#smth about torn fabric. that's all i have

[nullapophenia]

hello

[birgittesilverbae]

hey em what happened to princess after mary was also gone and does the answer involve lilith

how did I know it was gonna be you who landed on this (probably mainly bc I've already yelled at casper abt it). it'll be touched on briefly in the epilogue, but yes, you're v right, it's always been about Lilith (smth smth Lilith being mentioned in concert with Princess in every appearance 😌)

//

In the wake of the Vatican, in the wake of Beatrice and Ava leaving, Lilith teleports. It's uncontrolled, haphazard, some force drawing her, hooking into the meat of her and pulling her through fire and brimstone to emerge, reeling, in Mary's living room.

She collapses on the couch, exhausted, too tall to stretch out on it but unable to bring herself to take the bed. One hand curled beneath her cheek, the other dangling off the edge of the couch cushion.

She's awoken in the middle of the night by a strange sensation, something prickly and rasping across her skin, and her claws unsheathe of their own accord before she fully reaches consciousness. When she's finally blinked the sleep from her eyes, she finds herself face to face with Princess, who's sprung back away from her, fur puffed up, back arched, tail on high alert.

Lilith stares at her for a long long moment, at this mirror of her hurt and anger and fear, and tries to get her racing heart to settle. Finally she exhales all in a huff, retracts her claws, hugs her arms tightly about herself and tries to fall back asleep.

Her eyes snap back open at the sound of movement, though, and the last thing she sees is princess's eyes glittering back at her in the dark from the top of the cat tree in the corner of the room.

At first it's all automatic, the pull in her chest, the hole torn through the fabric of space time, spitting Lilith out in Mary's living room. She dutifully refreshes Princess' automated food and water dispensers, unhappily deals with the litter box, and sits in a silent uneasy truce with Princess, the two who've been left behind.

The first time it's a conscious decision to return to Mary's apartment, to use it as her homebase, Lilith's been badly injured by a wraith-possessed group. Well, it would have been a bad injury, had she not been who she is. Instead, the wounds seal up, scale over. But she's left sitting in her own blood-damp clothes realising that if she had died there'd be no one to look after Princess.

She teleports into the bathroom this time, feels faintly proud of herself for the improvement in precision she's worked so hard to train into herself that lands her directly in the tub. Shucks off her gear, washes the filth off her skin, raids Mary's closet for sweats. A burst of energy has her tackling the fridge, clearing out the moldering remnants of Mary's last meals. Has her cracking open a can of wet food and plating it beside Princess' usual bowl.

It wanes quickly though, the energy sapped from her limbs as she slumps on the couch and realises, distantly, that she may not have gotten the Halo, but she's still assuming some aspects of Shannon's life in her absence.

She pulls the hood of her sweater up over her head and curls up on her side on the couch. A moment later, there's pressure on the cushion beside her, and she opens her eyes to find Princess settling inside the curve of the lonely parenthesis of her body.

[streaminn]

Not Wenclair, but i play dnd and wrote smth of my character and a friend's. Rouge has dragonborn blood and princess is a fire genasi :)

I think they're cute

She comes in, blazing like fire and there he is, absolutely soaked.

It's ironic, truly. Two completely opposing people, standing face to face. Maybe it's the burn in his throat, the stinging of his wounds but how could he stand by and let someone so bright be out of his sight?

He knows how greedy he is, so it surprises nobody when he comes in with the confidence of a man with nothing to lose. 

Her fingers brush against his lips when he takes it for a greeting. It singes his lips, all too bright that it couldn't stand his corrupted skin. He watches as she takes it back almost immediately, her face contorting into a conflicted emotion. It makes him smile, to be able to get such a reaction from such a pretty face.

“What’s a pretty lass like you doing out here?” he’d wonder, tugging off his cloak when the sky seemed to darken. With the clouds rolling in, he wonders if it's about to rain.

“What is a man like you doing jumping out the window during a bar fight?” she answered just as the first drops came in.

He raises a brow at that as he casually tosses the fabric over her. “Staring at me, aren’t we?” He fiddles with the clasp, making sure to keep it secure. She doesn’t do anything, simply staring. “See something you like, Princess?” 

Princess’s cheeks just flush as she crosses her arms. “You’re dreaming, Rogue.”  

Rogue’s chime of “Only of you!” has him shoved soon after.

He doesn’t stop smiling, even when she turns away, huffing in all her royalness. The spot where she last touched him is warm and if his heart is too, that's only for him to know. A clap of thunder snaps him from his thoughts and he rolls his shoulder before making his way elsewhere.

To think the rogue would have his heart stolen instead of the other way around.

It's a sunny day when they meet once more and It makes what he sees all the more stomach churning. 

Princess is called Princess for a reason. All silky hair, smooth skin and bejewelled clothing pointed at this. 

The woman Rogue sees is anything but that. Torn fabric, ruffled hair and marks could be seen on her skin. It makes him seethe as he throws open his door and brings her into his arms. His hands tucks under her legs and despite her hushed protests, carries her inside. 

He does not ask how she found his house, nor why she is like this. She doesn't say anything in turn, her eyes shifting away every time he tries to see. It stings of rejection, but she came to him and that says something. 

So he watches, he cleans and he tends to his Princess instead. 

Rogue is no barbarian, he needs to think this through if he truly wants something done. So when the day finally turns dark and she has long since fallen asleep, he exits his house. 

The streets are bustling and it itches his skin all the more. Did they see Princess stumbling towards his home? Did they watch as she bleeds on the ground? How dare they, how dare they walk like they are innocent. 

The tavern door slams open when he arrives. The conversations that happens immediately die down and in here, he is no Rouge. 

Maybe in another life, he could be the knight his Princess deserves. Maybe in another, he is of royal descent, someone so effortless fitting to her. Would he be a good man? Where his skin could touch her, no worry of the sins that hide deep within his soul? 

Sadly, he is none of those and a part of him is too tired to think of anything else. 

Princess always had this affect in him. It's intoxicating, to be still, to think of her. If only the reason for why she is on his mind was better. She deserves so much better. 

The bartender places his drink down, one eye unblinkingly looking onward and the other a shaky brown. 

"Dragon," is his short greeting. "What woke you up?" 

Rouge- no, Dragon simply tugs something out of his pockets and drops a heavy pouch on the counter. It clinks of gold and they both know that it's stained with something too. 

The bartender takes it, nodding his head as he slips it away from curious eyes. 

"did something happen recently?" Dragon asks, pushing himself into a chair. It skids on the floor, heavy and loud.

It catches the people's attention. 

His hands fiddle with the cup given to him, swirling the drink with a twist of his wrist. A smile comes onto his face when he sees that familiar dent on the bottom corner, oh to see an old friend.  But he isn't here to reminisce, he's here for something else entirely. 

"Got any news on our good nobles? " he continues, voice oddly neutral for someone who slammed the door open. "did they suddenly forget about a precious artefact?" he wondered. "or do they need a pair of functioning eyes for once?"

It makes a few of the attendants chuckle but it scratched at their throat, awkward and cautious. The jab was not unnocited and even the Bartender seemed like he didn't want to be here when the silence lingered for a moment too long. 

Dragon rakes his eyes over his shoulder, staring into the faces of people too cowardly to look him in the eye. 

"no one knows here?" he ponders and the sneer he shows at the lack of a reaction is toxic. "Very well."

Just like that, Dragon pushes himself off the seat and goes to take his leave. The stares of morsel stabs into his skin but it does not stop his stride in the slightest. 

But, it's this nagging in his gut that does and so he slows until he reaches the door. He thinks for a moment and he wonders before he turns his head to look into the glazed eye of the bartender.

The smile Dragon gives is not warm. It is not reminiscent of the lopsided ones he shows to Princess, all round and soft around the edges. This smile, is a warning and the teeth he bares has him hoping that the bartender remembers

"I hope I don't need to take your other eye."

The tavern is silent when the door finally clicks shut with the exit of the Dragon. Chatter slowly picks up and the Bartender is left standing there, still as a statue. His hands are tight around a pouch. 

This one might be stained by himself soon and he doesn't need to think why. The left side of his face aches at the reminder. 

It is morning when Rogue comes back home. 

The smell he opens the door too is mouth watering and the smile he gives is true as he kicks his shoes off. It doesn't stop his worry however and he zooms into the kitchen. 

Princess is standing and he slides up behind her, watching as she cooks a rather smashing omelette. 

"you're doing wonderful," he murmurs and he sputters when the hand holding the pan suddenly jerks. 

"Rogue!" Princess shouts, immediately turning the fire down and turning to him. His heart is warm when she sees that she's easily back to her normal self. So willing to stare into his eyes. This is his strong woman, never backing down even from something like that. "where have you been?" her tone is stern but he knows what she's asking for. 

So cute, she's worried. 

Rogue shrugs it off, scraping the omelette in a plate. 

"had to deal with some pests!" he truthfully answers as he nudges her towards the table. "nothing will bother you again, I promise."

Rogue knows that she won't take it seriously. He knows how he must look to her. All slouched shoulders and smaller frames for his Princess, all soft and willing to do what she wants. 

It makes him smile as he watches her brow furrow. The clacking of her nails against the table is loud as she seemed almost deep in thought. 

It reminds him of the red staining under his. 

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

HEY HI HELLO ANOTHER REQOESY IM SORRY

okay so um how bout the reader and a few others (or maybe not a few others whatever you think is best) decide to be idiots and go to this abandoned mansion or smth and foul legacy’s the ghost/demon???

and then instead of him tracking u down and taking ur life it appears that he’s friendly?????

random anon

me: this is so cute!!! i love it :D my brain: mhm, now what you're gonna do is add angst me: why- my brain: do it, buddy. me: *sigh* ok,,,

aha. i'm sorry not sorry >:)c also??? i really didn't know what to title this i'm sorry </3

~ * ~ Haunted Mansion HCs

Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, little bit of Angst at the end

Warnings for rainstorms, thunder, lightning, fear, mold, decay

~ * ~

-Just your luck -The one day you have business outside of the Harbor, and it starts raining -It’s just dumping buckets on you and unfortunately you’re also in the middle of NOWHERE -Well no, you’re in Liyue, but nowhere near anywhere decent enough to stay -You wander around for a while, quietly dreading the approaching darkness of night, before you spot something in the distance -It’s a house, you see as you approach, tucked away between the trees and mountains -Perhaps once it would’ve been grand, but its large size was offset by the fact that the foundation of it was all but rotting away, the wooden beams soft and crumbling and the tiles on the roof chipped and washed out in color -Unfortunately, it’s the only option you have, and you reluctantly make your way to the door and pull it open, the wood crackling and crunching under your insistent tugs -It smells like mold and wet dust when you finally wrench the door open (the handle yanking off in your hand) and you grimace with disgust -But it’s relatively dry, or at least dryer than outside, and you venture deeper inside to investigate -Every room has the same dilapidated interior as the main hall, framed with tattered cloth and smelling strongly of mothballs -You gently push a door open, giving way to a once-luxurious bed and dresser, now damp and rotting. A bedroom -The mattress on the bed frame is worn but serviceable, and you sit down with a small poof, clouds of dust flurrying about -Lightning flashes outside and you jump with fright, wondering if the Archon of Inazuma had temporarily invaded Liyue just to scare you out of your wits -Rubbing your arms, you raise from the bed and pace around the room to take your mind off the storm outside, eyes falling on the old set of drawers in the room -Usually you’d feel bad for snooping… Actually, that’s a lie. You like snooping, especially when there aren’t any consequences, and you open the mysterious drawers with delight -It’s full of old clothes- what you expected. But atop the threadbare piles of fabric lays a softly gleaming object, all purple and silver, humming with an odd, out-of-place energy -You reach out to touch it and it shines with a flash, sending sparks of painful electricity across your skin as you yelp and yank your hand away, still staring at the object in wonder -Your raptured attention is quickly shattered when a loud creaking noise outside of the room makes itself apparent and you snap your head around, goosebumps dancing on your arms -A low, rumbling growl filters through the thinning walls and wood, a story Zhongli told you coming to mind, about “The House of Eleventh Hour”- a cursed domain inhabited by a “Star-Torn Beast” that had gone mad with loneliness -Heavy footsteps plod down the hallway towards your room, a room with one window a story into the air and solid stone underneath, which would surely kill you if you jumped and landed in a heap, bones snapped into pieces -You press yourself against the wall, hugging your legs in an attempt to seem smaller and disappear into the peeling paint behind you -A light beams into the room, the footsteps drawing nearer and nearer as you squeeze your eyes shut until they stop right in front of you -There’s a clunking sound, almost like armor shifting, then silence -And a rumble. A light, gentle rumble, almost sounding concerned as a claw slowly traces over your cheekbone. The clawed hand reaches under your chin, tilting it carefully upwards, and you crack open your eyes, blinking -A creature looms over you, its singular luminescent eye glowing in the darkness, illuminating the horns that frame its face and head. It’s kneeling on the ground, yet still towers over you as it lightly squishes your cheek -You’re shaking, both from fear and the cold, and the beast whines quietly, moving you take you in its arms and only hesitating when you lean away, petrified -It trills worriedly, looking around the room before pulling something from the drawer- a picture, a photograph of a young man with ginger hair and deep blue eyes -You take it

from the creature’s claws, and it gestures to the photo before tapping itself in the chest with a hum -Me. -Tracing the man’s faded features lightly, you look back up at the beast, eyes wide, and it- he- nods -There’s a moment of stillness as you lose yourself in thought, then he reaches out again, slowly, and gathers you in his arms -He rests his chin on top of your head, letting out a lazy rumble of approval when you tentatively hover your hands over the considerable amount of soft fluff around his neck -You sink your fingers into the fluff, combing the soft fur and snuggling your face into it. The creature hums and drapes himself over you -A light buzz runs through his body- he’s purring!! You can feel the sensation in your bones, gentle and comforting, pulling you away from the storm and blanketing you in soft sound -The rain taps on the window, but it’s the only remnant of the world outside, the remaining space filled by your new friend’s purrs and coos as he nestles closer to you -He’s lulling you to sleep, perhaps unintentionally, kneading at your sore shoulders and back and bumping his forehead to yours. Who knew the so-called “Star-Torn Beast” could be so sweet and affectionate? -As you doze off, the last thing you feel is a clawed hand cradling your cheek like a glass sculpture -But it’s the cold grass that wakes you, dew clinging to your eyelashes and hair as you shiver with chill -You sit up, rubbing your eyes. The mansion is gone, leaving you surrounded by rain and stone, no giant purring moth-creature in sight -Getting to your feet you still shake from the sudden cold, legs prickling from being asleep for so long, and you clap your hands together to warm them -Your brows furrow in confusion, involuntary tears pricking at your eyes (to your disdain) -Was it all imaginary? -You shake your head quickly to clear it- the storm should be easing up soon, and you can’t afford to waste anymore time -To further ward off the biting cold, you shove your hands in your pockets, only to feel and hear something crinkle in one of them -You grasp the oddly flat object by a corner and tug it out- a small slip of paper that you unfold twice and thrice until it lays in your palm -A faded photograph. A young man with ginger hair and deep blue eyes

[mxvladdy]

heyy i just read your fic Case of the Munchies on ao3 and im Loving it!!!! its amazing!! i was wonder if youre accepting requests and if you haven’t done it could you write the same for the rest: mammon, levi, satan, belphi, dia, barbatos and smth for simeon and luke (ofc platonic) like how angles have a true form and that means they can never relax around mc and how solomon has so much power at his fingertips he can just snap and end them or smth like that? pretty please and thank you!!!!

A/N: Of Course! Of Course! I already did Mammon and Levi HERE so I’ll do the other four in this request! You sent me a lot of good ideas and I’ll sprinkle them out into other requests soon!

Hope you like it!!

Case of the Munchies prt 3!

Word Count: 4.2k

Characters: Satan, Belphie, Diavolo, Barbatos

TW: Mentions of eating and cook humans, very mild gore

Satan

As the only full-blooded demon of the seven, he has thought about it...just hypothetically of course. When you were new to the Devildom he did find your scent more appetizing than the others. It’s a good thing he has the most restraint and control of all his kin, especially when it comes to his more base urges.

He doesn’t hide this knowledge from you. It’s readily available in the library and his own room in the history books. He just won’t bring it up. So if you don’t say anything, he won’t either. What would he say anyway? “Yes, I’ve thought about it, up until it was outlawed it was a staple of our diet after all…” Ye, probably not the best thing to say.

When you finally brought it up he was exasperated. Did you have to bring it up during the few hours he had alone with himself? He wasn’t going to lie but the thought of hurting your feelings would just about do him in.

He will alleviate your worries if you have any. If Satan was anything, he was genuine.

Mini Fic

His wine curdles in his stomach, turning sour along with the take-out he had nabbed for the two of you to enjoy tonight. Drinks and dinner were becoming a staple in your T.V. night tradition. If one of you had had a rough day you would drop by your favorite shop of the hour and pick up a meal to share while you vent.

Today in particular had been a shit day for him. Failed experiment after failed experiment, and one bottle that didn’t explode on impact with the potion he dropped. Sigh. At least your comforting words soothed his wounded pride a little. You chuckle at his escapades glad to see he is not hurt at least. It was nice to have someone to see the humor in something that normally would have dampened his mood.

“You’re a pest.” He laughs at you while snapping his takeout chopsticks in half to use. “I need sympathy-hours of work wasted.” You snort into your own bowl of udon.

“You need words of praise like Beel needs another stomach.” Satan gasps in mock insult pointing a sauce stained chopstick at you.

“How dare you insult your host! After I toiled over this meal of-” What did he get exactly? Honestly, when he placed the order he was near boiling with rage at his careless fumble. It was to be a surprise for you, something to give you a bit of magic while supervised by himself. He knew how frustrated you were with your lack of magical ability in class so he wanted to gift you something grand. Now he has to wait months to try again.

Ah, well...nothing ventured nothing gained as they say.

You watch him sulk over his soup dumplings, his mile away from the comfort of your company and his room. “Come on blondie.” You poke him with your foot before burying them under his pajama-clad thighs on the couch. “Eat your ‘hard earned’ meal before I do.” You snatch up his D.D.D forgetting your own food for a moment to set up your favorite streaming service to cast to his small T.V. “Want to watch a bunch of humans fail miserably at baking?”

"I thought you would never ask."

Satan feels you stiffen in his arms two hours into your bake-off marathon. Your takeout boxes are cold and forgotten on his coffee table, a bottle of wine gone between the two of you. He glances down at you curious.

You were transfixed on the screen. The novice baker on screen was struggling to keep his monstrosity of a cake upright. It was the annual Halloween episode and this fool went for a Silence of the Lambs inspired cake. A good concept really, but very poorly executed. The fake body parts and sugar blood weighted the pastry down dangerously. If he were, to be frank, the cake was also tacky as hell. Heh, he'd have to try to make this for Lucifer.

"Does his abuse of the piping gun offend you that much?" He jokes wrapping an arm around you.

Your laugh is breathy and lacks its usual warmth. "It is excessive isn't it?" You look up at him. "Hey, Satan-have you ever eaten people before?"

"Uhh…" Great, how eloquent. This came out of nowhere, did Lucifer set you up to this? No-no you wouldn’t. Would you hate him if you knew? “I have.” He admits through clenched teeth waiting for your reaction.

“Didn’t Diavolo ban it?” He can tell you are doing the mental math in your head.

He chuckles dryly. “Well, you never asked if I did it legally.” You move away from his touch and pause the show. “I mean...I did it legally! ” His mouth runs freely, his brain screaming at him to shut up.

“Satan.” You cross your arms unimpressed.

“It was a new law and I never meant to eat it for the most part. It was at a time where I was still struggling to control myself.” Young and stupid as Lucifer had said defending him every step of the way when he would slip up. Was it sold on the black market now? Yes. Did he know how to get it? Sure, but he would never nor would he tell you about it either.

You nod thinking about his words. “I can empathize.” Oh, thank the Devil. “Have you thought of eating me?”Ahhh. “Oh my God, you have.” You chuck a pillow at him with a laugh.

He catches the pillow and clutches it to his fiery hot face. “Everyone did at first!” If he was going down then he was going to take every one of his brothers down with him. “I wasn’t going to act on it! It was a spur of the moment-why are you laughing!”

“Sorry, sorry.” You wipe at the tears in your eyes wishing you had your phone to take a picture of his blushing face. “I kind of figured you did.”

Satan looks at you incredulously. “Shouldn’t you be a bit more torn up over this?”

You shrug. “After everything we’ve been through? I admit it was a shock to think at first but I mean, you would have done it by now right?”

“Well, thank you?” He flops back on the couch, still clutching the pillow to act as a barrier between you two. He’ll take it as a compliment.

You scoot close, nudging his knee with yours. “You ok?” He nods. “Can I touch you?” He nods again eagerly. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and squeeze. “Sorry, I made you uncomfortable.”

Satan chuckled, dropping the pillow to hug you back. “It’s ok.” He peaks your forehead. “Now, with that out of the way. Shall we finish this?” He swipes up his phone to hit play. You nod, flinging your legs over him to snuggle closer. “Good, I’m dying to know how he tries to save that thing. I’m putting money on icing.”

“You know.” You break the silence once more, unable to stop yourself. “I wouldn’t be opposed to being eaten...in some ways.”

Belphegor

After your first *ahem* encounter, he doesn’t bring up the whole food thing. He is afraid that if you learned about it, it would be the last strike for you and his relationship. Perhaps it’s paranoia on his part but better safe than sorry.

In all honesty, he didn’t eat it that much anyway. Killing humans was something he did often in his youth as a demon. A stupid attempt at revenge on his part. It filled the holes in his hearts to hurt those he believed killed his sister.

But to eat their flesh? Disgusting. He tried it a few times and it turned his stomach with every mouthful. He just hated them too much to even stomach them. He’s mellowed out with time but still never got a taste for it.

When you asked it was a shock but welcomed in a way. Like he could finally get this weight off his shoulders every time he looked at you.

Mini Fic

“It’s gross.” Belphie yawns, jumping up to sit on the high garden wall. He bends down to help you up placing you gently next to himself. The wind catches you by surprise threatening to topple you back from the wall before he rights you. He tosses his sweater over you with a nod of satisfaction.

You snuggle into the fleece lining burying your nose into the fabric. It smelled of elderberries and honeysuckles. Belphie watches you curl up into his side with a fond smile. “Seriously, you all are nasty.”

“Ouch!” You push his shoulder with a grin. “I feel like I should be offended on behalf of all humans.”

Belphie snorts, looking up into the bright colors of the night sky. “Good. Be offended. You, humans, are slimy.” You squawk indignantly. “It’s true, never in all my years would I willingly ingest it.” He shudders theatrically.

“Rude.”

“Shouldn’t you be happy? Lest I eat you?” He growls playfully, taking a swipe at you. He pulls you close to kiss the pout off your face. He stops only when your face is hot and your smile threatens to pull a muscle. “I’ll keep you safe, always.” He vows resting his chin on your head.

“Do you think other demons would try to eat me?”

“Have you met my twin?” He teases. He takes your jab to his ribs with a smile. “But if one of those lesser demons even tries to breathe in your direction I’ll kill them.”

“Ok, Mister sleeps till dinner.” You joke. His vow warms your heart a little, chasing away the small bit of fear that had rested itself in your chest. You saw how some demons looked at you at R.A.D, the longing and hungry looks got to be a bit much sometimes. A few older demons would discuss it loudly when they knew you were close by. Apparently, it was a long standing tradition of demons eating humans both body and soul when a pact was concluded.

Imagine what those brothers would do to them…

You shake your head hugging Belphie closer. You had nothing but his word that he would keep you safe, yet that was enough for you. Besides, he wasn’t one to follow the rules even at the best of times.

“I’m serious. You're off limits for everyone.”

You nod into his shirt, closing your eyes to enjoy the peace of the moment. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Diavolo

It is so far from his mind that when you say something it is like a rug was taken out from under him. He could be diplomatic about it, but you deserve better than a half-truth.

He was a wild child in his youth. Sometimes he would overindulge in his father’s heritage and gorge himself on his newfound powers and privilege. He would dine with the elders and eat with abandon under their proud eyes.

He regrets it now, in your company it brings up a slurry of emotions. Sometimes when he looks at you he sees flashes of his past behavior.

The urge is stronger in him than the brothers, a constant nagging tug in his guts, but he is strong. Stronger both in willpower and sheer physical prowess than them so the pull is more of an annoyance than a burning need. He can temper the hunger in other ways if need be *wink*

He fears what you might think of him if you ever found out the truth, but however you take it he will handle it in stride. He loves you too much not to.

Mini Fic

Dinners, when Diavolo could eat alone, were a rare and special treat. The solace of just being allowed to exist without constantly checking his posture or presentation was a blessing, just him, his thoughts, and a good meal. It was nice to have no paperwork to worry about staining this time or a tedious meeting where he couldn’t savor his meal. No, no this was good. He looks down at his heavily laden plate and smiles. Well, almost… Pulling out his phone he snaps a quick picture and sends it to you with a simple question. Join me?

Private meals were wonderful, but with you, they were perfect.

You arrive faster than he expected, flushed face and clutching a stitch in your side from rushing over. He almost felt bad before he saw the eager look in your eyes. Barbatos helps you with your school bags and coat before placing another plate of food across from the young lord. He winks at the prince before disappearing back through the door.

“Thank you for the invite!” You beam taking your seat across from him. “I hope you don’t mind that I'm not dressed for the occasion. I was just wrapping up a study session with the boys.” You look down at your rumpled lounge clothes.

Diavolo waved his hand disregarding your concerns. “I would emulate you if I had the time.” He looks at his own pressed school uniform. He had another meeting this evening, much to his distaste. “You look rather comfortable.” You smile in delight before tucking into your own plate.

You eat in a comfortable silence reading the room well enough to tell that he wished for some company but not needless chitter-chatter. Barbatos arrived moments after you put your fork down and left with the plate leaving behind a delicious smelling hot drink. You couldn’t put your finger on the flavor but it tastes spicy like cinnamon and coats your throat like warm honey.

Whatever was in the drink seemed to work some magic on the prince. His shoulder droop, his back sinking into the chair as his legs stretch out till they are close to brushing against yours. He starts talking over the drink, eyes slowly lighting up with delight. You drink, nodding along with him as he builds up steam. It was nice to see him so unguarded and light. You listen to him talk about simple innocent topics. You knew how he tried to have these conversations with the others to no avail. The brother’s always tried to stay clear of him, and Lucifer simply dismissed these things most days. Barbatos and the angels were a bit better but still listened mostly to placate him.

“Ah!” Diavolo stops mid-sentence as his door opens once more Barbatos holding a small platter in his gloved hand. Dia claps his hands in delight. “I’ve been wanting to have you try this with me for forever. The human palate is so different, but I hope this is tasty.”

“What is it?” You eye the covered plate curiously.

Dia says a word in infernal. It is harsh and guttural in his throat but his delight was evident in his tone. “It is like...a roasted nut? Sorry, it is difficult to explain but it has been a favorite treat of mine since I was a boy. I hope you like it too.” He opens the lid with little ceremony and tilts the bowl to you. Inside were several golfball sized pods piled on top of each other. Even from across the table you could feel the molten heat radiating from the porous black shell. It looked...ugly. Like a hunk of dried lava. You eye it suspiciously as Diavolo picks one up with his bare hands and bits it. The shell cracks under his sharp teeth, a fang catching in a weak spot with a noise that makes you shiver. Underneath the thick casing, you could see a dark red and fleshy core. He hums in delight pulling put the meat of the seed and discard the shell pieces onto an empty plate. He makes quick work of the innards already reaching for another by the time you casually pick up a seed.

The seed itself was dense and warm to the touch. You squeeze it, noting that the porous coating felt like a mass of steel in your hand. “Dia-how do I open it?” No way you could bite it, not without breaking your jaw in the process.

“Allow me.” He takes it from you and effortlessly cracks it. “It is a tradition to break them with teeth, instead of hands or utensils. Something about a show of strength. I just find it fun.” He shrugs, handing you the broken seed.

“Fun!” You marvel at his pearly fangs. “Those are some big chompers.”

“All the better to eat you with my dear.” He chuckles.

You blink in shock, eyes widening. “Would you? Eat me?”

Diavolo’s smile drops. “No.” He lies on reflex, his political nature kicking in. “No-no wait.” He shakes his head. “I...at a time would have without hesitation.” He feels you recoil. “It was common practice back in the day. To the common demon it was a great meal and for the ruling class a show. He looks down at the broken fragments of shell on his plate. Breaking the shell was far too reminiscent of other things. He squashes the unwanted wave of memories coming up. Instead, he looks up at you.

You sit quietly mulling over his words. You haven’t run yet. “Why did you stop?”

He leans back with a loud exhale. Why did he stop? There were many reasons, none he wished to divulge into at the moment, but he had to say something. “I grew up, and began to resent and regret it.” He used to read human stories of demons and his kind. They hurt their characterizations of him and his people. Yet, they had all been scarily accurate. He wanted to prove that they weren’t stagnating beasts, slaves to their desires. Even if it wasn't a popular opinion.

“I see.” You pick up the seed again. “Thank you for telling me. You didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to, and to apologize… such admissions must have ruined your appetite. If you wish to retire-”

“Is it weird if it didn’t?” You cut him off. You felt-not apathetic to the knowledge but close to it. It confirmed a lot of things for you and put certain things in perspective. You still felt safe with him even with this new bit of knowledge. Without a second thought, you pop the treat into your mouth. You gasp in delight. The flavor and texture were not what you were expecting, but was delicious all the same. “Can you open another for me?” You push your plate over to him.

“Of course!”

The food was as wonderful as his company.

Barbatos

You knew he cooked it. He probably knows a million different ways to prepare a human. He is also very blunt about his dabblings in the market.

He doesn’t eat it, hasn’t ever. He sees no reason to, especially since he doesn’t need to eat anyway there is no temptation. He did find the meals he created beautiful though.

Once he lived for the praises of the courts and his young lord. He was a master at all mediums he cared to work with. Time, decorum, or of the flesh.

He is 100% unashamed of his past with the dark side of the Devildom’s history. In fact, he is damn near proud of it. He is a demon and it was a part of his life, if that frightens you, well there is nothing he can do about it.

He’ll entertain your questions and will try to put any lingering worries at ease. Just don’t expect to be coddled when he does.

Mini Fic

Barbatos had very few personal pleasures in his life. His schedule simply didn’t have the space for such things. So why even bother looking for a pastime. It wasn’t until Diavolo gifted him with an old worn cookbook did he find it.

Cooking was a necessity for his prince, but with that little book, it became something he looked forward to doing. Slowly, he began to seek them out, filling his growing quarters with cookbooks and loose-leaf slips of paper. He enjoys reading them. Each book was a little time capsule into the cook's life and memories. Could a mix of spices really remind someone of the arid heat of their motherland? Or does following a certain way of aging meat really honor the writer's late grandfather’s memory? He tries them all, each recipe a little invasion to a happier time.

He wrote his fair share of cookbooks too in his day. Simple modifications to things the young lord liked to the odd machinations of his own imagination. He got good at experimenting with flavors and textures over the years, mastering certain cooking techniques and flavors just for fun. He didn’t share many of them, a lot of his recipes were just too complicated for most. Luke was allowed to look at his pastry books only. The little cherub was enamored with his techniques and wanted to learn as much as he could in the short amount of time he was in the Devildom. Admirable, but he made sure to keep some of his...less savory books away from the boy. He shudders to think what Simeon would do if he scarred the young angel.

You are the only one who has full access to his collections. Whether you liked to cook was inconsequential to him. He simply enjoyed sharing this interest with you. Some nights you would take it upon yourself to be his “sous-chef”. Which meant you sat in the corner of the kitchen and read out the ingredients and steps for a recipe he knew by heart. Sometimes you would add in extra steps in an attempt to stump it. Cute...but ultimately failed each time. So, most nights when you tagged along to the kitchens you just flip through his collection, reading his immaculate scribblings crammed into the corners of the pages or where he scratched out certain ingredients for more demon-appropriate foods and more sustainable options.

You had gone through many beautiful books before you found it. The cookbook was small and inconspicuous compared to most. Just a simple black cover with a well-worn spine. What made you take notice of it was just how dusty it was. That wasn’t like him to do. Barbatos would never let something get so dirty. You wished you never had opened it. You weren’t stupid by any means, but after reading a few pretty graphic recipes it had unsettled you. So you withdrew from Barbatos trying to forget about the book tucked away deep in the bowels of your school bag.

“You’ve been distant.” You choke, hand flying up to your chest as you swear your heart skipped a beat. Damn demon. Should put a bell on him. “What’s wrong?” His eyes are piercing, cutting away at your feeble defenses.

“Nothing…” You fiddle with your bag’s strap. Your eyes drop to the floor taking in the differences between his polished shoes and your scuffed boots.

“Of course not…” You could hear the skepticism in his voice. “I trust that if there was something wrong you would feel safe enough to confide in me.” His words hit like a ton of bricks on your shoulders. He sighs seeing that his words got no reaction. “Please?”

Wordlessly you rummage in your bag and thrust the book into his chest. “Sorry. It shook me up more than I thought it would.”

Ah. He knew this book all too well. For a time it had been his favorite, one to pull out with Diavolo had guests or a deal that needed to be sealed. He accepts the book, noting how much your hands shook. “I understand.” He slips the book into his breast pocket making a mental note to hide it in one of his lesser used rooms. “Would you like to discuss this? In my room perhaps?” You follow with a timid nod.

“Where shall we begin?” Barbatos asks the moment he closes the door to his room.

“You don’t seem perturbed.” You frown. Barbatos shrugs, pulling the book out and opening it. He had a lot of good memories stored here. Some of these were still considered signature dishes, oftentimes a visiting dignitary would lament to him about the good old days when he could show off his craft when flesh was plentiful. He takes pride in that still to this day even. For as much as he loved you, he would not be ashamed of this.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” You shake your head when he says as much. “It just confused me. Do-do you see me as food?”

“I never saw humans as food, no more than I see demons or angels as it.” He picks at an imaginary bit of lent from his pant leg. “As for seeing you as food no. No matter how sweet your lips are, or how honeyed your words can be.” He smiles, taking impish delight in your squirming. “I merely did my job as a butler for my lord.”

“Oh- sorry for not coming to you sooner.” You felt foolish now. Barbatos waves it off, pleased to have this issue put aside so quickly and cleanly. “Wait-" You gasp as his words finally sink in. “Have you prepared angels before?”

He flashes you a mischievous smile putting a single finger up to his lips. “Perhaps~ do you wish to read that too?”

[thou-can-say-azrail]

So imagine, the fact that Sasori walks up to Kakuzu and asks for AN EXTRA CLOAK for Hiruko is downright outrageous for Kakuzu to handle “...like can u just wear it for Hiruko and sitting naked inside??? Those cloaks are expensive as fudge”. But then... Pain shows up and asks for FIVE MORE for his bodies... Kakuzu is hopeless lol

i think about the number of cloaks kakuzu has to buy extra all the time tbh not only because 2 of them need multiple but like

theyre shinobis, they get stabbed and blown up and whatnot and every single time they have to get a new cloak cause they cant have that shit ruin their aesthetic of the invincible bad guy boyband

my theory is just that they took the cheapest fabric they could possibly find and it coincidentally had clouds and was black and red and kinda fit their planned image and now they just vibe with it

kakuzu: we r taking this

pein/konan: but its ugly

kakuzu: bitch its 2 dollar just take 60 i have coupons

and somewhere in ame is just a huge pile of discarded cloaks laying around

alternatively, people in ame just randomly find torn cloaks laying around and chose to keep them or repair them or smth and now there are people walking around in akatsuki colored stuff and frequently give shinobis of other villages heart attacks

[nafeary]

“Family Day”

⚬ Pairing/s: Theo/Reader, Vinart undertones

⚬ Characters: The. Entire. Cast

⚬ Word Count: 5,6k

⚬ Warnings: None!

⚬ Event: Theo Route Countdown Party [D-5: Prompt - Theo and Residents] hosted by the one and only @delicateikemenmemes

✧✎ Synopsis: Free days are supposed to be spent in the company of your loved ones, yet they are all busy running around somewhere. On top of that, it had been a busy week, tiring the art dealer considerably. But never fear! His surrogate family is prepared to use every measure to cheer him up... they tried to, at least.

✧✎ A/N: ughhh finally I managed to publish smth once again! School and moving has been very hectic, but I still managed to piece this together in celebration of Theo Week hosted by the most amazing, brilliant, beautiful, stunning, and thirsty hoe @delicateikemenmemes. This is such a self-indulgent piece (I love platonic relationships almost as much as romantic ones) so I hope everyone enjoys this as much as I did~ make sure to drink water y’all!

Gadver...

He had thought nothing of it when King had demanded a walk at stupid’s hour. He had thought nothing of it when that golden retriever had suddenly run off. He had thought nothing of it when he had returned, accompanied by a little, and dare he even say cute, rabbit sitting atop his head.

But as soon as that thing had opened its eyes, one gleaming like gold and the other bathed in blood, Theodorus Van Gogh had wanted nothing but to scream.

The ball of hazel fluff gazed up at him, blinking it’s fatigue away (which was definitely not cute), apparent that it had been sleeping just before his dog had discovered it. Considering that the sun had barely peeked past the horizon, it was way too early for that two-faced klootzak to have visited the mansion... so why the actual fuck was his pet in their garden?

He had already made up his mind to just leave that thing there and to mind his own business, but King’s jovial shuffling and the rabbit’s unabashed manipulation—aka its not cute button eyes shining with mirth—were threatening to melt his iron resolve. Nonetheless, his folded arms remained powerful as he looked down at the two animals, his height only adding to his dominance.

“No, absolutely not. It’s my free day and I won’t entertain your incessant yapping.“ Not even his dog’s judgmental expression could waver his conviction; he took pride in his mental strength and stubbornness, after all.

“No, King.” He once heard a saying that pets always take after the owner’s personality... perhaps there was some truth to it, now that he witnessed his unwavering gaze.

“...No.” Would those two stop looking at him as if he was akin to a monster?

“Godverdomme! Alright! I’ll bring it back to that bastaard!”

As he beckoned King to follow him, Theo swore that he saw the bunny smirk in undeniable schadenfreude when his pet skipped past him in enthusiastic strides.

Truly, like owner, like pet.

When he returned to the mansion, two hours wasted just to cater to his dog and morals, he saw the resident physicist, shuffling rather awkwardly outside the former emperor’s room, obviously in peril. Before he could slip away to mind his own business, King took it onto himself to greet him.

The jolly skipped in big strides toward the slightly build man, who was already awaiting the impact with a horrified grimace, and he would have torn him down had he not shouted, “Volg Rechts, King!”

When the retriever dutifully returned to his side, unapologetically letting his tail run slaloms, he addressed Isaac, “He’s all bark and no bite, you know?”

“That sounds terribly like yourself.” Now, he might have grown used to Arthur’s British slang and accent, but even if the Lincolnshire voice was more than a little unique, he was still pretty damn sure that he heard that right.

Just as he was about to snap, a tuck on his pants made him turn to his orange furred companion, repeatedly nudging his glistening button nose into Isaac’s direction. It almost appeared as if the door was posing as one grande formula with how much it was being stared at by the scientist.

Sighing in resignation, he glanced at King once again, who sported the same guilt tripping expression he had had before. Of course, it didn’t take an Arthur to figure out what the Brit had been tasked with, but that didn’t compel him to his support. Formula weren’t his area of expertise, after all.

...Although, Theo did technically owe him for the fright his dog had given him.

“Want me to wake him up?”

Visibly startled by his stoic tone, Isaac whirled around. “Ah— Theodorus... you don’t have to. I was just...” he trailed off, tilting his head in a habitually manner as he fumbled with the apple-shaped pin in bouts of disquiet.

Grumbling in irritation, he replied in an effort to appeal to the contrarian, “You’re right, I don’t have to.”

He made sure to turn around completely, taking a few steps to show he took the naysayer seriously. And the Brit’s voice rang out not long after. “Wait!”

Theo regarded him once again, smirking slightly at his successful tactic.

“It’s— we were supposed to visit the children early today...” he said, twisting the tips of his coral hair. “But I am not exactly keen on waking him—for obvious reasons.”

“Move aside.” He clasped the shorter man’s shoulder, who spluttered at the impact of his scabrous tone which was not unlike the strikes of a mighty church bell. Nonetheless, a tiny gratitude found its way past his lips, sounding almost amusingly brittle.

Theo couldn’t help but grumble at his notion. “Don’t thank me, I have business with him, anyway.” This wasn’t a complete lie, as Napoleon had requested a favour from him—which he hadn’t voiced so far, however.

Isaac’s torso sagged in relief, dismissing the breath he’d been holding in, yet he was unable to meet the art dealer’s eyes—aware that this was a chore no one was particular fond of. Theo was about to tell him to halt his incessant twiddling; but yet again, he was probably trying distinguish the awkward fog that clung like cobwebs to the air.

Something about the atmosphere surrounding the physicist made him feel... disgustingly soft.

Perhaps he was a lot like Vincent, albeit rather brash, and he couldn’t shake off the urge to ruffle his hair—so he did just that.

“I’ll make sure to tell him to quit his puppy nap in favour of your appointments,” he told him, not particularly caring how Isaac would respond to his uncharacteristic action of affection.

As the door closed behind the Dutch, Isaac was unsure how to feel about the oddly pleasant gesture, but he supposed that it was a lot nicer than Dazai’s and Arthur’s quips.

“...thank you, I suppose.”

“Oy! Napoleon.”

“Napoleon!”

“Wake up, you—“ He managed to keep the ravaging profanities from leaving the confinements of his mind. A different strategy wouldn’t be unwelcomed... before he really went ahead and insulted the Nightmare of Europe.

Sighing for the umpteenth time that day, Theo ripped the blanket off the sleeping emperor, subsequently wrapping it around the source of assault—his hands and head—hoping it would buy him enough time to recoil.

The restriction didn’t seem to faze his flexible attitude; despite the thick cocoon of fabric hindering his hand’s movement, Napoleon somehow still rose to capture his cheeks, pulling him closer in a forceful grip. The kiss might have been interfered with the layer of blanket in between them, but the art dealer still shrank back, face unable to hide his affronted expression.

Of course, this wasn’t his first time—they all had to share this chore after all—but it was the first since entering a relationship with his... hondje. It certainly wasn’t helping that the French man was as skilled of a kisser as he was wonted to be.

“A blanket? That’s a new one,” the aforementioned French man, fully detangled from the blankets, mused, coming to stand in front of him to tilt his head. He couldn’t help the furious blush from colouring his complexion, and Napoleon’s nonchalance—and bare torso—were not helping the matter.

“You seem flustered? Are you—“ Without much warning, his mouth formed a teasing smirk. “I do hope your amoureuse won’t be too upset when she hears about this.”

“Hou je muil!”

There was no creature on earth that could resist Napoleon Bonaparte’s charms; indeed, even his own dog seemed to prefer the former emperor above his own owner.

“Well, thank you for letting us borrow King.” Napoleon’s typically-French adenoidal words broke through the quiet, crouching down to ruffle the golden fur “I’m sure the kids will love him, isn’t that right, bon chien? Oui, t’es un bon chien—”

Once Napoleon had ceased his agitating flirtings, he has asked him whether he could borrow King for the day. He would have asked Arthur, too, but apparently Sebastian had mentioned that Golden Retriever were especially children friendly.

The retriever barked with enthusiasm urging his tail to wag—did he just purr?

As Theo was contemplating the fall of his dog (who was being belly rubbed by Napoleon), he let his gaze drift toward the physicist sporting a rather odd expression, seemingly trapped between trepidation and uncanny interest.

Mayhaps, the perk portrayal awakened the abberant’s trust, longing to step past his walls of comfort.

“No problem, he does seem to like you a lot.” He crosses his arms, smirking slightly at his following act of shrewd scheming. “However, King’s mood does tend to deteriorate quite quickly”—a half lie—“so don’t feel pressured to take him, Isaac. Napoleon can take him for you, after all.”

Considering the fact the Isaac was probably smarter than most of them combined, he was entirely too ignorant and easy to influence, and, determination having turned the valve of unsettling panic tight, he grabbed the leash from his awaiting hand faster than his blossom orbs could perceive the starting position King went into.

“I never said I wouldn’t try to hold him—“ Before he could finish his sentence, King had already ran off, pulling the quiet physicist along; Napoleon laughed heartily before thanking him one last time and hurrying after his companion.

He was just about to push apart the heavy gates when the former emperor jogged up to him once more, halting his tracks. “Theo! It completely forwent my mind to tell you to go to the kitchens. Sebastian asked for you.”

His eyes stretched into slits. “Did he tell you why?”

But the demi vampire was already on his merry way, only turning back to grace him with one of his overly beguiling smirks.

It smelt delicious. Utterly delicious.

While Theo wasn’t planning on eating anything that morning, Napoleon’s instructions pulled him like a magnetic force towards a familiar, albeit original scent wafting from his destination. He heard the exchange of frantic foreign words, confirming his suspicions to the cause of the heavenly scent.

Announcing his entrance, he was immediately greeted by the two Japanese men—and the kitchen in an utter mess. They both sported aprons; while Sebastian proved himself to be ever the skillful butler, his apron more pristine than ever (suspiciously so), Dazai’s was almost fully dressed in pure batter and oil stains. He appeared not unlike the untidy room, which practically shined with all the fat sticking to everything its path.

As unsurprising as it was (he had long since discovered that there was no such thing as a normal day in the mansion), it still perplexed him when wondering what might have rendered him and their surrounding that sullied. “...Just what are the two of you doing?”

“Well, Sebas-chan mentioned that the modern Japanese have a treat called Fluffy Pancakes, so we’ve been trying to figure out the recipe.”

As alluring as his smile was, it was blatantly conspicuous. Sebastian regarded the author’s shtick with scrutiny, his brow twitching as he perceived the chaos. “Dazai-sensei... from what I can recall, you told me I’m not allowed to help you in any way, or to show you the recipe I’ve already created.”

Well, that explained the rather clean condition of his apron, and that of the other man’s and the kitchen’s. Dazai—who was by far not as talentless as certain residents—was nevertheless a walking disaster. His reputation as the mansion’s most haphazard and arbitrary was hardly at risk (especially as his most recent scheme entailed stuffing the entirety of Isaac’s room to the brim with apples).

Nevertheless, after having acquainted the Japanese man, sharing some common interests, Theo had been able to observe that he wasn’t as disastrous as he made himself out to be, but it was simply the way he liked his persona to be portrayed. Namely, running around in an attempt to improve other’s smiles while disregarding his being unable to reach his eyes.

Why he felt the need to act the part of as klutz was beyond him, and it wasn’t his place to pry into someone else’s past.

Some of the batter resting in the pan suddenly grew in size, forming a dangerous dome threatening to explode in seconds.

And it did.

Three hours. It had taken them three hours to clean the entire mess they (read as: Dazai) have fabricated—including the thirty minutes spent on persuading the author to drop his disastrous challenge.

Once they had finished the entire debacle, Sebastian had sent them to table, asking, begging, them to stay put while he made some actual, non-toxic pancakes. It left Theo in the companionship of the simpering klutz whom he just couldn’t seem to figure out. Many of his actions were contradicting, his mannerism a mix of contrasting impulses and reflexes. However, he was more than aware that he was no fool—not completely, at least.

Dazai could read people and situations just as well as he observed paintings.

It was nearly too convenient that Sebastian was busy making pancakes, despite having mentioned that he’d be preparing croissants the other day, when he was in a particularly bad mood after having almost submitted to the devil’s rabbit... especially if he considered that it had been Dazai’s idea and that Napoleon had ushered him there under the guise of their butler’s request (which he hadn’t feigned knowledge of).

He could have further inquired on his suspicions, or pointed out the dubious timing, but it wasn’t his battle to face. If the author did indeed go through all that trouble to hide his intentions, he probably wouldn’t want it to be remarked. For that, Dazai was much too genuine to bask in the attention of gratitude—that much he knew.

Silence reigned between them, yet he didn’t conceive it as cramped. It was akin to the humidity on a summer’s day, leaving him entirely at the mercy of the sun’s moods; in fact, it was a pondering kind of atmosphere that enveloped him, almost surprising Theo that Dazai simply closed his eyes, his everlasting smile brightening the room.

Whether his train of thought pointed toward the truth or not, he supposed that he was thankful either way.

Sebastian then joined them, carrying the two plates of fluffy goodness and an entire pitcher of maple syrup; it was a modest amount, but it should suffice.

Curiosity piqued his mind as the two Japanese clapped their hand together, wondering what their particular customs entailed. He’d noticed some of the more religious residents reciting silent prayers before their meals, but the men before him were the only ones from a more tradition-loving country. Certainly, the knowledge could help him encourage the trust of some possible foreign clients. As such he voiced his queries.

“...you want know of the protocol we perform before we eat?” At his reconfirming nod, the notebook idly resting on the table was quickly snatched by the butler’s hand, almost frantically writing into it. Dazai and Theo briefly looked at one another, knowing what the human butler was up to—most of the inhabitants were pretty much aware of the eccentric diary’s existence, but they preferred not to coexist with the idea of it.

If Sebastian had the tact not to mention their rather unpleasant first life experiences, they could let him entertain the impression of the diary’s stealth.

Chortling at his incessant scribbling, the simpering man eventually answered him, “We usually clasp our hands together and say ‘Itadakimasu’, which roughly translates to ‘I humbly receive’.” As he spoke with his tone laced with honeyed serenity, he reached into his sleeve to fetch a pen, drawing the stunning symbols onto a napkin. ”However, it isn’t meant to solely appreciate the food... we want to thank the farmers and nature for granting us the meal, too. I hope that satiates your inquiry, Theo-kun.”

It was a beautiful concept, for sure, making him wish that le Comte would have collected a larger variety of residents; he always perceived the convictions and perspectives of other cultures to be entirely too refreshing for the busy lifestyle of Europe.

Instead of answering the Japanese, he copied the joint hands of Dazai and Sebastian (who’d by then stashed the peculiar notebook away, smiling at the both of them). “Itadakimasu.”

Once he had thanked Sebastian (and by extension, Dazai) for the passable meal—although he supposed the fluffy clouds of dough melting together with smoky syrup and nutty butter were more than slightly passable—he made his way to his brother’s room, the great meal having boosted his mood through the clouds.

On one hand, he was rather perplexed that he hadn’t come across the hardworking artist yet, but he also had to ask how the commissioned pieces were coming along.

Just as he was about to climb the staircase to his floor, a certain plummy voice resonated within the hallway. “Theo. How has your free day been so far?“

Turning around to meet the owner of the mansion, he drove his hands into his pockets, shrugging slightly. “It’s not quite living up to its expectations, Comte.”

Le Comte simply smiled. “Vincent asked me to relay to you that he is currently out in town.”

While it was off-putting, the lord of the house’s ability to interminably determine the issues plaguing their minds came in handy at times. It saved him the trouble of having to seek him out himself. “Did he tell you why exactly?”

The count’s smile stretched into a wide grin, as if knowing that this particular piece of information would aggravate the business man. “I’m afraid he didn’t, but I do know that it must have been nothing too grim as he seemed quite elated by Arthur’s side.”

It wasn’t surprising to the art dealer that his brother was spending his time with the Casanova. Considering that Vincent did occasionally tag along on their late-night shenanigans, their friendship was purely based on either annoying or calming Theo—and nothing in between.

At least, that’s how he’d preferred it to be. Recently, however, they have taken to spending their time in shared companionship more often than just seldom. It rendered him both utterly perplexed and seething; the most gentle of all beings on earth, and an infamous Casanova, and never the twain shall meet. While the crime novelist was the closest he had ever considered a friend, the thought of his behavior possibly triggering his sensitive brother were plaguing his mind, causing steam to emit from his pierced ear shells as ire within him burned ablaze.

“Would you perhaps mind joining me in organizing Leonardo’s collection of Whiskey?” le Comte interrupted his fuming, his scheme to persuade him shadowed by his polite facade. “I’ve been soliciting for him to at least discard a part of it, but he’s been stubborn with the argument that he is but a stranger when it concerns determining the quality of each, so I deemed it appropriate to bring you alone.”

His chestnut eyebrows furrowed. “And just what makes you assume that I would want to help you out?”

“There will be a considerable amount of whiskey, of course.”

“Do I look like an alcoholic to you?”

“Certainly not, but you do seem rather penurious after the news I’ve given you.”

The Dutch’s cerulean eyes flashed at the count’s insinuation, the temperature dropping several degrees. It wasn’t that hatred obstructed his vision of his sire; in contrast, he was deeply grateful for having tided his way back to his brother, letting them live together, properly this life around. Nonetheless, he had his way with fueling the ire of his residents, especially to those that weren’t gifted when it came to French.

While they’ve all learnt to speak the lovely language at some point, many of them were still obscured by fog when it came to their sire’s rather gaudy vocabulary. Thus, while he might not know the entire meaning behind his words, his expression was a telltale to what fact he was alluding to—and he wouldn’t grant him the satisfaction of assuming right when saying that the delivered news had gotten to him.

“Very well. It better not be disappointing—and I do expect that beast to be gone.” Taking a sharp pivot around to venture down the hall, the ailurophobe could say without doubt that le Comte’s orbs of molten gold had widened in surprise without sparing him a single glance, yet he was unaware of the contented glint shimmering within them.

Theo seemed to always expect the worst of him, and as such, if you were desiring to help the obstinate business man, you had to appease to his expectations without disregarding his obvious acuity. Shakespeare had sent a letter earlier this morning—speaking entire tales of gratitude for returning Puck unscathed—and he had immediately considered the possibility of the savior’s identity (and the darkening mood it might have caused a certain person). And what better way was there to a man’s tranquility than with a shared glass of amity.

Keeping to that scenario, he’d asked his dear old friend prior to ensure his feline‘s absence.

Le Comte stepped alongside the other man, and he could only simper as he was, once again, proven right. He could only hope Leonardo would keep to his end of the bargain.

It happened too frequently that the residents forgot the polymath‘s range of expertises; his aptitude for the arts were often overlooked when he stood alongside Vincent van Gogh, his discoveries neglected when talking about Isaac Newton. Perhaps, being regarded as the jack—no, master—of all trades did not come with solely advantages.

Not like the Italian minded all that.

“Are you going to stare at the painting all day? We have plenty whiskey to consume.” Leonardo was impishly sprawled on the floor, a lazy smile gracing his face as he arranged a stack of books beneath his head.

He had asked the Italian on multiple occasions to allow the display of his artwork; alas, he’d be incessant in waving him off, despite his obvious talent. Pioneering techniques of realism through the means of the revolutionary sfumato method, it was a shame to let his works go unpublished.

Certainly, it pained him to neglect such powerful talent, but he had accepted his obvious wishes long ago.

“I’ve just been wondering why you wanted this particular piece of yours,” he inquired, rolling his eyes at the polymath’s accusing frown, confirming that he wasn’t trying to pawn it off of him.

On the floor, turned onto its side in a haphazard attempt to get it out of the way, lay the Lady with an Ermine in all her youthful glow. Even his first life self had never been able to omit his marvels of this particular artwork.

When he joined Comte, the epitome of elegance completely out of place in the junkyard, at the tea table, Theo heard him say, “You have sent me through quite the tribulation to aquire this piece, yet you’ve never indulged me in your reasoning.”

“Well, you wouldn’t like my reasoning, at any rate.”

Gracefully crossing his leg above the other, the nobleman started pouring the golden drops—not unlike his own inquisitive eyes—into some glasses. “And what made you assume so, old friend?”

“Because I am certain that you do not favour yourself being compared to 16 year old adolescents, “Comte”,” he elaborated after a booming guffaw.

As they argued—ever so politely, in his eyes—Theo couldn’t help regarding their relationship as identical to that of a bickering couple. It reminded him to heavily of those evenings, spent with some vacant residents and alcohol, cackling at the prospect of the mother hen and their resident father acting as if borne for these roles. And perchance, there was more that some truth to their fatuous, going by the intimacy reigning their relationship (a past flame, at least?).

Theo averted his gaze and grumpily snatched the water pipette resting beside the bottle of one of the dozen of bourbons, not wanting to contemplate the romance involving the two men.

Since his most fateful encounter with the time traveling woman, he’d been exposed to ideas and concepts transcending his 19th century mind (Active protests against racism, commercialized public transportation, travelling durations having been reduced to mere hours between continents...).

One particularly controversial idea was much more toilsome for him to come to terms with—the rather incomprehensible topic of same-sex marriage and the general idea of being able to love whoever you want to—but she’d been entirely too understanding of his upbringing, patiently justifying her beliefs.

As open as he was to the concept at that point, the inclination of his brother having feelings for his best friend was no snip to process (he could practically see her crossed arms at his hesitance). He really was not keen on pondering his housemates’ love lives.

Leonardo, seemingly done with their pointless banter, rose to grab one of the prepared whiskeys. “If I remember correctly, this one was gifted to me by my family.” He downed the liquid without hesitation, not even the smallest shudder becoming cognizant. “Tastes just as horrid as them.”

Le Comte truly had a bias toward men with tragic childhoods.

...perhaps Comte wasn’t too far off with his accusation. He did really need that drink.

Mortifyingly enough, after they’ve put him through his eighths trial of whiskey, Theo had been the first one to surrender his tolerance, the two pureblood vampires still being able to converse sans any slight slurs or drawls. Were he on his quotidian bar strolls with Arthur, he’d have regulated his intake significantly more; be that as it may, the myriad of benumbing variations, and the inhuman intuition to know just the right amount of water to add made the whiskey persuasive in its case.

Three of his shirt’s unapologetic buttons had become undone in the overbearing heat the delicious tipple provided, and while stroking King’s luscious fur (when did Napoleon return with him anyway? And since when did he fit in his lap this easily), he overheard bits and pieces of the ongoing conversation.

“I believe it’s safe to assume that we’ve succeeded in relaxing him.” So his assumption was indeed correct. It wasn’t too startling that they’d all go to such lengths to please him; it was a wonted stratagem in their mansion, after all.

“...I’m afraid that won’t be perennial.” There he goes with his irritante French.

He heard some shuffling, followed by a quiet click—as tantalizing as it would have been to investigate these sounds, his eyelids were uncooperative as his lashes weighed them down with the power of a dozen horses.

“Getting the camera was an exceptional idea, it seems.”

“Cara mia proposed the idea to preserve moments like these. I can’t wait to find your vulnera—.” The chuckling brunette was interrupted by the livid Dutch, who had managed to sober up halfway only to full on glare at him. “Hey... you can’t call her that, zakkenwasser!”

A glimpse of the paper le Comte was holding made him stop, the photograph portraying a disturbing scene of himself holding Leonardo’s little demon.

He didn’t dare to check the actual identity of the animal in his lap—which was clearly not King.

Theo may, or may not, have screamed in absolute terror once he’d had the beady slits in his sight, and he couldn’t help but shudder as he saw the onyx fur sticking to every inch of his skin and clothes. He swiftly stripped out of them, deftly wrapping a towel around his waist before approaching the tiled entrance

Leonardo had bellowed in absolute amusement as he stroked the feline’s chin, while his sire could only manage to sent the slightest of reprimands toward the other pureblood, though he was unable to hide his own chuckles from falling from his usually well-mannered lips. He’d, of course, apologised in place of the actual perpetrator, and suggested him to indulge in the streams of the thermae.

As if he needed him to tell him that.

Nonetheless, Theo followed the count’s advice. Reflective droplets, commingled by the steam emanating from the entrance, ran along his tight abdomen where his entire vexation was building up. On one hand, he truly appreciated everyone’s efforts; cheering him up is one hell of a task—that much, he was aware of—but in the end, there were only three people in his life who could truly conjure serenity from the pits of his ire, and those were all busy running errands.

This only fueled his frustration further, and it irritated him more than anything else. Godverdomme! Just why did he have to be so incredibly difficult? Perhaps if he could find release—that thought almost made him choke on his own air. No, he’d let his hondje deal with his problem when neither of them were at risk of being disturbed.

Inhaling and exhaling thrice, he entered the thermae at long last, only to be greeted by two soft voices. Whereas one of them was undeniably French in nature, the nasal, albeit graceful high-pitch, enough to indicate that, the other was an ironic amalgamation of the softest lullaby and the most thunderous of compositions.

Mozart and Jean, the only residents who hadn’t had their attempt at improving (worsening?) his day, were lounging in the water. Theo could have bet his entire collection of artworks, without letting his pinky twitch, that Comte knew exactly that those two were here (considering they were probably the only ones to either consider it more profitable for them not to get involved, or to simply not care).

With an annoyed puff, he lowered himself into the tranquilizing pool, allowing the murky mist to grant him cover to unwrap his towel. As he did so, the musician to his opposite issued a histrionically deep sigh, amethyst orbs narrowing in repulsion as he became cognizant of some minor cat fur still sticking to his skin.

“And here I was hoping that Lackaffe wouldn’t send you here,” the man sneered, brushing some alabaster strands out of his piercing glare.

“Trust me, the feeling’s mutual.”

“Keep it fortissimo, would you?”

Feigning ignorance of Mozart’s comment, he spoke to his quiet companion, “How in the world can you put up with him?”

The French man only shrugged slightly, the motion prompting the lilac bangs to shimmer in the light. “Have you considered asking that Monsieur Doyle?”

He felt a drop slide down the side of his face as he shifted his eyebrow up. “What does he have to do with that.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” the composer snarked, superciliousness guiding his lips into a full on smirk. “He’s alluding to the fact that you are just as vexing.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me just right.”

“I’d just love to know who shoved that stick up your arse.”

“While it’s relieving to know that you can accommodate enough brain cells to learn foreign phrases, it is less surprising than you turning to these juvenile scatological remarks.”

“Oh, rot op. As if you are in the position to lecture me on my shitty humour.”

“—did you seriously just jet water at me?”

Jean sighed in resignation, wishing his friend could reign his hauteur for once at least; yet, the fracas they caused let the tiniest spark of amusement twinkle in his starless eyes. Despite himself, he did nudge the Austrian in an attempt to quieten him. Mozart, who wholeheartedly disregarded his warning, only continued to smirk, winking as he did so. Without omitting to fire another insult at their frontier, he merely directed Jean’s attention back to the Dutch, stupefying himself as he perceived the witty jocularity flowing through the air in playful currents.

Perhaps Mozart had been planning from the start to abandon their placid laissez-faire attitude. It was obvious they were both thoroughly enjoying their arguing, even if it made Jean want to burn his ears off.

Later that night, aquamarine eyes shone in the moonlight’s rays, revealing a scene of absolute love an affection for the entire canopy of stars to marvel at. His pannenkoek’s arms were wound around himself in a loving embrace, her nimble hands trying their best to cradle his head as he curled into her like a clockwork. Her melodic pulse induced him to ponder the day’s occurrences.

It had left him worn out, the energy of spending some amount of time with almost the entire residency such a rare event that it rendered him as tired as a bear before winter if it did happen.

She had giggled mellifluously at his drowsy babbling (“You really are just a giant teddy bear, aren’t you?”), letting her fingers dance in featherlight strokes down his toned back as she massaged him—partially for him, and partially because she had simply wanted to “feel him up” as she had mentioned.

Natheless, even if they tired him, aggravated him, or even made him want to move to an entirely different planet, their makeshift family was a huge array of multicolored and textured patches, which all came together to form one sui generis artwork.

A scream torn from a certain defenestration-loving bastaard, and multiple curses ranging from German to English later, left him grumbling once again.

As much as he liked their aloof painting, the colours were still fucking obnoxious.

Tag List of the most amazing sweethearts (who better be drinking some water *squints*: @juminly @kisara-16 @sweetlittlemouse @thesirenwashere

[catspluscrows]

TW: this is kinda a vent/request. do u do emoji anons? if u do, can i be 💫? anyways, i don't think i'm gonna make it, the voice in my head is too loud. i hate myself so much, i'm so uncomfortable with myself. i'm non-binary and i feel so un wanted. i've been told 2 times today to just kill myself and i'm contemplating just doing it. the voice is so loud....i found my old razor blade, was thinking of cutting again. yeah idk how to deal with my feelings but can you write smth with oikawa? please~

AHHH PLEASE DON’T DO IT 💫 ANON I’M HERE FOR YOU ILY & IM SORRY I KEPT YOU WAITING TUMBLR DECIDED TO FUCK ME OVER AND DELETE MY WORK BY RELOADING 

TW: suicide, i swore above 

Oikawa noticed how you weren’t acting like yourself. Between talking less and the self depreciating jokes you'd make while you both were together, Oikawa was worried. He was especially worried today. "Where's Y/n?" Iwaizumi stopped rolling out the ball bin to tell him you went home early, saying your stomach hurt. "Shit. I have to go." Not questioning the captain, Iwaizumi nods and continues procedure. Oikawa was terrified. 

While trying to open your front door with his spare key he was terrified. He was terrified while running through your house, looking for you. His stomach was heavy with fear, weighing him down while he opened your bed room door. The bottom drawer was open, clothing all across the floor. Framed photos rested on top of the various articles of your wardrobe. Shards of glass and torn fabric were left ignored as Oikawa carried on, knowing he needs to find you right now. The bathroom door is cracked. You must be in there. Kicking open the door in a rush, Oikawa is right. He's not sure if he's glad he's found you of if he wished you weren't even home. He wishes you were at volleyball practice with him, laughing when Iwaizumi hits him. Instead of seeing your heavenly smile he sees your contemplating frown. Hot water is causing the mirrors to fog as you twirl something so daintily. He watches, trying to connect the dots with his own hazy mind. There's glass on both the sink and floor from the shattered mirrors. The pieces remaining in their place are foggy so you can't see anything. Something reflects his face back at him and into your vision which horrifies you. It's a razor. "Don't do it! Please!" Oikawa shouts it before realizing it. He's also kneeling on the ground before he realized he feel. He's lost all sense with reality, refusing to believe this scene. He doesn't want to think you're actually about to do this. He can't. "Please don't!" Clutching onto the wall, Oikawa says it again without yelling. His voice is still loud since he's afraid his crying will drown his pleads out. "Why shouldn't I?" You ask with a steady voice. It's strained by what he can assume is crying by the wet splotches covering once rosy blushes he'd give you with his words. "During chemistry my partner said I should drink the chemicals. Maybe she'd get lucky and they'd kill me." Letting out a sad laugh, you add "Maybe I'd be lucky and it'd kill me." Oikawa can't say anything. He's thinking so quickly that the words clog in his throat. Nothing has scared Oikawa more than this. Not Kageyama being a better setter. Not losing his place in nationals to Ushijima. He's never felt anything as bone chilling as this. The sight of you contemplating this, even going through with it if he was a moment later. "I'm not worth it. I shouldn't even be here. It's a mistake." You continue while staring at your reflection. The image makes you sick but you can't look away. "I want this pain to go away. I want to be accepted. I won't be accepted. It won't go away." Your eyes are trying to cry but they can't since you haven't had anything to drink since you thought about taking all your medications but Oikawa was over. "Not unless I make it." The feeling of cold metal against your skin never happens. Instead you feel warmth and salty tears on your neck. Oikawa is holding you, directing the blade so that it's tearing his uniform sleeve. Gently pushing your head onto his chest so you can't see how despaired he is over this situation. It's not about him. "I'm sorry," Oikawa cries. "I'm sorry I didn't notice. I'm sorry I never knew how to help." That's all he can say. All he can manage to get out are "I'm sorry"'s and "I wish I knew"'s. Realizing that he can't fix the past, Oikawa makes himself change the station on his broken radio. "We'll do better together." He proposes quickly. "I'm here for you. I always have been. Please," The words are flying out with how scared he is. So quickly he begins hiccuping between his emotional words. "Don't do this. Let me help you. Let me help you love yourself." He pulls you in tighter, scared that if he loosens his grip at all you'll slide through his strong arms. Oikawa can't stop the ugly tears coming down his face. You'd be weeping by now if your body physically could. Instead your lip quivers, hating yourself but hating the idea of leaving Oikawa more. Oikawa cries harder when you brokenly say, "I'll stay. I'll stay only for you." 

[no0dlru]

8, 17, 25, 27?

Aaa tysm ^^

Favourite daydream: ... I was watching some lectures explaining Lacanian analysis a while back, and there was a quote (probably Zizek I can't remember) saying smth like "we all have no problem telling each other 'I had the strangest dream - this happened, that happened', but if someone asks 'what were you just daydreaming about?' That's a much more personal question... In that way, if you want to get to the real of someone, fantasy is a much better indicator than the subconscious,". So... I'm not about to go posting my fundamental fantasy on tumblr dot com haha..

My second favourite daydream is thinking about the plot for a dystopian novel I want to write. So far it's about someone who works for a state surveillance agency where the workers are on emotion-suppression drugs, kinda similar to Etracene in THX1138, as well as ones which alter perception of time so they can watch 24 hours of surveillance in like a 14 hour shift, and another that allows them to process a stupid amount of stimuli. Like, metal gear solid meets MKultra style surveillance supersoldiers. They work 4 months on 2 months off, and take another short course of drugs when their work months end to supress memories of work during time off.

The agent's job is not only to survey a given subject and flag any possible criminal intent, but mainly to aid development of a behaviour prediction system using all the data available to the surveillance agency. In those drugged-up 14 hours, there's a constant feed of any CCTV while the subject is out in public, phone camera footage, whatever is visible on the subject's PC or phone (furthermore, eye tracking), transactions, keyloggers etc. The agent's job is to be increasingly accurate in predicting the subjects intentions and actions. This is being developed for both security and, later, possibly marketing.

One day his emotion suppressants stop working - he assumes its a bad batch and keeps working, but finds his job performance is fantastic, and he slowly realises his increased accuracy in predicting the actions of the subject are because he's fallen "in love". He knows he has these 2 months off approaching, and intends to spend it holidaying near the subject, but as his performance record is looking so promising, he's been redirected to someone new after the break. He can't bear the jealousy of someone else surveying the subject, he's torn by his own morality of using this person he's become so fond of, and he also knows that this new agent will likely be able to tell he's been purposefully treating this case differently, so he goes rogue.

I'm not sure how I'm gonna do it, but the premise is that he doesn't actually take the memory suppressants and tries to find a way to contact the subject and uses both the security agency's drugs plus his knowledge of the subject to covertly guide them through the process of escaping surveillance.

The agent is meant to be a really morally ambiguous character, so if you're thinking that's a bit fucked for a protagonist, dw it's kinda intended.

Sorry, that was long and a total mess, but yea somethin like that. That's not all my ideas for it obvs, but, yea..

(Another) unpopular opinion: uuuuhhhrrr.. Stockings > tights!! The top shorts-like portion of tights is usually really awkward, and you have to spend ages carefully pulling all the fabric right up from your feet to your thighs - taking special care not to ladder the fabric - so that the crotch sits snugly and comfortably. Fuck that shit!! Plus, when you need the toilet you have to fuck around with all of that again. Stockings and garter? Your pants are accessible AND your hold ups are held tf up. Also, ladder one leg? The other one is still fine! No need to throw both away! Its practical, stlyish, feminine and maneuverable. No annoying elasticated pressure all over your belly either! You can mix and match everything too!

Quiet nights in or nights out: nights out purely cause they're so few and far between. I rarely ever have a proper night out, but I absolutely love it if I'm with good friends - getting ready, pre drinks, the buzz of a good venue - I've only ever gone clubbing a couple of times before the pandemic hit, so the prospect of dancing for hours in an underground venue, sweating, spilling drinks, cutting shapes, with some loud house or techno or jungle or - hell, fuck it, I'd even enjoy the lame drum and bass that's usually on locally at this point - I just feel like gigs and clubbing is the biggest thing I'm missing out on of my 20s rn.

If I could get a tattoo what would it be?: I really want the NSK insignia, likely on my shoulder/bicep. I want to always carry and proudly display that devotion, since art is a higher mission which demands fanaticism.

[pickalilywrites]

someone asked me for a GoT fic but i had to write a lil smth and make sure i got the tone/dialogue/prose exactly right before i tackled it. i think this is what i might be sticking w/ in the end~ a little prequel to the main story

The Departure of the Raven

Levi Ackerman. ASOIAF AU. 

3577 words. 

Buy me a ko-fi!

The heel of Levi’s boot clicks against the gold and marble floor as the knight makes his way to the throne room. The knight does not turn his head to admire the tapestry that decorates the wall nor the crystal chandeliers that hang from the high ceilings. He has lived in this castle for far longer than he’s ever cared to, and he’s memorized every inch of it. Even when he had first arrived to be accepted as a knight on the Kingsguard, he had not been enchanted by the glamour of the castle, and he has come even less interested in its fanciful decorations now. Rather than spend even a second more than he needs to in this overly lavish hall, the knight quickens his pace as he nears the glossy wooden door with its gilded carvings. When he arrives, he is already reaching for the handle, pushing the heavy doors open without waiting for the guards to announce his arrival.

“Ser Levi.” It is not the king that greets the knight, but Queen Helene, a regal woman dressed in garments just as extravagant as the decorations that adorned the hall outside the throne room. Her hair was done up in plaits and wound closely around her head, which was covered in a woven net of gold set with pearls. On her brow sits a golden circlet, a treasured heirloom passed down for nearly a century in the Tybur family. Although it had been made for the first Tybur queen that had been crowned nearly a century ago, the circlet shines as if it had been fashioned just yesterday. The queen wears it proudly, her head held high, showing off the crystal choker on her neck. Despite the many jewels that cover her hair and neck, it seems that the precious gems are not enough for her, for the bodice of her gown is sewn with even more crystals and pearls, sparkling as she walks towards the knight to greet him. Even her skirts are embellished with intricate designs of golden thread, but she walks as if the weight of these jewels is nothing to her. The queen smiles at him, and it is this smile of hers – not her lavish palace, her precious jewels, or her extravagant gowns, but her smile – that this knight trusts the least about her.

Levi bends his knee and closes his right hand in a fist over his heart as he kneels in front of the throne. He casts his eyes downward, staring at the scarlet carpet beneath his feet. “My king. My queen,” he says. He only looks up when the skirts of the queen, a swirl of violet fabric embroidered with feathers of golden thread, appear in front of him. When the knight looks up, he sees the queen smiling down at him. “I trust that you have read my letter.” The queen gestures for the knight to rise, and so he does.

“Indeed, we did, but we thought it a poor joke when we first read it. It is not every day that a knight requests to be dismissed from the Kingsguard.” King William does not rise from his throne, instead speaking to Levi from where he sits. He wears robes in the same shade of violet as his queen, fastening the fabric together with a thick leather belt. On top of his head sits a golden crown that shines just as brightly as the queen’s circlet. His headdress, however, is decorated with sparkling crystals and glistening topazes. Unlike the queen, he never feels the need to overdress himself in jewels and precious metals, believing that it was far more effective to use his charisma and charm than his wealth to influence his people to follow him. It is a far more reliable method, perhaps, but Levi trusts the king's smile even less than he trusts the queen's – not at all. “Perhaps you can lend us more insight. I believe not everything was told in your letter.”

“There is not much to tell, my king. I believe that my time on the Kingsguard has come to an end,” Levi replies, his eyes still cast respectfully downward. “It seems that I have been called to journey down another path.”

The king nods, thinking deeply. His brows are knitted slightly, and Levi can tell that the king disagrees with him, but is pondering what words to use to prevent the knight from leaving. After a moment, the king asks, “And tell me how you came about this decision to leave, Ser Levi? It feels rather sudden to us after you have served our family for years.”

Levi raises his head, glancing at the queen from the corner of his eye. “I saw it in a dream,” he responds, watching as the queen’s eyes widen. He clears his throat and speaks louder, confident now that he has the queen’s attention. “A white crow appeared at my window and as I reached for it, it flew off. When I had looked to see where it had gone, I found that it had disappeared towards the north – towards the Wall.” He glances back at the king, and it is apparent that he does not believe in the knight’s word nor does he believe in the power of prophetic dreams. All of that is no matter to Levi. All he needs is the queen’s interest, and he has her completely enraptured. “I believe it was a sign for me to join the Night’s Watch.”

“Surely, a dream can just be a dream,” the king laughs, but his wife silences him with a wave of her hand.

She clutches one of Levi’s hand in hers, holding it close to her breast. The queen gazes down at the knight, eyes shining brightly. “The raven is the sigil of House Ackerman, is it not?” she asks. She grasps his hand so tightly that her knuckles turn white. “This cannot be a coincidence then.”

“But how often do dreams come true?” the king scoffs. He tries to convince his wife, but even Levi knows that any attempts will be futile. The knight’s freedom from this castle is imminent. “My love, you must admit that to release one of our most trusted knights because of a dream is unwise.”

The queen looks back to scowl at her husband. “It is because of your refusal to believe in prophecies and dreams that our kingdom is nowhere near the good fortune that Kiyomi believes we can achieve,” the queen declares, holding her head high. She refers to the priestess from Hizuru that has slowly managed to enchant her ever since the Little Rebellion. “You see the resignation of Ser Levi as a loss, but his departure may be a benefit to us. With Ser Levi’s presence in the Night’s Watch, our kingdom would have closer relations with an additional military branch should an outside first dare to attack us.”

“The Night’s Watch can hardly protect the kingdom, let alone themselves. What is there even to protect up north beside a frozen wasteland?” the king mutters.

“I believe in your vision, Ser Levi,” the queen says loudly. Her skirts sweep the floor as she glides across the room, her arms raised. She clutches her hands over her chest, and her eyes are cast downward. “You are blessed to have dreamt up such a prophecy. For us to deny you your destiny would be cruel. Not only would it hinder your growth, but the growth of the kingdom as well. Surely, my husband can see that.”

Both Levi and the queen turn to observe the king’s reaction. King William’s hands grip the arms of his throne tightly, and he shakes in silent fury. Although it is true that Ser Levi has proven himself a loyal and talented knight, the Kingsguard has no shortage of loyalty and talent. Even if he were to deny the request, the king knows that his wife would continue to wear him down until he finally gave in and dismissed the knight.

“Very well then,” the king said grudgingly, a tight smile on his face. “I will give you my blessing, and we shall wish you all the best at your new calling. But never forget where your true loyalty lies, Ser Levi.”

“Of course, my king,” the knight said with another bow, but he’s lying. His loyalty was never to the Tyburs, and it never would be. “I will be eternally grateful for the kindness you have shown me during my time on the Kingsguard.”

“Oh, the Kingsguard will not be the same without you. Your loss will be felt sorely throughout the castle,” the queen sighs. She then turns to her husband, an expectant expression on her face. “Well, we must make preparations.”

“Preparations for what?” the king mumbles, still disgruntled over the resignation of his best knight. “Is there something we have to celebrate?”

“Would you have Ser Levi leave without any ceremony?” his wife asks, incredulous. “We should at least throw him a small feast after he has served our family so dutifully.”

Levi raises his head, trying not to appear startled. “I assure you that that won’t be necessary, Your Majesty. A quick and quiet departure would be best, I believe.”

“Are you quite sure, Ser Levi?” Queen Helene asks. She’s torn between accepting his request and throwing an extravagant ceremony. “It would be no trouble at all. Of course, I could have planned something far more suitable for your going away. With such short notice, I’m afraid I can only prepare a small dinner for you and the other knights on the Kingsguard.”

“That is more than I deserve, Your Highness,” the knight says. He looks towards the king. “All I ask is that you allow me a horse so that I may journey to the Wall. I pray that whatever history is written of me on the Kingsguard’s record is kind, just, and true.”

“Ah, yes, we shall ensure that your services and accomplishments are properly documented, Ser Levi,” the queen says. “But do you not require anything more of us? No money, no feast, no gifts at all? Whatever it is you request, please do not hesitate to ask.”

Levi shakes his head. He wonders why the queen is so insistent on leaving him with a parting gift. When he had served on the Kingsguard, he was certain that she held no affection of him. It was only his loyalty that she desired of him, but she pays him far more attention now that he is leaving. Perhaps it is because she really believes that she will be able to use him as a connection to the Night’s Watch, but he doesn’t see how that’s possible. After all, the Night’s Watch pledges its allegiance solely to Paradis, not the king or any single house. And yet, the queen seems confident that she will be able to keep Levi’s devotion even after his departure from the Kingsguard. There was also that strange thing that the king had said…

“Very well,” the king says, interrupting the knight’s thoughts. He claps, a signal for his servants to attend to him. As his servants approach him, the king points at Levi and says, “Provide Ser Levi with a horse so that he might travel where he desires. Once that’s done, bring me Ser Nile. He shall be head of the Kingsguard and shall officiate Ser Levi’s resignation in the Kingsguard’s record.”

“Thank you,” Levi mumbles. He looks up at the king and queen for what he believes is the last time. “I am eternally grateful for the time I have spent serving you, Your Highnesses.”

“Likewise, we are grateful for having your service for so many years,” the king says with a bow of his head. He watches as the servants begin to lead Levi out of the throne room. “Do not forget us when you become a part of the Night’s Watch, Ser Levi. And when you get there, please send Lord Commander Zackley our regards.”

The king’s last words to Levi disturb him the most, echoing in the knight’s head even after he’s left the throne room. It is strange for the king to mention the Lord Commander so casually, to say the man’s name with familiarity as if the two were comrades instead of mere acquaintances. Surely, the two cannot maintain such close relations. There is the distance between the Wall and the capital, the Night’s Watch and its sole dedication to Paradis, and the duties of the kingdom that keep the king busy. Maybe he was simply overthinking things and had simply imagined it. He should no longer concern himself with the royal family. His work with them is done after today. All he has left to do is to travel to the Wall and start his new life.

He follows the servant down the hall and does his best to keep his eyes on the floor. He does not care to gaze at the detailed paintings on the ceilings or the glass chandeliers that hang from them. He wants no memories of this place.

“Ser Levi!”

The former knight turns at the call of his name, and he sees the royal children playing in the garden. He had hoped to leave without seeing them, but it is just his luck to run into them just as he is about to take his leave. He bows deeply as they approach him and raises his head. Although they had all been mere children when he had first been welcomed into the castle, the children had caught up to him in height years ago and now tower above him.

“Where are you going?” a golden-haired boy, nearly a man now, asks. Prince William has his father’s charismatic smile, but his mother’s glittering green eyes. The young prince wears a silk tunic the color of periwinkles and dark trousers, his clothes made of fine material even though he is simply lounging around in the garden. That is, however, expected of a boy who wears his dragon skin boots no matter the occasion. Even now his fingers are adorned with over a dozen rings – gold and silver all studded with a rainbow of gems – even though there is no special occasion. He is certainly his mother’s son. “It is unusual seeing you walking about the castle during the day. When you aren’t on duty, you keep to roaming the halls only during the nights just like a ghost.”

“Don’t bother him, brother.” Prince William’s sister comes up from behind him, resting a graceful hand on her brother’s shoulder. Unlike her brother, only a single golden band is worn on her finger – a promise ring that matches the one worn by her fiancé. She is a far more modest dresser than her mother or anyone in the royal family. On her head, she wears a veil of gossamer that covers her thick brown locks. The last time Levi had seen the princess’s hair was when she was but a girl with waves of brunette rippling down her back. She has changed so much over the years. Rather than wear the bright colors she had when she was a child, she wears darker colors – deep blues or greens on special occasions, but usually browns and blacks – and the only other jewelry she wears is the gold pendant that hangs around her neck, a brilliant ruby in the center of it. It looks like the blazing sun, a symbol of the Church of Ymir. Although her mother had lost faith in them years ago, her daughter is still a devoted follower. “I am sure that Ser Levi has better things to be doing than chatting with a silly prince.”

The two siblings are about to bicker, but Levi interrupts. “I’m leaving today.” He continues before the pair of siblings can protest. If they get another word out, they’ll keep him longer than their parents did. He gestures for the servant to meet him in the stable before continuing. “I have spoken to the king and queen, and they have agreed to allow me to resign from the Kingsguard. I shall be following what I believe is my fate and join the Night’s Watch.

“Fate?” the princess echoes, a glimmer of amusement in her dark eyes. The corner of her mouth curls upwards. “I did not think that you were one to believe in fate, destiny, or anything of the like.”

“It came to me in a dream,” Levi replies, hoping that will be enough to satiate the princess’s curiosity. He has always thought that she was clever, far cleverer than her parents ever expected. It was a pity that the king and queen were only interested in using Princess Edith for securing a marriage meant to appease the public.

“Well, it is a pity that you must go so soon,” the princess tells him, a polite smile on her face. Although still young, she speaks with the air and grace of a queen twice her age. “When you became a part of the Kingsguard, I felt that you had become a part of the family. Your absence will be deeply felt throughout this castle.”

“It will be an honor to be remembered so fondly by the royal family,” Levi says.

“Will we really never see you again?” another voice asks from behind the two siblings. When William and Edith step aside, a boy steps forward. He looks nothing at all like the royal siblings, but that is because he is not one of them. Despite having lived in the castle and eaten at the same table as the Tyburs, young Zeke is a hostage in this castle. He has been out of place in this castle ever since the rebellion had ended, and he is out of place now. Even the golden ring on his finger, gifted to him and his betrothed by the king and queen to mark the engagement, looks out of place on him. It is no wonder that his slight frown has a mournful look to it, wistful as he watches the knight depart as he remains.

“Those who pledge themselves to the Night’s Watch spend the rest of their lives at the Wall,” Levi says quietly. He watches as the young boy’s expression, once sorrowful, now turns to anguish. Although he has never been particularly close to him, Levi still feels a pang of guilt for leaving. He looks to the prince and princess and says, “I have left all my belongings at the castle. You may have whatever you find. To Will, you keep any of my swords that you fancy. To Edith, I entrust you my white raven’s cloak. And to Zeke…” Levi pulls out the small dagger that was hanging from his belt. He had meant to take it with him to the Night’s Watch, but the truth is that it will get little use up north. “Take my dagger.”

The boy’s amber eyes widen as he accepts the blade. “Th-thank you,” he whispers, admiring the detailed illustration carved on the scabbard – a raven in flight towards the sun.

Princess Edith’s eyes flicker towards her betrothed for a moment before returning to Levi, her polite smile still on her face. “Are you certain? It is very generous of you, Ser. And your cloak…” Her hand hovers over her heart as if touched by his kindness. “I know how much it means to you. My father killed a hundred ravens for that cloak. I shall treasure it.”

“It feels a bit wrong to be taking your things,” Will laughs, but he does not refuse Levi’s gift. A glimmer of his eye reveals just how eager he is to run up to the weaponry vault and lay claim to the knight’s best sword. “It should be the other way around, shouldn’t it? Perhaps we should be giving you parting gifts.”

“Then why don’t you gift him those dragon skin boots of yours?” Edith asks. She glances down at the boots that her brother wears proudly on his feet, smirking when she looks back up to see how the prince had stiffened. “After all, they would suit him much better, don’t you think?”

There is a flash or anger in Will’s eyes. He opens his mouth to lash out at his sister, but Levi speaks first.

“Not at all. They suit the prince much better than they would ever suit me,” Levi says quickly. His answer pacifies the prince, but only for a moment. He can tell that the prince is still simmering underneath, but the prince’s anger will never be his issue again. “I am thankful that we were able to meet before I departed. I will keep you in my memories.”

The siblings give him their good wishes, assuring him that they will think of him often and that begging him to write them when he finally arrived at the Wall, but Zeke stays silent. The boy simply gives Levi a wave with the same forlorn expression on his face as before. Levi makes the mistake of looking back and laying his eyes on the young boy. Zeke’s amber eyes - wide, anxious, terrified - look the same as his mother’s before she died.

As Levi turns around and makes his way to the stables, he wonders if he’s made a mistake.

[saskicss-blog]

hihihi pals it’s still meee local sleepy bb elise but this is the new n improved cass ! who is now called saskia and has cailin russo as her fc instead of cami (rip cass/cami my loves). i realised i never did the proper intro post for cass ?? i cheated n linked to her bio oops so here is the loooong overdue intro post :)) also dont pay attention to my theme ummm im not happy yet ! also i will mssg those i have big connections w/ to adjust them or get smth new !!

saskia has lived in san diego for four years, but before that she lived in san francisco - all about the sans -  with her mum and dad but no siblings (sometimes she wondered what life would be like if there was someone else around, but she never necessarily regrets that loss - can’t miss what you don’t have. not many of her friends had siblings, she was all about that only child vibe).

her dad was always p controlling growing up, but saskia just considered him to be strict n not much else - he wanted her to be the best of the best, n she started thinking that she could be, that she was, even if her insecurities ran deep as a result of all the pressure he put on her ! my poor bb but obvs all of that was buried as far as it could go so he wouldn’t see

she was fifteen when her dad thought it was time she knew about the family business, as she had known for a long time not to ask any questions about it - he was always so secretive and her mother would back him on anything, always putting her husband before her daughter. To say she was shocked to find out that her father was a drug dealer was an understatement, she would never have guessed it, having thought it was a job for people with less money than they had and individuals that had no other choice - not someone that would choose it. The fact of the matter was that her father was selling to other rich men that wanted to properly unwind after stressful days running big businesses - and he liked bringing saskia along. Even when she was younger she looked older, mature, so he’d make sure she got all dolled up and come to the swanky parties with him.

Things carried on that way for two years before it all caught up with him. Saskia was surprised he didn’t attempt to bring her down with him, but the trial was swift and he was given the maximum sentence as the officials wanted to make a show of being tough on white collar crime. At least that’s what Saskia was always told, for her mother decided she shouldn’t have the whole story, making it the only instance in her years of motherhood in which she tried to protect the girl.

What the blonde wasn’t told is that in a drug deal gone bad, in an effort to preserve his reputation and avoid getting ratted out by an unhappy client, he shot someone and they died. After the trial saskia’s mum left town with the money that they had left - all that she could grab - and saskia was left with social services, rehousing her as she had just turned 18. And with that, Saskia moved to San Diego.

Without the financial support she was used to, she had to get herself a job and work for everything she wanted, which has been a massive culture shock. While there was some money saved for her in an account, she’s wasted most of it furnishing her apartment and buying things to make herself feel better after losing both of her parents and her life in san fran. Her upbringing has had a big impact on who she is, torn between a sense of superiority and deep set insecurities, struggling to showcase her emotions after years of being told it was better to bottle it up rather than bothering people and showing a weakness that could be exploited.

Saskia likes to give off the impression that she’s a hardass because that’s what her dad wanted, but she’s scared more often than she’ll admit. She often lies or hints about things she’s done that she hasn’t, and enjoys the reputation she’s been building for herself - she believes that rumours often do more work than having to do the wild thing itself, and in conversation tends to act coy and refuse to give details so that people make assumptions about her life. For example, she’s only slept with two people but likes people to think she has slept with many more so that she might suggest she doesn’t form emotional attachments, is able to do as she pleases without repercussions.

While it was a dream that her father always discouraged, whilst in san diego saskia has let herself get into writing - something she always wanted to do.Having her tendency to fabricate she believes she’ll write great fiction, and her goal is to be published one day, even if at the moment it’s writing scraps while at work.

She can only be truly comfortable with a couple of people, more concerned about her reputation with the majority, and she tends to tailor things to the person she’s with so that the right persona will come across. Not even knowing the full story herself, she’s only told one person (her bffaeaeae) that her father is in prison and her mother abandoned her, not wanting that vulnerability to be public knowledge - she skirts around the topic if people ask about her family.

Before she moved to san diego four years ago she lived in san fran with her super controlling father and her pushover mother - her father had v high hopes n refused to accept anything less than exactly what he wanted, and her mother would never intervene. She’s now got deep set insecurities bc of her dad and her mum not wanting to do anything about it. Aged fifteen she found out what her secretive father did - selling drugs to rich old men that needed to relax after running the big biz !!

other bits and bobs

avid but secret doctor who fan bc why not

basically drug dealer princess but daddy is in prison so she needs a job bc all the money is gone !!! he left some to her but it ran out. also she doesn’t know that he killed someone she just thinks he got caught with drugs. it was a few years ago n nobody told her bc she was underage

not good with emotions n stuff bc her dad was always on at her to be a hardass and not let anyone get to u bc that’s when you’re weak

trying to be a writer n so does a bunch of wacky things to get inspo for her book bc the best writing supposedly comes from experience - thereby willing to try anything once

only slept with one person maybe two but likes having a reputation that she’s slept with more, always coy about it n hinting

she can be kooky n a bit wacky w/ people she’s comfortable with

some connection ideas

romantic

the one she lost her virginity to jameson the one(s) she thinks is attractive the one she says she sleeps with the one she dated wren the one she rebounded with after her first love (virginity person) jason the one she loves to hate and hates to love the one she flirts with the one she almost dated

platonic

the only one she trusts completely the one that’s just a colleague the one that helps her get through her shifts the one she lives with emmery the one she can talk books and writing with nico the one she drinks with the one she hates the one she’s rivals with the one she’s fake friends with karina the one she’s been friends with since she moved the one she goes crazy with the one she bothers the one that understands

bits of cass/saskia that are the same

her desire to do crazy things

her struggle to deal w/ relationships n stuff - her inexperience

some people thinking she’s sweet n underestimating her capacity to do some damage

the chaos of her growing up - now a bit more intense ha as it was an ever changing foster family n now it’s a drug dealing father and a mother that might as well have been called acquiesce

not entirely genuine, although it’s more of an intentional thing with saskia than it was with cass

so that’s saskia, this post is such a mess pls but hmu for things !!! basically for a v short summary she’s a little sarcastic thing that wants to be a hardass but isnt really even tho she likes to stir shit every now and then and will fabricate things to keep up a reputation bc her drug dealer dad was super strict n she’s gotten practice lying about things from him and after he was in prison bc she doesn’t like telling people