any mental learning is done almost subconsciously, depending on how our world treated us. We’re well on our way to becoming a real, pubescent adult when the second cycle rolls around, by which point we’re discovering our sexuality, relationships, viewpoints and intellect. This is such a huge exploratory phase for some. Then the third arrives, and we’re beginning to find out what the world is like without our parents driving the train. We’re figuring out where we place in the grand scheme of things, and wondering how you might change, politically, environmentally, socially. And then come our twenties.

Jesus Fuck.

WHAT HAPPENED?!

I think it is no coincidence that a lot of people suffer mental illness for the first time in this particular age bracket. I envy those who don’t. They tend to be some of the most driven, strongest people I know. But my friends used to call it “the mid-twenties fear.” Out of nowhere, we’re mentally and physically culpable for all our own decisions and mistakes, and all the ideas we had for life in those first three cycles have become somewhat buried under a pile of work deadlines, rent days and bills to pay. We don’t own your own home yet, we aren’t married, we have no kids. We aren’t in the perfect job yet, we haven’t even begun the successes that were supposed to come to us after we put in so much work at our GCSE’s, A-Levels, degrees!

We’re the guy cleaning our toilets now, we’re the ones buying the food. School didn’t prepare us (not in the UK at least) for how to deal with every day responsibilities; how to pay taxes, how to arrange loans, how to mentally cope with the resounding disappointment we feel at how our lives panned out in contrast to the grand ideals we had when we were in our third cycle.

Oof. I know. Heavy man.

(I have a big problem with how out-dated our education system is; instead of being career-driven, it is goal-driven. Degrees don’t work for everyone and they evidently do not provide for a stable economy. More apprenticeships, less pressure on exams (not everyone is good at those) and more practical applications, pls & thnx)

But here’s what I’ve realised. Life is a cycle. It’s not meant to go backwards, it’s supposed to continue on its round, picking up what we’ve learned and adapting itself as it goes. Why focus on what we haven’t got when we should focus on what we do have? And if something is ever spiralling, ever changing and evolving, how can we go back to the last cycle? Should we jam an iron rod in the spokes, forcing the wheel to brake suddenly and collapse under the pressure? Because that is what would happen. That is what happened to me.

I knew at the age of 18 my life wasn’t heading in the right direction, when I stared out of my university accommodation window at York Minster in the distance, listening to Stop This Train by John Meyer. The night was dark, and I sat curled on my redundant desk chair, wondering in a pale blue light of sadness, even then. Eventually I made the change, dropping out of further education and pursuing my joy, my music. But it did not alleviate the sadness. I continued on, all the while so scared of living life on my own, so scared of growing up. I lived in fear for years of never achieving my goals because I could not bear to be alone doing it. Isolation was my motivation and fear my hinderance.

I spent years dreaming and idealising this vision of the future where I was always winning, where I was singing and performing and recording and I was writing with everyone and everyone wanted to write with me, and everything was just going to work out (claps between words required). It was easier living in this fantasy life I wanted to build, but the escape was taking me further away from reality. Much like that incredible Pixar film, Inside Out, fear and sadness was in control of my actual life.

Things were going well for a while in that frame of mind, but then they didn’t.

When all those things I’d dreamt (I stress that I never visualised them, not in a positive way- I dreamed them- the difference is as vast as an ocean) didn’t happen, I kept harking on to that past self, wondering where it all went wrong, trying to get back that ambition, the endless streams of excitement, the riveting pangs of desire. It was all a lie I told myself. Because really, all I had in the pit of my stomach was dull and and grey; it was nothing, and I could feel myself hiding in that pit, far, far away from where I used to be. All of what I told myself was a lie, and I was starting to realise the truth of it.

I think that amidst all of it, life was telling me (whatever it was; nature, God, Buddha’s mates,) I ought not to hyper-admire my old self. Because in trying to become my past self, I was ignoring what I could become in the future. All of the little lies I told myself started to evolve on their own like that black icky shit from Prometheus (don’t watch it- it’s disappointing, just like your life), to the point that I forgot what I had done to protect myself; when all of those things I had lied with were stripped from me, I was naked and bare, and I had no idea of how I was going to move through the murk of it all. My self esteem was so low that the idea of performing made me anxious, writing made me cry, I sat in silence at the piano with a choke in my throat and my guitar lay in its case gathering dust.

But I was naked for a reason. I had to accept that I was relying heavily upon this idea of my self, not upon what I was. I was constantly seeking others’ approval, my only source of validation was what I thought others thought of me.

It has been empowering to know that the answer has been in me all along. I cannot blame others for how I view myself.

Life is a cycle. I am where I am supposed to be now. It’s not perfect, I’m still working on me and creating my life with my own hands, not someone else’s. I’m not quite there yet, but I’m trying.

But maybe this is my best self, because I’m so much more aware and emotionally awake. Maybe I’m the best I can be because I recognised my laziness and arrogance when I needed to, and in stripping these things away from my ego I am looking forward to being a better person, not the young complacent girl I was. And as a woman, cycles rule our lives. From the second cycle to the latter, our emotions and physiology is run by a monthly turn of events. Part of the reason I came off the pill was so that I could feel and trust this more purely. I was neglecting my basic instincts and self and I couldn’t have jacked up hormones hiding it away from me.

So everything comes and goes. The old girl goes and the new woman arrives. We have a chance to change every time. All aspects of life in this world run in a cycle. Water, fire, earth. It all moves and works in a cycle. Ice ages, the rising of dough into a beautiful donut, the melting of butter atop a mountain of cheese and jacket potato. Life and death. All the important stuff.

So I let the death of my old self instigate the birth of a better me. And one day I might shed this skin too and look forward to the next husk I inhabit.

What I’m learning is that nostalgia can be good, if you’re with your mates and remembering that time you threw up down the side of George Ezra’s tour van (true story).

But if we start becoming nostalgic about our selves, thinking of our current self in a negative way, dousing it in low light and bad reflective gear, and instead highlighting that past self with the glory light of hindsight, we can’t, and I believe, we won’t move forward.

We have to accept ourselves as we are now, and then build whatever we can upon the foundations that we create every second we’re alive. Because all we have are our own decisions, that ultimately we are in control of. How we respond, how we act, what we say; at the end of the day, that’s who we are. What you did today, that’s who you are, good or bad. No-one is perfect and life is a cycle. We always have tomorrow to try again.

We don’t have yesterday, so

[ignis-scientia-estrogen-brigade]

~(Someone help me with a title pls)~ [Pre-Road Trip Fic; 3900 Words]

I just want to give a big thanks for everyone who has started following this blog—I didn’t expect it to gain nearly the traction it did, and nothing makes me happier than seeing all the Ignis trash out there coalesce into one giant pile of garbage and share in the love of everyone’s favorite strategist! I wanted to do something special like drawing a picture of Iggy in honor of surpassing a hundred followers, but everything I doodled sucked monkey balls, so I decided to bequeath you all instead with a longer, naughtier Specs fic (as in, you might need a cigarette after reading this).

This story is peak meta (Ignis-ception? Fanfic-ception?), because the female protagonist originated from a single line in one of my early headcanons, and was more fully-fleshed out in an Ask prompt I received later (the poor girl still doesn’t have a name haha). The idea for this particular fic actually came from the last headcanon I wrote; honestly, I could have expanded on any of those scenarios because gd I want to read more about Gladio having sex in the shower, but as this is an Ignis-oriented blog, I felt it was only natural to have the strategist be the focus of this story.

I have to tell you, one of my favorite things to do is read the hashtags of your reblogs; the funnier, the better. So keep it up if you want to hear about me snorting my morning coffee! Real life has been a bit of a grind lately, so I might be posting more sporadically over the next several weeks, but I still have a few Asks in my inbox I fully intend to answer, so keep your ideas coming!

Tagging @karouyamisaki for… reasons. (Do you still have those dentures I gave you?) Hiiiiiiighly NSFW

“Is it me, or is the table lower than it was yesterday?”

Two spectacled eyes peer out above a Crown City Chronicle at the redhead seated across the breakfast table. “Is it?”

“I think it is.” As a matter of fact, she knows it is; he wouldn’t be entertaining her company if she wasn’t perceptive about these things. It was exactly the type of acumen that had originally caught Ignis’ attention in the first place—that, and the clipped regional accent they both shared, although their mutual love of caffeinated beverages might’ve helped her cause more than a little.

He sips at his Ebony and resumes perusing the current events section of his newspaper. “How peculiar.”

“Indeed. Quite peculiar.” The miraculously diminishing table wasn’t the only thing of notable peculiarity that morning; the way his hand lingered on hers when he brought out her own mug of Ebony seemed rather unusual for the habitually aloof Crownsguard, since about the only time Ignis Scientia dared to ever lay an affectionate finger on her was when she had him cornered in the bedroom with his trousers already around his ankles.

She polishes off her breakfast before pushing her plate aside. “Was it to your liking?” he inquires from behind his paper. “I fear the Regaltrice eggs weren’t as fresh as the shopkeeper at the farmer’s market claimed they were.”

“It was delicious, thank you.” She then reaches for her cup of coffee and hesitates, swirling the last remnants of dark liquid around the bottom of it. “Remind me again, Darling—when did you say you set out for Altissia?”

His emerald eyes dart across the table for the briefest of moments before returning to his paper. “Three weeks.”

“And how long will you be away?”

“It depends. Could be months.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Is that a problem?”

She suppresses the urge to sigh, and instead drains the last of her Ebony to conceal the grimace on her face. “Of course not.”

Finally, he sets his newspaper down on the table and looks over at her in earnest. “Speak your mind. It’s best not to keep secrets.”

Her cheek twitches, and a tendril of bitterness licks the inside of her throat. “Isn’t that what we’re good at?”

His features remain impassive. “Are you unhappy with our arrangement?”

Of course, their arrangement. It was hardly fair of her to be resentful about it; she was the one, after all, who had originally laid down the parameters of their accordance when they began their tryst. No intimate contact outside of the previously agreed upon hours of midnight and four, no affectionate monikers or diminutive terms of endearment, and—perhaps most importantly—no falling in love. Feelings would only compromise the benefits of their affair, since the man might die at any given moment; they both could, for that matter, if the rumors of ulterior motives surrounding the Imperial peace talks were to be believed.

But somewhere along the way, something had changed. Somewhere between that first lustful night together and the present day, they had taken to calling each other Darling; even now, she was bending her own rules by remaining at his apartment this late into the morning, sampling his new omelet recipe and ruminating over the significance of his lingering touch.

Ultimately, somewhere along the way she had grown rather fond of the strategist. “My apologies,” she says sullenly. “I didn’t mean to complicate the matter. I’m sure you have much and more on your mind right now.”

He stares at her blankly for a long moment, and then suddenly glances out the kitchen window. “It’s rather quiet this morning, wouldn’t you say?”

It’s a diversion tactic, and she knows it; it wouldn’t be the first time he’s used it against her to his advantage, although generally it comes in the form of a cheeky I could go for an Ebony about now comment when he’s parrying her lance in the Citadel’s fitness center. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“I wonder if the city is diverting traffic in anticipation of the Imperial detail.” He pushes back from the table and rises from his seat. “Another cuppa?”

“Please.” She sets her empty mug aside and swallows the last of her antipathy; three weeks is not a long time, and choosing to stay irritable at him will only make it pass by more quickly.

He nods once and disappears into the kitchen; her attention drifts out the window and she narrows her eyes. “Now that you mention it, it is rather quiet. Almost too quiet.”

“Most intriguing,” his voice calls out from the other room.

“It’s awfully early to be rerouting the highways. The chancellor isn’t even expected to arrive until the day of the talks—what was his name again?”

His isn’t gone but a heartbeat; then he is back by her side and refilling her cup with freshly brewed Ebony. “I don’t recall.”

But she isn’t looking at him, and instead her eyes remain fixed outside the window. It’s only after she gives up trying to resolve the paradox of the ominously silent roads that she finally peers up at him; when she does, it takes her mind half a second to register that he is standing before her wearing absolutely nothing at all.

It’s a good thing she hadn’t taken a sip of her coffee before processing that fact, lest she spurt hot brown liquid all over the breakfast table. “Goodness,” she breathes.

There are some within the palace walls who whisper that Ignis Scientia was born without a fundamental understanding of humor; the redhead would argue that most people simply haven’t spent enough time around him to witness his masterful skills in the art of deadpan.  “Something troubling you, Darling?” he asks, the faintest of grins touching his lips.

As hard as she tries, she is unable to contain her smile. “And what, might I inquire, is the meaning of this little exhibition?”

He sets the coffee pot down on the the kitchen counter and leans over for a chaste kiss. “You seem preoccupied with the details of my excursion. Thought maybe I could offer to help take your mind off things.”

She can’t quite stop herself from ogling at the eyeful of naked flesh hovering inches from her face. “How in the world did you get out of your clothes so quickly? I didn’t even hear your keys jingle in your pocket.”

“It’s a mystery, isn’t it?” He then reaches over and moves to unfasten the buttons of her blouse. “Speaking of, I daresay you appear to be wearing far too many articles yourself.”

His fingers move swiftly, and soon he is liberating her of her garment and discarding it on the window sill. “Don’t be absurd,” she says, but the sensation of his lips brushing against the crook of her neck leaves her hoarse. “If you aren’t planning on kicking me out of your apartment anytime soon, let’s at least move into the bedroom.”

“What for?” He stops his light caresses briefly to pluck her mug of Ebony from her hand before drawing her upright out of her chair and guiding her body against the breakfast table. “There’s a perfectly flat surface here we can use.”

“Be serious,” she admonishes, as he pushes his bare chest to hers. “This table won’t hold my weight, let alone both of ours.”

“Of course it will. I reinforced the brackets last night when I lowered the legs.”

“Lowered the…?” Confusion clouds her mind, but the gentle way he rakes his teeth along her sternum causes her to lose her train of thought entirely. One strong hand encircles her back and tackles the clasp of her undergarment with the precision of an expert locksmith, and suddenly both of their torsos are free from obstruction and his lips are pressed against hers.

“Is this all right?” he whispers, his fingers gliding lightly over her left breast. “You know how I hate to be a bother.”

Her eyelids flutter shut when he replaces his fingers with his tongue. “Does it look like I’m bothered?”

“In a sense.”

“Do you always talk this much in the mornings?”

He snorts softly against her nipple before kneeling, and resumes his slow journey down toward her hips. “Point taken.”

He then traces the waistband of her pants with inquisitive curiosity, coaxing the button loose and tugging gently on her slacks until she is free from the constraining accoutrement and is sitting on the breakfast table with her toes dangling off the floor. There is still the matter of her underwear in need of tending to, but the strategist is nothing if not strategic in his approach; with a finesse only an authority in the field of daggers could master, Ignis manages to strip her of her smallclothes while simultaneously throwing her legs over each of his shoulders.

Her hands immediately move to clutch at his tawny hair, and she lets out a gasp as he nuzzles the tip of his nose against the most private and intimate part of herself. But he doesn’t linger in one spot for long, and instead teases the insides of her thighs with light kisses interspersed with gentle nips of his teeth. When her trembling fingers reach for his face and knock his spectacles askew, he pauses a moment to readjust them.

“Leave them off,” she says. “I like you better without them.”

“I can hardly see a thing even with them on,” he replies, and continues his exploration.

She grips the edge of the table hard and silently curses the Six when his tongue strokes grow positively agonizing. “There’s nothing down there worth looking at. I can’t believe you’re willing to subject yourself to the view in such… anatomical detail.”

“On the contrary,” he murmurs. “It’d be a shame to lose what’s left of my sight when the scenery is as breathtaking as this.”

She laughs aloud at his attempts at flattery, but in truth, the sentiment warms her heart; he never once showed the slightest ounce of timidness around her body, and was clearly more than a little experienced at pleasuring a woman, if the magical fingers he was now pressing inside of her were any indication. She may not have even been his only paramour at the moment—exclusivity was never explicitly touched upon in their agreement—but it doesn’t matter, because her breath is growing ragged with each achingly slow lap of his tongue.

“Darling,” she pants, her eyes pressed closed, her fingernails digging into the taut muscles of his shoulders. “I don’t think I can take much more of this.”

He ignores her appeals for leniency and maintains a steady and rhythmic cadence; his fingers are moving faster now, his thumb rigid against her nub, shifting away for the briefest of instants only to be replaced by his strong tongue. She can no longer suppress the moans clawing their way up her throat as the pressure in her abdomen builds, and she bites down on the inside of her cheek so hard she can taste blood.

“Please,” she begs, her legs tightening around his neck. “You have to stop—“

But he doesn’t stop, and instead doggedly presses onward; he has his free hand gripped around her thigh, feeling her tendons clenching, sensing her heartbeat quickening, because she knows that as a strategist he is intimately aware of even the slightest changes in her body chemistry, and won’t yield to her request until he has pushed her to the other side of ecstasy.

She doesn’t have to wait long for him to conclude the torture. The first crest of her orgasm is already firing through every nerve ending of her body, and a cry escapes her lips with each subsequent wave. For a long moment, the only thing she can hear is the sound of her pulse screaming in her own ears; as the pounding in her heart subsides, and the blood returns to the knuckles she has flexed tightly around his arms, she opens her eyes to the image of Ignis drawing himself up to his full height.

Another, more arrogant lover might pat himself on the back and make some wry quip about successfully bringing her to climax; Ignis, on the other hand, is evidently content to leave his ego in check, because his only reaction to her trembling is to cover her slightly parted lips with his own. The flavor of her herself on his tongue sends her mind reeling and drives her to deepen their kiss, her hands gripping urgently at his spine and her legs wrapped tighter than Malboro tentacles around his slender hips.

But he appears to be in no hurry to indulge in his own pleasure, and instead tilts her back gently against the table’s surface before moving down to drag his mouth over the curves of her abdomen. Her hand reaches for his face only to get tangled up in his lenses again; this time, he finally discards his spectacles once and for all, tossing them over his shoulder without nary a second glance.

“Don’t be so flippant,” she scolds, although with the way his caresses are causing her back to arch upward, her reprimanding doesn’t quite meet her voice. “I should hate to be the reason you broke your glasses.”

“I’ve got another pair,” he says, his hot breath utterly electrifying against her skin.

It’s only when he leans into the table that she realizes why exactly he lowered it in the first place; her body immediately begins to ache when she feels his erection pressed against just the right spot between her thighs, and were she in a more coherent state of mind, she might’ve complimented him on his impressive ingenuity. But her brain is mired in the nebula of her own desire, and the singular reoccurring thought currently consuming her attention is the longing to feel his warmth inside of her.

If she hoped her sensual agony would end with her own climax, however, she is sorely mistaken; the strategist simply bides his time, nipping tenderly at her belly, tracing the outline of her breasts leisurely with his tongue, grasping the back of her knees firmly as her body begins to writhe beneath him. When she is forced to press her hand to her mouth to stifle her moans, he pries her fingers gently away from her face and laces them in his own.

“You best let go,” she says in a low voice, “unless you enjoy hearing me shout loud enough to alert the neighbors.”

“Music to my ears,” he purrs.

So she concedes to his restraints, because if Ignis Scientia wants to listen to the sounds of her euphoria, then she is more than happy to oblige. His lips are at her neck now, the stippled texture of his freshly-shaven jaw brushing up against her collarbone and eliciting a sharp hiss from her lungs. Her legs clench around his waist, but he resists being drawn in any closer, for this is a test of wills: her urgency to be fulfilled against the stalwart discipline that has come to define him.

She breaks first. “Ignis,” she whispers, “don’t make me beg for this.”

It is, perhaps, rather unfair of her to resort to such unsophisticated tactics; there are far more clever ways of getting him to do her bidding, but the man has so few weaknesses, and she knows that the mere hint of his name on her lips will impair the rational side of his brain long enough for primal instinct to take over. And besides—if he teases this out any longer, he’ll have a permanent stain of her fluids on the surface of his breakfast table to deal with afterward.

Her imploring has its desired effect; his previously tranquil expression flickers for a moment, and his hands tighten around her fingers. She watches as the wheels turn in his mind, turning, turning, always turning, always in control, until his features abruptly darken and she can see in his eyes that the urge to give has now been replaced by the impulse to take.

He doesn’t speak a word; he simply presses his mouth hard against hers, and moves to pin her wrists above her head with one hand. His other is already between both their legs, testing her readiness, testing his readiness, before suddenly and without warning he is plunging his searing heat into the folds of her warm flesh.

She says his name again, but it’s not a whisper like before; this time, it’s a cry of elation, loud enough for the neighbors to hear, loud enough for King Regis seated on his throne behind the palace walls two miles away to hear, loud enough for the Astrals themselves to look down from their omniscient plane of existence and take note. For there is no feeling in all of Eos quite like two bodies joining to become one, and no rapture greater—in this world or the next—than that offered by one Ignis Scientia.

His response is more reserved than hers, for she knows Ignis is a quiet lover; the flexing of his hand against her wrists and the lowering of his forehead to her chest is the only indication that there is a battle raging on inside his mind. Lose himself in her warmth, and this brief moment of exaltation will pass; wait too long, and he’ll begin to overthink things. The line they dance along is razor-thin, but they’ve done it together a hundred times or more, and she tilts her hips up against his to signal the beginning of their lascivious waltz.

He finally releases her wrists and drops his hands to her waist, burying himself ever deeper into her walls. She follows his lead and braces herself against his movements, stretching back and relishing in her newfound freedom by raking a loving hand through his feathery hair. His eyes are closed in concentration and his lips never leaves hers, except to suppress a carnal growl every now and again. Their bodies find a mutual harmony—just as they always do—and the only rational thought she is able to formulate in her mind in between bouts of pleasure is just how much time he must have spent last night reinforcing the table brackets to have them hold up as well as they are.

But even in her heightened state of arousal, she is perceptive to the nuanced changes in his behavior; he is working harder now, his brow furrowed, his thrusts more deliberate. She can sense his heart pounding in his ribcage, can feel the shortening of his breath against her throat, can even hear the silent gasps of ecstasy he tries so hard to conceal from her. She does what she can to temper his fervor and draw out this symphony of theirs, but the threads of her resolve have already frayed nearly beyond repair; her hands move without thinking, clutching at his lower back, urging his hips ever onward, scratching at the perfect porcelain skin that bears the scars of the royal onus bequeathed upon him.

Another change occurs; his quiet pants no longer leave his mouth, and instead he is is exhaling forcefully through his nose, like a beast of burden struggling under the weight of a heavy load. His movements grow more erratic as well, and his fingers have returned to her hands—not to pin them down against her will, but to clutch at her palms in desperation. He is close—she can feel it—and his mouth parts slightly as a single word escapes his lips. “I—”

She knows he will slow down if she lets him, so she doesn’t let him, because she wants his heat inside of her, wants his body to fill every inch of her own; the thought of losing everything they have built together in this moment is a betrayal the likes of which even the Infernian would not lower himself to. So she silences his reticence with a kiss, his waist captured between her legs in a vice grip, and lets her own cries of exhilaration work their wicked magic in his ears.

She can’t read his thoughts, but she can decipher the clues he leaves behind on the planes of his chiseled face; his jaw is clenched, his brow glistening with the efforts of his exertion, his eyes moving rapidly beneath his closed eyelids. And she can feel his warmth spreading inside of her just below her abdomen with each final drive of his hips, until the twitching in his muscles eventually subsides altogether and his he leans to rest his cheek upon her breasts. She holds his head in her arms and gazes down at his peaceful form; even in his state of utter exhaustion, she notices him shift his weight to his forearms so as not to crush her under the mass of his own body.

Silence falls over the apartment once more; a moment passes before he pushes himself upright from the table and offers her a hand. She sits up slowly and waits for the dizziness in her head to pass, then slides off the table and into the nearest chair before her knees have the chance to give out from under her.

She doesn’t even have to look up at him to know he has reverted back to his usual, aloof self; she simply takes the blouse he is holding out to her, reaches for her pants that have long since been discarded on the floor, and dresses herself quietly. This is how it always is; brief instances of passion smothered between long bouts of cordial formality. His remoteness could be downright suffocating at times, but it’s the bargain she’s made with him, the price she must pay for a small sliver of happiness.

The strategist retrieves his Crown City Chronicle from the table and resumes his seat across from her, Ebony in hand. She half-expects to glance over and see him already dressed—perhaps the ability the Lucian prince has bestowed upon him to summon weapons out of thin air extends to his wardrobe—but with the exception of his glasses that have once again taken up occupancy on his face, he is, notably, still sans clothing.

“What ever did happen to your clothes?” she asks, frowning as she buttons her tunic.

He crosses one knee over the other and sips nonchalantly at his Ebony, as if reading the morning paper and drinking coffee in the nude is as unremarkable as breathing. “I told you, it’s a mystery. Even to me.”

She can’t resist indulging in a smile; parting ways with him is always bittersweet, but she welcomes his effort at making light of things. “Well, you better find them before your trip. I’m sure Gladio won’t appreciate your naked physique quite the same way I do.”

“Indeed,” he says, his attention buried in his newspaper.

As she pulls on her trousers, she pauses. “Ignis?”

“Yes?”

“I know we have an agreement in place, but…”

“Go on. Spit it out.”

“I think I might miss you, is all.”

He raises an eyebrow behind his spectacles and holds her gaze for a long moment; then he shrugs and lifts his newspaper again to his nose. “Never fear, Darling. I’m sure everything will go quite smoothly in Altissia. I’ll be back in Insomnia before you know it.”