#spitting pure gold the whole series

[grooviestguru]

'hey Pinocchio. time to run. this one's for you' is an ICONIC line and i don't think about it nearly enough

[misserabella]

Filthy Rich

Spencer Reid x Fem! reader PT.2

☆ pt1!! pt3!

✧ Synopsis;; Spencer Reid was filthy rich, for he was royalty. Handsome, charming and a gentleman, a dream dressed in pure silk for any kind of woman. But not you.

✧ y/n is a mere slave of a nobel family who just turned 22. On the night of the prince’s royal ball she is dragged against her will to this dance just to be used as a coat rack for the purses and coats of the family ladies, who, of course, treat her like absolute sh’t, to the point where they could agreed to hand her over for a generous amount of gold

“Just name your price, sweetheart.”

“Screw you, my prince.”

Just how lucky you were for had caught the

prince’ s attention!

< enemies to lovers 3

17th century royalty! inspired by bridgerton!

CW;; this series might include 18+ content (details will be given at the start of each new part uploaded) MINORS DNI AND SKIP!!!

WARNINGS PART TWO: cursing, blood, violence and a nude scene(?)

Please, under no circumstances, repost my work on any other sites. I do not consent to anyone taking my work and posting it as their own.

WORD COUNT;; +2,5k

REPOSTS AND COMMENTS ARE VERY MUCH APPRECIATED!<3

‘Because from now on you belong in this castle.’

You stepped back at his words, his smile never dropping as you amused him with your fighting against the maids that had returned in a clap of his hands. “You shall let them help you with your clothes and washing, I promise you you’ll feel better once you’ve found yourself clean.” he tried to convince you, his hazel puppy eyes glistening under the lights and his voice soft as a caress.

“I can take my clothes off myself.” you spit, your hands making your way to the back of your dress to unbuckle the single button that was left, among those who had fallen off through the years, and undo the bow that molded it’s skirt to your waist, letting your clothes slip to the floor and around your feet, leaving you completely naked to their sight since no petticoat had been given to you by your old family.

The maids gasped, as you had dared to undress yourself in front of the prince, whose eyes never left yours, not really budging at your actions for he was a ‘gentleman’. His smile only grew up more, which you’d started finding pretty goddamn annoying.

“Then, I shall excuse myself… Ladies.” he bowed to the maids, who did the same and said their goodbyes.

“Oh, bless my soul!” Gideon exclaimed as his eyes accidentally took a glance of your naked body once the door had opened, quickly adverting them to his right.

You gave them your back as he closed the door with a mocking smile towards his right hand, your feet, and later on your whole body, being surrounded in clear warm water for what you thought it was the first time in your life.

You sighed in relief and sank deeper into the bathtub, letting your eyes close once a pair of hands started washing your long hair, getting lost in the feeling of it all, in its warmth.

“I won’t put that on.” you shook your head at the dress that was currently being showed to you. Starting from the fact that it’s skirt was way too big for you to freely and comfortably move around, the puff on its sleeves looked ridiculous and seemed really troublesome and the corset which strings stood in the back really threatened your ability to breath. It was a simple and definite no for you. And the color! That shade of yellow won’t flatter you, that’s for sure.

“It seems that the dresses that Lord Gideon sent are no good…” one of the maids sighed, tossing the last one of them aside.

“What a pity…” you falsely pouted, adjusting yourself in the padded chair you had been forced to sit on so the women could take care of your hair.

“Well, there’s still the one that the prince sent! Let’s give it a try.” a brunette one smiled, to which you huffed, you hair being combed by another maid that simply giggled, really entertained by your reactions. “Where was it…, ah, yes!” she seemed to find it, her gentle fingers taking a grip on the strip sleeves of the dress to reveal it to the rest, who let out a delighted gasp.

“Crumbs*! It’s beautiful!” the maid that combed your hair exclaimed, her eyes shining as brightly as the rest of the ladies’.

It was a really simple dress, though it looked more like a nightgown. It was made out of the most beautiful lace you’ve ever seen. It was light blue, and large, enough to cover your thighs, ending below your knees. It had different layers of silk and lace of all types with little ruffles and decorations. The chest was made out of two triangles of silk with lace surrounding them in a soft-looking way that made you…, not hate it. In fact, it was really beautiful.

“Would you like to try it on, miss?” they all inquired, hoping for a positive answer since they seemed to have fallen in love with the dress.

“Well, it’s the most… pleasant to the eyes,” you muttered, trying to not show your true feelings about that piece of clothing, winning excited smiles from the ladies, who helped you to stand and took off your body the towel that embraced you to help you get on the dress.

You felt free in it. It moved with you and it let you breath, and it was so soft. You jumped and twirled, testing the waters. Nothing seemed to get exposed, what made you really happy. Your incredibly long hair caressed your almost bare back, falling to your waist. Your fingers went through it in awe, no knots being found. You smelled like pure lilies and you felt so clean and soft that you almost felt the urge to cry once you’ve taken a glimpse at your reflection in a mirror the maids lent you. You touched your clean face in disbelief, your cheek was bruised and stung when touched, the same as your lips, but your wounds had been cleaned and your skin looked so pure you felt unrecognizable, always being greeted by your reflection full of dirt, cuts and bruises in the pond’s water you used to visit when the mistress’ clothes needed washing.

“You look truly wonderful, miss.” one of the maids said, the rest nodding and agreeing with her, and just when you were about to thank them for their help with a smile, two knocks at the door caught yours and their attention, the prince stepping in after a short minute just in case you were still getting dressed.

“I apologize for my intrusion, ladies. Is everything alright, here?” he asked as he stepped in, along with Gideon, his eyes quickly finding your back and later on when you had turned to face him, your eyes. He simply stood there, silently staring at you, his eyes capturing every single detail in your body and sinking deep in the way you looked…, with the dress he had chosen himself. “You chose it…” he smiled, his eyes finding yours once again, his soft voice reaching you.

“Well of course, it is the most comfortable amongst them all.” you said, looking down at the dress, catching him staring as you did.

He cleared his throat before bringing his hands from his back to the front, letting you see a couple of, really low heels, almost flat silk shoes. “I brought these, though I couldn’t find anything more comfortable, I’m afraid.” he awkwardly smiled, stepping closer and kneeling in front of you, what caused you and the maids to step back in astonishment and Giddon to whisper-yell a ‘Your highness!’. “May I?” he inquired, one of his palms facing upward as he signaled to your feet. You slowly and unsurely nodded, surprised by his actions, but allowing him help you put on the shoes.

You could guess what everyone was thinking at the moment;

Why in the world was the prince of the realm, no one else than Spencer Reid, kneeling and helping a slave like you put on some shoes?

You slightly bent down to take a better glimpse at them. They were white with a little piece of lace surrounding its collar. They were beautifully simple, and they looked really comfortable. When you put your feet back down on the floor you could agree on your judgement by their appearance. Compared to your wooden ones, this shoes felt like walking on clouds. When your sight drifted from them, your eyes met the prince’s once he had gotten off the marble floor once again.

“Well?” his eyebrows rose in anticipation, wanting to know your opinion on them. Everyone seemed to.

“They are not too bad.” you shrugged, your pride making him smile and let out a soft and short laughter. The tension inside the room seemed to dissipate with that sound.

“I’m glad to hear that.” he nodded, making his way back to the door. “Then? Are you ready to go and eat supper?” he offered you, opening the door whilst his eyes looked into yours.

You glared at him for a couple of seconds, still not truly trusting nor liking him, but still decided to take your first step. And after the first one came a second, and later on; a third.

His eyes never left your body as you exited first, waving your hand to the maids as a quick goodbye, which they returned. He bowed at them before closing the door. You awaited next to Gideon in the corridor, which was carpeted with crimson velvet carpets and glistened under the candles of the chandeliers above your heads.

“Shall I fetch the cooks and maids to set up the table, your highness?” the brunette spoke, his hands intertwined behind his back, which stood straight, awaiting for an answer.

“You shall not.” he shook his head. “I wouldn’t like them to work so much this late at night.” the singing of the cuckoo clock hitting midnight catching your attention as your eyes met with the wooden cuckoo that jumped in and out of its home. You wandered through the corridor, your fingers detailing the marble and wood of the oak chest you found on your left, plagued with porcelain decorations and flowers. There were multiple of them through the interminable corridor, perhaps for embellishment. “Though I would appreciate it if you could fetch something for her. I could wager all the gold I have in my hands that she hasn’t eaten for days.” he seemed concerned, his smile fading for a couple of seconds before appearing once again when he saw you twirling around a porcelain doll sculpture of a ballerina.

Not even his friend could understand his actions nor read whatever wondered inside his mind. But he thought he could just wait for whatever the future would offer.

“Sure, your highness. I’ll make sure to send it to her room in no time.” he nodded, after a ‘thank you’ from his friend and prince heading the other way.

You were about to place down another sculpture that you had picked up when his voice startled you.

“It’s Greek.” you felt your heart plummet to your stomach when it slipped from your hands, his being quick enough to catch it in the air. “Almost a was.” he mocked you with a smile, putting it back down on the chest amongst the others.

“Didn’t know the prince would be into collecting porcelain.” you winded him up.

“That would be my mother, the queen.” he chuckled. “Along with the king she has parted to the east to meet Rembrandt and discuss about his new works of art.” he explained, making you now understand his announcement at his ball, asking forgiveness for the monarchs’ absence. “Though I must admit, I take pleasure in pretty things.” his eyes met yours and for a moment you felt as if you were frozen in place, the only warmth you felt being the touch of his fingers gracing yours on top of the oak chest, after his hand had fallen near yours. Your eyes met his hand and later on his eyes again, pulling away from his warmth after a couple of seconds.

“And what does beauty mean to you, your highness?” you inquired him, giving him your back and taking a few steps away from him. “Perhaps gold? Diamonds? Maybe castles?” your hair softly fell on your shoulder as your turned back to face him once again, your dress beautifully dancing along with you.

He just silently stared at you, his hands once again on his back as he took a couple of steps closer to you, a smile tugging on his lips. “I guess I still have yet to find out.” his brown eyes found yours once he stood by your side, the amber of the candles shining on them. There was something in them that you could not read. “Then, shall we?” his eyes left yours just to show you the way in which you supposed you should head to to meet ‘your room’. You seemed unsure for a couple of seconds, to which he decided to taunt you a little bit more. “After you, sweetheart.” he moved aside, giving you a little bit of space.

“Don’t you dare call me that again.” he laughed at your rudeness.

You gave him a side look before taking a step forwards, and then another, and another, the moonlight of the windows hitting your skin, perfectly matching with the color of your dress.

He took a deep breath before following you.

What beauty was…, huh?

“I hope you find the room to your liking. If you are in need of more pillows or sheets just ask for them, alright? You can ask one of the maids to light up the chimney for you if the night gets too cold too.” he said while opening the door and letting you step inside. It was spacious and beautifully decorated. As you stepped in, the very first thing you could see was a huge window that met the gardens of the castle, to your left a chimney with red velvet sofas and a central tea table with books on top of it, you could find more of them on the willow bookcases on both sides of the chimney. And to your right you could find a queen size bed with puffy white sheets, a white dosel and an incredible amount of pillows of all kinds, along with oak nightstands with candles and a big white closet. When you looked upwards your eyes met with the shiniest of chandeliers.

Once you’ve turned around to meet his eyes once again, these caught a glimpse on a food trolley.

“The maids discussed that since you’ve probably not eaten in days it would be better for you to eat something soft so it wouldn’t upset your stomach.” he said, while taking off the top of the plate cover, the smell of chicken stew along with baked potatoes and steamed vegetables making your mouth water. But that was not really what caught your attention. “I apologize if you find it too-”

And before he could even finish his sentence or take a hold onto your actions, his back was slammed against the half-open door from which you’d entered the room, closing it in a very harsh slam exactly when Gideon seemed to be back to check on the prince.

“My prince?!? My prince!!” he desperately knocked on the door, trying to open it but finding it imposible due to the weight of both your bodies on the other side. “Guards!” and as he called for the guards that rounded the corridors…

“Give me a single reason for which I shouldn’t kill you right this moment, my prince.” your breaths intertwined as you stood completely pressed against his body, a knife that you’ve snatched from the trolley threatening to cut his throat as you pressed it against the skin of his pale neck.

He seemed astonished at first, his hazel eyes staring into yours as your heavy breath caressed his lips, which parted as he spoke.

“You wouldn’t dare.” he pressed against the knife to get even closer to you, its edge sinking into his skin and the vermillion of his blood making its way to his collarbones like a river flowing down the hills.

“And what makes you think that?” he smirked at your inquisition, his fingers brushing delicately your arm, its pads descending. From your shoulder to your elbow and later on to your free hand, which stood slightly hidden behind your dress. You gritted your teeth as he slowly and carefully rose it up ‘till both of you could clearly see it. You were trembling, so much it was actually impressive that you could hide it so well.

“Your body speaks to me, sweetheart.” he answered, caressing your palm with his thumb as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss on its back.

And before any of you knew, more blood spilled as you rose the knife.

To be continued…

*Crumbs;; used for expressing surprise.

[satsuma-unshiu]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ shobio fic recs

i like the way your clothes smell by Mysecretfanmoments ✰

Relationship(s): Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio

Rating: M

Word-Count: 75k

Summary: `Power outages, ghost stories, and the presence of a certain orange-haired boy lead to bad decision-making on Tobio's part. He'd planned to keep his crush a secret; the universe has other plans.'

Additional (Reader's) Notes: a given, i know. but if you haven't read this yet and are a sucker for good writing and kghn, i implore you, please do, because this one's pure gold

somniloquy by emleewrites ✰

Relationship(s): Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio

Rating: T

Word-Count: 12k

Summary: `

“Hi-Hinata…”

The spark of awareness ignites and Shouyou blinks his eyes open again fully, humming in response to his name. Kageyama doesn’t reply, as he’s still completely asleep, shuffling slightly as his breaths start to catch in the beginnings of snores.

“Kageyama?” Shouyou stage whispers.

“Hinata,” Kageyama grunts back, before smacking his lips and devolving fully into snoring.

(In which Shouyou falls in love slowly during his high school years, and Kageyama talks in his sleep.)'

Additional (Reader's) Notes: ugh. so cute!!

summers spent in your light by yu_writes

Relationship(s): Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Tsukishima Kei/Yamaguchi Tadashi

Rating: T

Word-Count: 10k

Summary: `The final scores flash up on the screen. Kageyama gapes at the cheerfully-blinking animations. “There’s no way you’re that good on your first try.”

Hinata grins. “Who said it was my first try?”

“You—!”

Hinata sticks his tongue out at him as the arcade machine spits out a small stack of tickets.

And glancing over, next to their drumset—both of their mouths drop—sits a flushed, triumphant Yachi and a thoroughly-trounced-looking Tsukishima.

“Wow, I didn’t realize how easy it is to get the hang of this!” Yachi beams at them as the machine spits out a small mountain of tickets. Yamaguchi, who has been watching over Tsukishima’s shoulder, muffles his laugh at the petulant look on Tsukishima’s face.

(the karasuno first years, who are then second years, and then third years. and, of course, kageyama and hinata, who are... well, kageyama and hinata.)'

Additional (Reader's) Notes: summer hangouts with the karasuno first years - love how their dynamics were written in this one :3

life is a highway by emleewrites ✰

Relationship(s): Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio

Rating: T

Word-Count: 98k

Summary: `Kageyama Tobio is a professional racing driver, the new rookie sensation who's about to take home the Piston Cup in his first year.

But a race run recklessly leads to an unprecedented three-way tie, and a tie breaker race is set for a week's time. On the way to the International Speedway, Kageyama gets lost, and ends up crashing into Karasuno Springs - a small country town in the middle of nowhere, ruining their main road in the process. Forced to stay and fix it, Kageyama feels the whole thing is a waste of time, until he meets the town's handyman - Hinata Shouyou, a local dirt track racer.

They're very different, but a shared passion for racing draws Kageyama in, as he tries to work out why Hinata is just a handyman in the first place despite his talent for racing. And over the course of the week he ends up discovering that maybe there's more to life than winning races all by himself.

(A racing AU; based on the story of Pixar's Cars, but everybody is human.)'

Additional (Reader's) Notes: such a vibe, honestly. very well-written to the point that it manages to place you inside the cars universe (except as the summary stated, everyone is human here lol). all the other works in the series are worth a read, too!

Saffron and Cayenne Pepper by dontsaycrazy

Relationship(s): Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Shimizu Kiyoko/Yachi Hitoka (Mentioned)

Rating: T

Word-Count: 30k

Summary: `Cooking is hard. Even if you have your very attractive, very grumpy neighbor there to help you.

In which Hinata's lack of cooking skills are a danger to him and others. Luckily (or not), Kageyama is willing to teach him, if only for the sake of avoiding any burned down apartments.'

Additional (Reader's) Notes: hinata is me as in i can't cook for the life of me either. love kghn's dynamic!!

You Can't Play Volleyball In A Blizzard by KingsHighway ✰

Relationship(s): Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio

Rating: T

Word-Count: 12k

Summary: `The "blizzard of the century" comes bearing down on Miyagi Prefecture, closing down schools and trapping everyone in their homes. With nothing to do to pass the time, and an unlimited amount of energy, Hinata finds an unlikely texting buddy in his volleyball partner Kageyama. But it's just texting, it can't matter that much, can it?'

Additional (Reader's) Notes: such a sweet and wonderfully written one-shot with an adorable concept (seriously, go read it)

burnt by sunbeams by emleewrites ✰

Relationship(s): Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio

Rating: T

Word-Count: 12k

Summary: `Tobio drops his hands from his face at Hinata’s bright voice and looks down. Hinata beams up at him, wide and blinding, a ball of sunshine on a gymnasium floor. Tobio kind of feels like he’s burning when Hinata looks like this – sunbeams personified – but that’s okay.

He’ll happily spend the rest of his life getting burned by Hinata Shouyou.

(Kageyama thinks that being in a relationship seems to be simple at first. It's just Hinata; there's just a lot more kissing involved. But no relationship is without challenges. And for Kageyama, he'll weather them all, so long as he gets to bask in the sun.

Hinata and Kageyama: a relationship study.)'

Additional (Reader's) Notes: another lovely read from emleewrites :) the way they write kghn is aaaaaaaa

thirty-three days of mist and mountains by tinygumdrops (curryramyeon)

Relationship(s): Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio

Rating: T

Word-Count: 36k

Summary: `Tobio runs by himself every day. Even though he can't shake off that awful feeling that something's closing in on him, he still does it. It's habit now.

When he gets a phone call that Hinata Shouyou is thinking of coming to Italy, Tobio feels like he has to run even faster.

(Or: Tobio has a month to prepare himself before his high school rival comes to visit him. They haven't spoken to each other for two years, and Tobio can't even remember what food Hinata likes. He's got a lot to think about.)'

Additional (Reader's) Notes: kageyama uses sticky notes as a means to prepare for hinata's visit - another wonderfully written fic with a great concept

In Transit by Mysecretfanmoments ✰

Relationship(s): Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio

Rating: T

Word-Count: 4k

Summary: `Hinata finds that he likes standing close to Kageyama on buses and trains. It doesn't mean anything--probably. Maybe.'

Additional (Reader's) Notes: they're so cute and dumb and ugh

a long distance type of love by xllx (exasperatedmoron)

Relationship(s): Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio

Rating: T

Word-Count: 42k

Summary: `shouyou and tobio learn about the world and each other from 17,380km apart.

(two dumbasses and their ability to maintain a long distance relationship despite being absolute wrecks when it came to everything else in their lives. (oh, and they’re engaged))'

Additional (Reader's) Notes: engaged long-distance kghn and texting shenanigans with the karasuno first years

Olympic Thirsting Hours by Kelpiejz

Relationship(s): Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio (Minor)

Rating: T

Word-Count: 4k

Summary: `Alone in Brazil and desperate for some kind of human connection that won't make him homesick, Hinata Shouyou decides his best bet is to communicate in broken English with strangers over the internet. They only have one thing in common - volleyball.

sunshinetangerine: not watch olympics now, at work sunshinetangerine: but kageyama very good setter AnArchyCountry: he really is, wow thirstea: just snuck my phone in class to see a photo and holy hell he’s hot sunshinetangerine: yes sunshinetangerine: playing volley a lot get hot sunshinetangerine: drink lot of water after!! (＾▽＾) thirstea: oh sweetie, not that kind of hot

(Or: a look at Hinata's growth after high school from the perspective of people who don't know who he is.)'

Additional (Reader's) Notes: cute lil fic in which hinata is bad at english and still manages to connect to others who know nothing about him

discovering the smile of one kageyama tobio by emleewrites ✰

Relationship(s): Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio

Rating: T

Word-Count: 8k

Summary: `Kageyama blinks once before a grin of his own spreads over his face. Shouyou’s breath halts in his lungs at the sight, and he wills for time to stop, just so that he can drink it in. He sees it sometimes when they’re playing - Kageyama’s fierce smile when they pull a combo off just right, when they show their opponents how possible the impossible can really be. But then there’s another serve, another rally, and the moment is gone.

'Shame,' Shouyou thinks to himself, as he lets his eyes roam over Kageyama’s stupidly happy face, taking in the creases that are from joy rather than frowning for a change. 'It’s a really nice smile.'

(In which it's their third, and final, year in high school and Hinata has only one goal: to make Kageyama smile outside of volleyball.)'

Additional (Reader's) Notes: you should know by now that i love anything emleewrites writes

[koorminii]

HYUNEATER’S ARCHIVE!

a collection of all my fics and drabbles!

KEY:

❦ smut | ✿ fluff | ↯ angst | ✤ personal fav

disclaimer (!) none of this content is intended to promote unprotected sexual practices or the security of not getting pregnant/not contracting STD. please don’t take this as your comprehensive sex education. all facts and events are fictitious. the written scenes do not represent any real person nor do they plan to steal/falsify their identity. any coincidence with names and places is pure artistic creation by and for entertainment.

SERIES | OT8 FICS

COLLEGESLUTS.COM | ❦✿↯ | total wc: 17.1k

A crude name for an even cruder site, and the self-proclaimed bane of your existence. Made by thirsty sophomores when you were in freshman year, it’s something that’s stuck like glue in the minds of the student body. No one can resist a quick click, seeing your peers showing off their sexual fantasies for others to enjoy, posting their sexual escapades for others to see— except for you who’s hated the site since you first knew about it. Still, a year later, you’re vying for it to get shut down. Well they can’t have that, can they? They’re just gonna have to convince you the site isn’t all that bad.

WUS GOOD/CURIOUS | ❦✿ | 2.8k

It’s sloppy, messy as ever as spit slicks your chin and you huff into his mouth, stepping backwards and tripping over the edge of the couch. You hate fucking on leather but Chan loves it. His hand trails down past the hem of your skirt and along your bare skin, feather light touches that leave goosebumps in their wake and send a shiver up your spine.

driving with chan (drabble) | ❦ | 0.7k

GOLD RUSH | ❦✿↯ | 10.6k ✤

“I don’t like that anyone would die to feel your touch, everybody wants you, everybody wonders what it would be like to love you.” Or, a lot of people love chan but he only loves you. He just wishes you could see that.

— nothing yet!

— nothing yet!

RELAX WITH ME ❦✿ | 3.4k ✤

It’s your turn to make noises now, it seems, because Hyunjin drags a moan out of you so loud that you’re worried the neighbours have heard. Your cheeks are red for a whole new reason now, and the fact that Hyunjin is yanking at the collar of your dress doesn’t help. You let him, you don’t care, you want to give Hyunjin everything, anything.

TEAR YOU APART ❦ | 1.7k

Hyunjin is wild. Unpredictable in the way he can’t help himself when it comes to you. He can’t help how ragingly desperate he is for your touch, for your presence.

IDEA 686 | CSC installment | ❦↯ | 17k

There are three things you hate more than anything: 1. Your english Lit. professor, 2. Frat parties, and last but most definitely not least, 3. CollegeSluts.com and their founders. There are three things Hyunjin hates more than anything: 1. College, 2. Back alley blowjobs, and 3. The frustrating desire to fuck you silly.

INHALE, (EXHALE) ❦✿↯ | 8.6k

tired of hearing your whining day after day, early-morning Saturday chores become Jisung’s new norm. however, when reprieve comes in the form of one ridiculously lacy pair of panties and things get risqué, Jisung finds himself enjoying his chores more than ever, and when you find out what exactly he’s doing every Saturday morning do you accept it? or rather— what are you gonna do about it?

— nothing yet!

— nothing yet!

— nothing yet!

— est. 190722

[bibbykins]

Insufferable

A/N: The long-awaited flashback is here! It's short, but it is here! I hope this can really show the turning point in Jungkook's and MC's relationship and I would love to hear everyone's thoughts. As usual, tips are not required but greatly appreciate. Hope you all enjoy and have a wonderful day/night!

Note: This is a part (specifically a flashback) of The Household's Bunny series, so I recommend reading at least the Prologue before this one

Word count: 3.6k

Pairing: Soft Yandere! Jungkook x Chubby! Reader

Summary: Roommates are bound to have arguments, especially when one of them is as temperamental as Jungkook, but you didn't expect the first argument to get so unbelievably personal.

Warnings: abandonment issues, mommy issues, allusions to past abuse, family issues, crying, yelling, vomiting, panic attack, exhaustion, some soft yandere thoughts, some possessiveness, jungkook is mean and the MC gets a little mean too

There was something so constricting about memories of a shitty childhood. There were times when looking in the mirror felt like searching for the child in you so you could give her the hug she desperately needed. There were times when waking up felt like a check to make sure you were no longer in the home you had to grow up in far too quickly. However, the comfort of being in a different home only came so far when you didn't have anyone beside you or even emotionally available enough to talk to.

You stayed in bed for hours before it felt like a good idea to move, almost waiting for the mirage of change to fade before it brought you back to the gym with your mom or your uncle's apartment littered with whiskey bottles and leaky tear ducts.

Sometimes putting your best foot forward each day felt so hard with all-consuming loneliness clinging to your heels.

You had started your day going through your memory box. Hindsight said that was a poor idea. The box was a sure way to get you into a bad mood. You liked to think you breezed past all the stages of grief, but just because you accepted reality didn't make it hurt any less. The box was a strong reminder of that much as it sat with a melancholic aura. The creme color faded and the thorned vines connected to roses only added to the malicious undertones of its existence to your mental health. It was full of childhood photos, your birth certificate, school achievements, and the last known address your mom had.

Ah, your mom. What a way to bring clouds to your sunny day. You don’t know why you put yourself through the turmoil of the memory box. Maybe you were hoping it would be easier by now. You were always wrong. Looking through childhood photos and finding no love in the eyes of your mother when she looked at you and watching the love in your uncle’s eyes fade with your mother’s presence. You got to the fated birthday card, thumb rubbing over the defunct address longingly. You held the envelope in your hand, inspecting the birthday card she sent you. Three words in the repetitive note written on the inside caught your eye, and not the ones you so desperately wanted from her.

Feeling a familiar pressure behind your eyes, you tossed the card aside and stood. It was time to eat, go on a walk, do anything other than this. You found your way to the kitchen and came across a silent and solemn Jungkook. His jaw was clenched, but it felt like it always was around you.

Your relationship with Jungkook so far was not very complicated, in the way it was nonexistent. He either didn’t care about talking to you or he actively didn’t want to, you really couldn’t tell. This didn’t stop you from trying, though. Like an idiot.

“I’m making food, did you want any?” You asked from your place seated on the couch, and the silence that was his response for deafening, “Okaaaay.” You sang awkwardly, “I just know that you usually don’t eat throughout the day and-”

“And what do you know?!” He snapped, blinded by his pure and unbridled, but most important unprovoked, rage of you. Your eyes widened and your body jumped. Holy shit, you had never heard him yell like this, “You don’t know anything about me, or in general, so just stop trying so fucking hard!” He was harsh in his tone and it lit your whole nervous system on fire. What the hell did you do to him?

You shook your head, not sure why he was yelling about, but it made your throat feel like it was going to close, “Look, I was just trying to be polite, but you don’t need to talk about me like you understand-”

“Understand?! What’s there to understand?” He challenged, eyes wide like he was expecting you to say something but he continued, “You’re some spoiled girl living here rent-free because your precious dad doesn’t want to take care of you.”

Your heart caught in your throat as it shattered. He was right, your dad didn't want to take care of you, but not in the way he thought. Why was he doing this? Has he genuinely felt this way all along? Was he just holding in his anger until you poked the bear a little too hard? “You don’t need to yell at me.” You stated firmly and it seemed to only make things worse.

“And you don’t need to fucking be here in the first place!” He spoke, temper long lost and you could hear his voice mix in with Jungyoon’s, all he needed was a bottle of whisky and a set of calloused hands, “You didn’t need to fucking live here-”

“You don’t know anything about me.” You spat out. Now, you were losing your temper. You could take a beating, but for only so long, especially as an adult, "And it's not like you're paying rent either, so what do you know about me or my living arrangements?" You hissed and you watched his eyes flare, making you nearly regret your provocation.

“No, but I know how you look naked-”

“Fuck you.” You spit the word out at him, something you haven’t done to another person for a while “Don’t weaponize my work or play a game that you absolutely will lose.” You warned, “I know all about you, and I can use that, because you’ve been a star since you were 15, and that sucks, that makes you mad, doesn’t it?” Your temper effectively lost as you ripped into the rage-filled man before you, “Yet you don’t know anything about me, and that must piss you the fuck off, huh?” You stood from the couch, tears building in your eyes before you could stop it.

“I know enough, spoiled rich girl.” He seethed and you laughed humorlessly at this worldwide pop star calling you spoiled and rich.

“Not only are you wrong, but you’re also a poor listener.” You shot back, “I’ve told you all before Jungyoon isn’t my fucking dad, he’s my uncle.” His mouth opened but you cut him off before he could start, “He can’t stand the sight of me so he travels for work.” Your tears are undoubtedly falling, but you can’t stop, “And you’re talking to me like this because what? You had a scandal or something?” You gave him his chance to talk and boy, he took it.

“Mona told me you know your mom.” His voice was like venom, “So, why the fuck are you here? You have your blood relatives.” He exaggerated the word like it meant anything to you, “Why are you here, disrupting our lives, acting like an innocent orphan girl around actual fucking orphans-”

“I never said I was or acted like an orphan!” You exclaimed incredulously before scoffing, “That’s why you’re mad? Because you never knew your mom and I did? Because I know who my blood family is?” You could laugh at how ridiculous that was, “I know them, so what? Where does that get me?” You looked at him expectantly but he didn’t talk, “I knew my mom, and guess what? She just didn’t fucking want me.” He was silent, but you still couldn’t stop, “I’m sure if your mom could’ve got to know you, she would’ve kept you, because you’re not insufferable to be around, you’re just a fucking asshole.” You wiped at your cheeks furiously, “But me? I had 15 years to prove myself and it still wasn’t enough. I still wasn’t enough. Jungyoon never wanted me either, he got stuck with me and had to cope.” Your voice began to break and you had to take a breath, “I was the insufferable one, so-” You stopped, finally as you regained your sense of reality and watched Jungkook who had an unreadable expression and the realization of the word vomit you spilled out to him hit you like a train as you exhaled quickly, rage in your voice quickly replaced with soft melancholy “I am the insufferable one here, so there.” You shrugged, face a wet mess, “Hope that brings you peace.” Your stomach was churning as you turned on your heel, unable to hold in your sobs. You couldn’t bear the awkwardness of waiting for the elevator so you opted to take the stairs.

You sobbed louder as the door slammed shut behind you, but you didn’t want to linger so you bolted down the stairs, the bile in your stomach signaling that you needed to find the nearest trashcan and quickly. You made it to the ground floor and spilled your guts into the small trashcan. Yelling always made you unbelievably ill, whether it was getting yelled at or yelling, the sickness it made you feel overflowed. The yelling only reminded you of-

You vomited again at the mere thought. You cried harder when you finally finished, breathing becoming staggered as you began to panic.

Fuck, they’re gonna kick you out, and then you’ll be alone again. You lost your temper, people don’t like other people who lose their temper. Why couldn’t you just mind your own fucking business and leave him be? You’re stupid. Why do you think you’ve been alone all your life? It’s because people don’t want to be near you. You’re-

“Insufferable.” You mumbled, numb, even if for only a moment.

Sure, Jungkook provoked you, but you knew better. You didn't go to therapist after therapist throughout your adolescence for nothing. You felt as if you set yourself back eons after that outburst. He didn't need to know all that about you, ever. He probably didn't even care to know, and you said it anyway, like you were gunning for gold in the trauma Olympics. You didn't want to minimize his struggles, you just wanted him to shut up and stop yelling at you. You let your eyes flutter closed as you cried. How can you complain about being alone when you're like this?

You don’t know how long you stayed there, sitting next to a trash can full of your vomit as you wallowed in your self-hatred. The all-consuming loneliness the boisterous house subdued returning with full force. Jungkook was right. You didn’t need to be here. You were only disrupting their routine.

You blew out a sigh as you staggered to the elevator, fully set on going up to your room and crying yourself to sleep after you clean up. You brought the trashcan with you, not having the heart to just leave your puke down there. You thanked your lucky stars when Jungkook was no longer on the second floor as you went to the kitchen and rinsed your mouth before going to take out the trash and take out your burnt oven pizza. Finally, you were headed back up to your floor. You watched the numbers tick by with tired eyes. You glared at the empty trashcan, electing to take it with you instead of making the trip back down to put it back. Surely, they wouldn’t need it for a few hours.

The elevator dinged as you grabbed the black plastic bin and then you were met with Jungkook. Relief flashed across his face before irritation settled on it, “Where the fuck were you?!” He asked hurriedly as you trudged past him, too exhausted to fight. You were running on autopilot the whole way up here, and you couldn’t bear another spat.

“I was on the first floor.” Your voice was low, trying to communicate you were done arguing as you lifted the bin as proof. You then set it down and went to your bathroom and began brushing your teeth.

He scoffed, “You were on the first floor for 30 minutes?” He asked as if he caught you in a lie but you nodded as you rinsed your mouth.

You were down there for thirty minutes? No wonder you felt so tired.

“Yep.” You popped the last letter before correcting yourself, “Well, I spent like 10 minutes cleaning up that bin, so not exactly.”

“Why?” He asked as if you were being ridiculous, as if he wasn’t the one on your floor demanding answers.

“I vomited.” You spoke simply and before he could ask, “Yelling makes me puke.” You were so blase about it he sighed in frustration.

You walked to your room and froze when you saw your memory box strewn about, and it was like a dam broke all over again. You looked at the photos, at the eager little girl looking for love in places she would never find it.

Old habits die hard.

Before you could even stop yourself, you sunk to your knees in garbled sobs and broken cries, “Hey, hey, wait.” Jungkook’s shaky voice did nothing to bring you back to reality as you cried. His hands placed themselves on your shoulder, making you flinch violently, much to his horror.

Fuck, he didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t know why you were crying, but he knew it was his fault, at least in part. Even if at this moment it wasn’t, his outburst surely didn’t help. Fuck, he’s so dumb. Fuck, he shouldn’t have talked to Mona just moments before seeing you.

The envy of even seeing your own mother’s face ate up at him and he took it out on you. Not to mention that he made you vomit from the yelling. He suddenly felt more like an arrogant asshole than he did before as his hands now hovered over your form and he took a moment to look at your room.

Scattered on the floor were childhood photos and ribbons from competitions. Things Mona kept in her own house, having a whole wall filled with every one of their achievements. Even Jin had a photo album of their things. And you, you kept all these for yourself. You were the only one who cared enough to save these things and he wondered how much you threw away to maintain space in the small empty box. Fuck, he didn’t know how to do this.

You sighed shakily, “You can just go.” You cried, “You don’t have to be here.” You don’t know what he could possibly gain from watching you cry.

“I know.” His voice was calm, even, “Can I help you up?” He asked and you wanted to look up at him in confusion but you didn't want him to see your tears.

You both had just ripped into each other, and here he was, wanting to help you. Why would he do that? Why would he stay when he doesn't have to? Why would he want to help you up after a fight?

Too tired to even think about questioning him and no longer angry at him, you simply scoffed, “Can you?” You sighed, not having the energy to stroke his ego and stand up without his help.

You never let people bear your dead weight, not wanting the awkwardness if they couldn’t carry you, but right now, you just wanted to lay down.

He snorted lightly, happy to hear anything other than a sob for you, “Don’t worry about me, you just cry and mind your business.” He spoke lightly, and the comment made you fight a smile. Then, he lifted you with so much ease, you figured he was trying to show off as he placed you on the bed. He looked at you after he sat on the floor before his eyes caught onto the gold foil of a 16th birthday card. You were wiping at your face as he read the card against his better judgment.

I know you must be confused, and I can’t help that. I wish I could pretend to be a mom, but I can’t. I can’t be your mom, and I never should have tried. It would be best if we forgot each other. I just can’t keep pretending, and I know you can see it, even if you don’t want to.

I’m so tired.

-Mom

Now, he felt even more like an asshole. He also felt a little bit angry that your mother could just leave you behind without so much as saying sorry. She wrote like she was a teenager and you were her mother. She obviously didn't put much thought into the seemingly last message to her daughter and it made his heartbreak for you, “That was the last I heard of her.” You snapped him from his thoughts and he looked at your puffy face, “She had left months earlier, and then I got that, but she moved before I could try to see her one more time.” There was a distant ache in your words as you looked at Jungkook sitting amongst your memories.

“Is she… still alive?” He asked, not sure why he felt the need to know.

“Not sure, but it doesn’t make much of a difference, I guess.” You blew out a sigh, before looking at your papers and folded posterboards, “I was cleaning out my memory box, and I’m not sure why I do it when I know it just upsets me.” You could still feel tears leaking from your eyes as Jungkook picked up a photo of you on your 14th birthday, posed between Jungyoon and your mom. You had a bright smile on your face and they looked at the camera with a tight expression, “You can really see how much they didn’t want to be there, but that's the happiest they look in all of the photos.”

He wanted to say you were wrong, but he could see it. He could see the happy little girl trying to make up for the unhappy adults around her. He knew he should’ve asked Mona why Jungyoon didn’t try to call or visit or why she was so eager to take you in if you knew your family. He should’ve just known better. Yeah, he understood how it felt to be alone growing up, they all did, but by the time they were all 17 they had a home that wanted them. You were going to graduate from college soon and you still felt unwanted.

No thanks to him.

“I’m sorry.” He blurted and you looked at him with wide eyes, “For being an asshole, I’m sorry- and for making you cry. I just…” He shrugged, “You’re right. I was jealous you knew your mom and I already was suspicious of you and I- I’m dumb, and I’m sorry.” He looked at you, eyes a bit glossy and you wondered when was the last time someone apologized for making you cry.

“It’s okay.” You smiled weakly, “You are dumb, but that’s okay.” You chuckled when he frowned, but eventually, he also broke into a short laugh, “I think… we’ve felt a lot of the same things in different ways, so I can’t blame you.” He wondered how you could be so forgiving, and he was scared of how many times that has gotten you hurt, “I like living here and I like all of you, so I hope I can get you all to like me too, even if just a little.”

“Don’t accept less than you deserve.” He spoke firmly before he started picking up your memory box, putting things neatly back in.

“Wh-”

He waved his hands nonchalantly, “You, sleep, I’ll clean this up and order some food.” He didn’t look at you as he said this, mostly to hide his blush, "If...If you want, I can give this to Jin. He has a whole place he keeps our stuff like this… he's really sentimental." He stumbled, still refusing to look at you.

However, he jumped when he heard you hiccup a cry. Ready to apologize, Jungkook was just about to turn to look at you until he heard you speak, "That… That sounds very sweet of you to do." You wiped a sentimental tear away as the blushing boy remained frozen.

"It's Jin's hobby, not mine." He deflected before waving his hand at you, "Sleep, I said." He frantically demanded.

You could see his ears getting red and you smiled, “Yes, sir.” You mocked in your work voice and made him freeze for a moment as you erupted into giggles while he whined, “Okay, okay, I’ll sleep.”

Eventually, you surrendered to your exhaustion as he delicately put away your papers and photos. He hummed lightly, smiling as he came across your debate team awards. No wonder he lost the fight before it even started. He turned around after lifting the box and sighed almost dreamily as he watched your sleeping face. You were beautiful, delicate, and puffy from the tears. He had the urge to keep apologizing for being such an asshole, but after looking through your achievements and your photos, he resolved to just keep proving it.

He wouldn’t let you get hurt again. Not by him or anyone, especially your mother, even Jungyoon was on thin ice.

His blood boiled at the thought of your mother for a reason he couldn’t understand. His hand extended shakily as he pulled the covers up to your shoulder and you hummed contently, making his heart melt a bit at the little smile you had. He wouldn’t fuck up with you again, not like this. He would be nice, at least a little, and first and foremost, he would order food you liked.

He froze.

Fuck, what food do you like?

He relaxed. Well, he could just ask the guys.

Fuck, they’re gonna ask questions.

Fuck, they’re gonna kill him when they found out he made you cry.

He looked back at your sleeping form, not having the heart to wake you up. He sighed, looks like he’ll just have to bite the bullet. He dreaded each moment as he quickly made an untitled group chat with the guys since you were added to their original one. He could only hope Taehyung wouldn’t change the group chat name to something stupid.

Tip Jar

[xenia-cenia]

Chongyun x Fem!Reader - Strength

A/N - I forget how many days since I finished the Mondstadt part of this series... I had to start Liyue with my boi. My beloved. He <3

Also fan fact: Chongy means gum in Britain so it double works for Chongyun cuz he’s so dang good :) 

Trigger/Content Warnings: ghost mention, bad parents, food mention, we hurting Xingqiu today lads, fear, light swearing, kidnapping (kinda?)

Word Count: 2,937

Request: No

Summary: You’ve been plagued by demons your whole life. He’s never seen one. What will happen when you meet?

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

Ghosts, spirits, and demons.

You were no stranger to the unknown. They often whispered secrets of their lives into your ears as you slept. Many exorcists had come and went. They all charged thousands of Mora, only for their promises to fall short. 

Your family was desperate. These whispering strangers grew stronger with each passing day, they began to claw and destroy your family. In one last-ditch effort to keep the (L/N) legacy alive, you were thrown to the streets. 

Many weeks passed, your survival depended on the kindness and naivety of strangers. They invited you into their homes, promising happier times and brighter futures. 

But just like before, they lied.

The whispers turned into yells, the yells into shrieks. It was positively unbearable. Madness constantly danced at the edge of your vision, you wanted nothing more than to give in.

It all changed, however, when a boy with light blue hair and cat slit pupils paused at your trembling form.

“...are you okay?”

Your head snapped up and you looked the boy up and down. He looked nothing special, light clothes and a melting popsicle in his hand. Your eyes focused on the popsicle and you unconsciously licked your lips as you imagined how good it’d feel to have real food in your mouth after... 4 days? 5? You’ve lost count.

He looked between you and the popsicle for a few seconds, sighed heavily, and handed it to you. As you nibbled on the popsicle, he uncomfortably shifted his weight between his feet and waited for you to finish. 

When you were done with it, he cleared his throat and began to rifle through a small bag that was slung over his shoulder. A few moments later, he pulled out a trinket that was engraved in gold.

“You’re (Y/N) (L/N), right?” His voice was soft as he handed you the item. “Take these. It’s a talisman, it should keep the demons at bay.”

Taking the talisman in hand, you flipped it over a few times and considered the boy carefully. Hundreds- no, thousands- of exorcists have tried their hand to free you from the demons who chose you to haunt. What would make this boy any different?

“It’s not like they’ll ever leave.” You mumbled to yourself.

For a moment he looked almost excited, but quickly hid it with a stoic expression, “Can you still hear them?”

You paused. What an odd question. Of course, you could still hear them, why, they were...

“...silent.” You looked up at him, partially horrified, partially euphoric. “They’re silent.”

He sighed to himself, “I see.” The boy stretched and began to walk away, believing his job to be done.

But the moment he left your eyesight, the voices came back louder than ever. 

“Why did you try to get rid of us? Don’t you love us? We love you! Stay with us. Stay with us. Stay with us.”

“Stay.”

A scream fell from your lips, you gripped and pulled at your hair, trying to regain the peaceful silence you had mere moments ago.

Cold hands on your shoulders, heavy breathing, and the scent of various herbs and old paper. You opened your eyes and saw the somewhat panicked cat slit eyes staring at you.

“They came back.” You breathed.

He sat next to you and went deep into his thoughts. For half an hour, the two of you sat there in silence. You relished it, taking in and memorizing every hint of life you hadn’t been able to hear before. He hated it, remembering each time his pure positive energy stopped him from performing his job. 

“Can I...” you finally spoke, breaking the silence, “come with you?”

The out of the blue comment surprised him, but not a hint of that surprise showed on his face, “Why?”

“They’re quiet when you’re here. I never realized how good the quiet was.”

He considered it for a moment, looked at you, “Fine.”

You sighed in relief, “Oh, thank the Archons...”

“But.”

“Oh no.”

“You have to help me get my friend Xingqiu back.”

You blinked at him. ‘Get him back’? Was he in danger? Was he kidnapped somehow? You knew a bit of fighting but not enough to go raid a camp full of stronger, more trained adults.

“He keeps pranking me. I need to get him back.” The boy shook his head solemnly, “Every day he tells me that I’ll finally see a demon. Every day he makes fun of me when I get back.”

“Oh!” You tried to fight the smile that was building on your lips, “Okay. Yeah, I can do that. I, uh, sure. Okay.”

He stood and shook the dirt off his clothes, “We aren’t too far from Liyue Harbor. That’s usually where he stays. It’ll be about uh... a 12-hour walk.” 

“12... hours...” you squeaked. You shook the nervousness away and managed a shaky smile, “You never told me your name.”

The boy paused a moment, “Chongyun.”

You and Chongyun walked in synchrony after hour 3. He kept his distance but always made sure to be close enough so the voices wouldn’t return. Chongyun found you to be eerily calm considering your situation.

Xingqiu told him that you’d been abandoned by your family after years of the spirits gaining strength and losing patience. For the first time, Xingqiu seemed panicked. He begged Chongyun to set out to find you. 

Who was Chongyun to say no? 

His original plan was just to give you the talisman and leave but... this might work out better. The way Xingqiu had described you, it was obvious you were someone close to his heart. Maybe he’d be happy to see you relatively safe and sound. Chongyun liked the idea of that. 

“...yun?”

Chongyun turned to face you, barely feeling your hand grip onto his sleeve. 

“What is it?” He internally winced at how cold he sounded.

“Thank you.” You let go of his sleeve and ran your hands up your arms, “It’s been... ah. Just, thank you. Could you tell me more about your friend?”

“Xingqiu? He’s... hm. He’s really smart. He helps me think of ideas to finally see a demon-”

“You’ve never seen one?” You interrupted him. “Why would you want to see one?”

He slightly puffed out his chest, “It’s my duty as an exorcist to continue the family lega-”

“Screw that! You’ve been blessed! I wish I had that.” You kicked a small rock that lied in your path.

Chongyun sighed heavily. He’s seen this reaction many times over the years, “It makes my job harder.”

“How? Just sit still and bam! Demons gone!”

“I have to draw and describe them in The Field Guide to Demons and Beasts. Not being able to see them makes it... hard.”

You exhaled, “I still wish I had that power.”

“It’s...” he shook his head. “Nevermind. We can talk about it later.”

The two of you walked the rest of the way, with some snack breaks, in silence. 

As you arrived in Liyue, you caught sight of a navy blue haired boy anxiously pacing in front of the entrance. You paused, narrowed your eyes, thought for a moment and when the realization set in, you cried out in glee.

“Xingqiu!” You yelled. The boy looked towards you and quickly dashed in your direction. As he came to a stop, he gripped your hands and smiled happily at you, “Oh, Archons, how long has it been?”

“4 years? When I heard how your family sent you out, I knew I had to do something!” He tightened his grip on your hands as his smile fell. “Are you alright? Are you injured anywhere? Are they...?”

You sighed and let your grip loosen, “I’ve been better. They’re a lot quieter when I’m with him.” You nodded towards Chongyun who was awkwardly standing while chewing on a popsicle.

“Did you get to see them?” Xingqiu asked Chongyun.

“No,” he spoke dejectedly. “There’s has to be at least one demon who isn’t as strong as it, right?”

“It?” You looked between the two boys.

“My ‘power’.” Chongyun specified.

“Ahhh,” you nodded, “well. I’m utterly exhausted. Xingqiu, can I stay at your place tonight?”

“Su-”

“You can stay at mine.” 

You and Xingqiu both looked at Chongyun, surprised by his sudden offer. 

“It’s only to make sure the demons don’t come back during the night.” He spoke, digging his toe into the dirt and suddenly very interested in a nearby bush.

“Can Xingqiu stay with us? I just... well, I don’t really know you.” You nervously laughed, “I’d just feel more comfortable if he were there.”

“In that case, let’s just skip the walk and stay at my place. I’m sure Father wouldn’t mind.” Xingqiu looked between the two of you. You looked at Chongyun, who was still entranced with a nearby bush and waited for his response. After a few moments of silence, he nodded his head.

The three of you walked the streets of Liyue, the further you got the more familiar it felt. Dogs who always licked at your heels, tourists surprised at the food, children laughing and chasing each other. 

You stopped walking and looked around in awe. The boys, caught up in conversation, hadn’t noticed. 

Is this how it feels like? To not be afraid? You almost didn’t believe it. No, you definitely didn’t believe it. They were gone, it was quiet. You couldn’t feel their warm claws digging into your shoulders, nor their cold breaths on your cheek. Anything you wanted to do you could. The voices and demons would never bother you again as long as-

“Why do you keep trying to leave us?” 

You gulped, sweat beading at your brow as you spun around. No, this isn’t right. 

You got rid of them. They’re gone. It’s been half a day and you hadn’t heard them, you’re free. So why...

“Listen to us. We just want to keep you safe. Don’t you want that too?”

...why were they back?

Why did you feel their nails beginning to pierce your skin as rose petals slipped down your shoulder? Why could you hear their melodic hums in your ears as their tongues tied and twisted around you? 

Your eyes were unfocused, your legs were shaking, you swallowed every bit of spit that lingered in your mouth but your throat still ran dry. You could almost hear pounding footsteps; could almost feel a boy with navy blue hair pushing through the crowd until his hand wrapped around your wrist and yanked you forward. 

Your feet were moving. That much you knew. Where you were going and why they were moving were two separate matters entirely. Slowly, the voices were replaced by panting and their burning claws melted into cool metal.

“...huh?” you spoke as you gathered your senses. Why were you sitting on the streets of Liyue? You looked around and felt your shoulders immediately relax as you saw Xingqiu. “Xing... Xingqiu?” 

He was holding your left hand tightly, trying to manage a reassuring smile despite his panicked eyes. You looked to the boy pressing the cold circular object against your shoulder.

“What’s...” you yawned, “What’s happening?”

“I, uh, we got wrapped up in the conversation. We thought you were right behind us.” Xingqiu looked at the ground guiltily, “You just about passed out.”

You looked up at Chongyun, taking note of the determination in his eyes. “I guess I’m kinda stuck to you for a while, huh?” You laughed sadly.

He froze and looked down at you, his eyebrows knitting together as his lips turned into a tight frown, “I don’t think that makes me stuck to you.”

“True, you could always drop me off at... well, anywhere.” You rested your head against the wall you were propped up against, “It’s not really you who's stuck.”

Chongyun shook his head, “That’s not what I meant.”

A soft blush covered your cheeks, “Oh.” 

Xingqiu looked between the two of you and quickly bit his tongue. 

“Don’t interfere, Xingqiu.” He chided himself. “Your childhood crush is nothing. It’s been 4 years! They just met anyway.”

He shook the anxiety away and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. All old crushes die out eventually, he’ll be fine. 

He was not fine.

It’s been 2 months since your arrival and he’s found himself as head-over-heels for you as he was 4 years ago. He took every opportunity he could to spend time with you. He was jealous of Chongyun, and he hated it. 

Chongyun got to spend all day with you. Chongyun spent hours training with you and planning ways to beat your demons. 

Chongyun was his best friend! It’s fine! Your just his friend, it’s okay! He’s okay with that!

“Mmm, okay I think I get it.” You spoke, pointing at a book that was spread between you and Chongyun, “This is for healing and that’s why we need it.”

“We also should bless it in pure rainwater.”

“Chongy, do we need to wait for it to rain here? Who knows how long that’ll be...” 

Chongy.

Chongy.

A nickname. You gave Chongyun a nickname. Why didn’t you give him a nickname? Xingqiu found he could no longer ignore the feelings building in his chest. He tore through every book in his collection, nearly memorized every declaration of love. 

For 20 minutes a day, you were alone. You and Chongyun were testing your tolerance and slowly but surely, it was growing. That was good news all around. Xingqiu took these measly 20 minutes as an opportunity. He knocked on the door to your room and waited for a response. A few minutes passed and he grew anxious. He announced his presence and let himself into your room. 

It was eerily clean. Xingqiu called your name a few more times and grew more and more confused as he couldn’t find a trace that you had ever been there. He sat on your bed and jumped when he heard something crunch beneath him. 

Right where he sat, a note was lied out.

Chongyun and Xingqiu -

I’ve decided I’m going to try to go back home.

I know you’d try to stop me... so I figured it’d be best to just run for it. I think I’m enough now. Enough for them.

 I’ll use the skills we went over and I’ll control the demons! They’ll be so happy. 

Thank you for helping me.I’ll write again when I arrive so you know I’m safe. Feel free to visit!

-(Y/N)

Meanwhile, you knocked on the door of your family's home. The entire trip over you’d been practicing what to say to them. Your mother opened the door and gasped when she saw you.

“(Y/N)?” She whispered, her eyes wide. “How are you...?”

“I’m back.” You sheepishly smiled. “I, ummm, I spent a lot of time getting control of them. I think I’m better now. See? They’re not even here!”

“S-Stay here...” she half-jogged deeper into your house and didn’t return. You awkwardly stood around, twiddling your thumbs, not even noticing the shovel about to hit the back of your head and knock you unconscious. 

When you woke up, your hands were tied behind your back and you were surrounded by the damp scent of rotting wood. It was dark and your head hurt.

Where were you? This isn’t right. You had been going home. No, you were home. You saw your mother. Why are you here? Are they afraid? No. No, that doesn’t make sense. 

You did your best. You thought it was enough... wasn’t it enough? The voices had stopped. You made friends. You...Tears bloomed in your eyes as you harshly bit into your lip. 

You thought they’d love you if you came home the way they wanted. Why didn’t they love you? Where was Chongyun? Where was Xingqiu?

You missed them. You wanted Chongyun to sit next to you like he always does. You wanted to hear him enthuse about exorcism. You wanted to lie your head in his lap and tease him. Just like you always do.

“Chongy...” you muttered to yourself. “I lo...”

A loud crash upstairs forced a gasp from your lips. In horror, you sat silently and hoped the house wasn’t getting robbed. The yelling, banging, and screaming wasn’t easing your nerves.

You sat as still as you could, hoping that whoever was up there wouldn’t hurt you. Praying even. Light flooded the room which made you wince and turn away. “(Y/N)?” A familiar voice called.

You looked in the direction of the voice and let the tears fall loose. There, at the top of a staircase, stood Chongyun. The light behind him made him look like an angel.

“Ch... Chongy!” You yelled. He raced down the stairs and looked at you. “Chongyun, Archons, I’m so happy to see you.”

He worked quickly, untying your hands and letting you collapse into his arms. “Xingqiu and I came as fast as we could...”

You gripped onto his shirt and held him closer, “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

“I thought... I thought they loved me.”

“I know.” He drew loose circles on your back with his finger, “I know.”

You rested your head in the crook of his neck and let the scent of various herbs and old paper engulf you.

Xingqiu, who had just finished fighting your parents, stopped at the top of the stairs and smiled at you two. It was the first time he’d seen Chongyun able to touch someone without his congenital positivity overflowing... 

Maybe you were helping him just as much as he was helping you. 

[peachyteabuck]

ceo chronicles. pt iii ~ wanda maximoff

series summary: a set of fics based off of the main au of sugar baby/mommy or daddy dynamics and ceo aus. each fic involves a separate universe wherein each character is the ceo of a different company and you’re their sugar baby. sexy times ensue.

fic summary: something goes very, very wrong at one of wanda’s business dealings. you are left to help her pick up the pieces - no matter what that means. 

pairing: wanda maximoff x reader

words: 2398

trigger warnings: possessive wanda, anger-fucking, collars, spreader bars, riding crop, ball gags

notes/other: this was done for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor ‘s “old hollywood” writing challenge, my prompt was “Must I always wear a low cut dress to be important?” - Jean Harlow and has been bolded within the fic!

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

Wanda storms into the penthouse, her stiletto heels clacking against the dark, hardwood floors.

She’s angry, furious – and whether or not it’s aimed at you doesn’t matter, your heart picks up in your chest either way.

“That two-timing sun of a bitch!” she screams, throwing her purse on the ground. Her coat follows shortly.

You watch her, eyes wide in terror, as you stand in the kitchen. She bought the place for its open floor plan and, initially, you had liked it too.

Now, though, with nothing to hide behind, you regret not going with the more closed space in SoHo.

“That motherfucker undersold me,” she screams, standing in place as she yells to no one in particular. “He told me the piece was worth one point two fucking million, and it sells for less than a hundred fucking thousand!”

Oh fuck. If you weren’t scared out of your goddamn mind before you sure are now.

There are two things in this world no one should fuck with when it comes to Wanda’s possessions:

The first is you.

Once, a man accidentally brushed against you at a gallery opening and Wanda nearly bit him – throwing red wine on his white shirt and screaming at him to leave.

Once he was out of her sight, she dragged you to the nearest bathroom, leaving a deep hickey high enough on your neck that you couldn’t hide it before making you show it off to the guests for a few more hours.

The second, is her money.

It’s not that Wanda’s not charitable, far from it; she claims millions on her taxes every year.

It’s just that she’s in charge of those things. She decides who gets what and when, she controls when her Black card is used and why. When people promise to bring her a certain amount of profit, they better fucking deliver, or else…this happens.

This meaning her getting so mad she looks like she could cause wildfires. All those earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, everything – those aren’t tectonic plates, no, they’re something much more powerful.

Wanda’s anger can move mountains, make species go extinct.

And, most important by far, it can make you shake in fear.

“That fucker, I should have known when he asked that I wear some fucking,” you can hear the venom in her voice, spitting over everything as she grabs the Stoch – the nice stuff, from the lockbox deep in the cupboard. She throws the bags of junk food – the chips you like and the cookies she loves – across the kitchen before stabbing in the code with her perfectly manicured nails. She doesn’t speak until she’s had two sips straight from the container, face wincing slightly before she sets it back on the counter. “To wear some fucking slip to the meet up, as if he needed to see me in anything at all! Ugh!” she scoffs, taking another long swig. “Must I always wear a low-cut dress to be important?”

You don’t reply, staying silent and inert as what could be the scariest thing unfolds in front of you.

Out of nowhere, she stills, taking exactly three, ten-second-in and ten-second-out breaths. It’s after that that she steps over to the large navy-blue sectional, sitting on it with her feet flat on the floor.

“Get on your fucking knees,” Wanda hisses.

You drop to the floor without hesitation, petrified.

Wanda watches you intently for a moment, jaw clenching as she moves to sit on the couch, feet flat against the floor. She pats her right hand against her right knee twice, and you immediately understand what she wants.

You fall across her knees, one arm grabbing her ankle while the other folds behind your back for her to grab – each action desperate to be obedient, to try to throw a fire blanket over the ravenous, burning thing that’s overtaken her.

There’s very little warning before she’s pulled the sundress up and bunching it into your fist, giving you little warning before leaving a slap against your ass – barely covered by the flimsy cotton underwear.

She ignores you, when you cry out, ignores you when tears begin to stream from your eyes and when blood spills from your bottom lip when it gets caught between your teeth.

It isn’t until your ass feels like it’s been branded when she lets up, inadvertently giving you a moment to breathe as she clenches her fists in front of her.

“It’s not enough!” Wanda screams, pushing you onto the floor. You fall against the wood hard, making you cry out in pain as she stomps away. “It’s not enough! Why isn’t it enough!”

Through the ringing in your ears you can hear her in the bedroom, the distinct sound of a six-bolt padlock being clicked open ricocheting in your eardrums. The only thing locked with that sort of hardware is the chest Wanda keeps all your kink-related items in, separating into layers by the degree of play.

It starts light at the top; blindfolds and a few cute collars with equally cute pet names engraved onto small heart-shaped nameplates. One of them is even diamond-encrusted, PROPERTY OF WANDA spelled out in bold print across pink faux leather. You can picture them even as your brain becomes fuzzy, can see them vividly against a distinct white velvet Wanda picked out especially.

The second layer, and the third (due to the size of the collection) are dildos, vibrators, butt plugs of more sizes and varieties than you can count. You can hear her removing those two shelves hastily, tearing through the rest of the box until she gets to the last level, the one you fear the most:

They’re rarely used, only barely broken in. A spreader bar Natasha got Wanda as a gag gift about a year ago. A riding crop Wanda bought at a kink convention awhile ago on an intoxicated whim. A thick collar meant for posture made of pure, soft leather and a solid gold latch. And, lastly, a fine leather ball gag, deep and black and beautifully handmade.

All four of them stiff and mean, just like Wanda in times like these.

She calls you into the bedroom with a shout, smiling when she hears you rushing from your felled position in the living room.

You can see the last fleeting moment of it when you cross the threshold, see that her anger has an end and this is not some permanent fixture in your still-budding relationship.

“Down,” she says simply, and you drop, sitting back on your heels.

Your hands remain palms-down on your thighs with your spine straight as one of those expensive paintings that decorate so many of the walls in the place you and her call home.

It stays that way – your spine parallel to the walls – as the collar is dangled in front of your eyes before being secured around your neck.

“Too tight?” Wanda asks, emotionless.

You shake your head as she sticks two fingers, the pads pressed into the soft skin of your neck. “Good.”

The ritual is repeated for the ball gag, the toy wrapped around your head and subsequently checked for fit.

She then instructs you to get on the bed, perpendicular to her as you lay on your back. You can’t see it – but the rustling and distinct clacking sound of metal pieces moving together can tell you she’s grabbing the very toys you’re terrified of the most.

The plain white ceiling gives you something to stare at, to fixate on as you feel the soft leather cuffs tightening before being checked. It’s almost sweet – the little ritual – if it didn’t immediately lead to your imminent torture.

You can feel her stepping back, heated eyes raking up your body slowly, surely. She watches carefully as your cunt pulses under her heated gaze, watches each muscle twitch as you anxiously await her next move.

Wanda looks at you the same way you think starving lionesses look at zebras separated from the safety of their heard. Her eyes zero in on her pulsing cunt, watching for the perfect moment to-

SMACK!

The riding crop comes down quick against your center, a sharp pain causing a fiery heat to spread up your ribs and down to your toes.

“Does that hurt, baby?” Wanda coos, twirling the end of the crop between the fingers of her nondominant hand.

You nod, trying desperately to gasp for air as drool spills out of the sides of your mouth. “Mmm,” is all you can get from behind the plastic. “Hngf.”

Wanda just laughs down at you, smacking the end light enough not to hurt but hard enough to tease you.

“Aw, my pretty little thing,” a faux pout paints itself across her face. “Such a sensitive baby.”

You whine, overwhelmed and desperate and oh so desperate to press your thighs together for any kind of pressure where you need it most. But no, of course not. Wanda wants to see you struggle, looks down at you with a smirk playing across her lips as you twist and beg, hoping she’ll find it in herself to give you mercy.

Given how the hours previous had gone, though, you doubt she’ll give you any.

“I’m going to give you one of these,” Wanda snaps the crop against your left inner thigh and smirks when you yelp. “For each hundred thousand I lost today.”

You do the mental math – whole body tensing. Nineteen. You’re about to get whipped nineteen times with a toy you haven’t broken in…

Shivers run up your spine and each muscle in your body tenses – whether in fear or anticipation, you don’t know and don’t really care to find out.

The first one comes down against the same inner thigh as before, sure to leave angry hot welts that will need constant care in the next few days. The second goes against the opposite side – skin previously untouched now screaming.

The third and forth are against your hips, fifth and sixth hitting just above your knees.

You lose count after that, mind numb as your wetness pools onto the freshly cleaned comforter. Between your racing heartbeats and the blood in your ears you assumed Wanda had finished with you, but coming to for a breath of fresh air only makes to bring the final blow – this time against your cunt.

With the gag the only sounds that reverberate off the walls come from deep in your chest, screams remnant of a horror experienced from another room. Wanda smiles as she watches you squirm as sparks of pain jump across your center and thighs.

There a few moments of silence as your panting curbs to low breaths, giving you a moment for recovery as your vision clears and the ringing in your ears stops.

It’s only then that Wanda gets up, trailing her fingertips across your sweaty skin as she walks past you.

“C’mon kitten,” she murmurs, stepping out of sight and back towards the chest of toys. “Let me make you feel good…”

Your brow furrows in confusion, pulling weakly at the restraints until you hear a plug being insert into an outlet, and the distinct sound of a long, long cord being unraveled.

The sound of the vibrator makes you groan in anticipation – ecstatic and terrified of how Wanda will use it on you. If she thinks you’ve been good, maybe she’ll be nice – get you off with it pressed against your clit with three of her fingers buried deep inside of you.

Or, if she remains unsatisfied with your performance, she could keep you just on the edge or pushing you over it until your begging meets expectations or she gets bored enough to stop.

As the head is pressed to your clit you nearly scream with relief – the soft vibrations and even softer words hitting you like droplets during the first rainstorm after dry season. It washes over you, coating your skin in delicious relief as your buck your hips and cry out.

Each word, each scream, remains muffled by the sphere in your mouth, but Wanda coos down at you nonetheless.  

“Such a pretty little girl you are,” she says, watching you with the same hawkish gaze as before. It feels more reserved, though, as if she was watching over you rather than attempting to pin you down. “Such a pretty little girl for me.”

She climbs over you, then, never letting the toy leave your body as she pulls your head into her lap. Wanda looks down at you as you fall apart, watches you with eagle eyes as you cum.

As the initial waves of pleasure subside, you sigh in relief.

That is, until the head of the toy is pressed to your center once more. The next orgasm, and the one after that, and the one after that and-

They’re nearly painful as they hit you like a spray of bullet, like you’re being tased. You’re crying and doing your best to wail as you writhe around, Wanda cradling your face the entire time.

Your brain is numb when Wanda decides you had enough, whole body limb in her arms when she switches the soaked toy off.

She unties you with quick fingers, allowing you to slump against her as she takes off the rest of the restraints that litter your body.

“Rest up,” she tells you plainly as you nuzzle into her side. “I’m still pissed.”

You smile into the bare skin of her ribs, leaving a small kiss on the warm skin. Despite her tone, you can tell there’s not much behind it – fury that had settled just beneath her skin long dissipated into something she can save for the next time that man dares show his face in her presence.

There’s a pause once you stop adjusting, a heavy beat of silence that neither of you feels a need to fill. It’s a long while before either of you says anything, and even then the words are quite soft-spoken despite the two of you being the only ones in the large house.

“I love you, you know that, right?” Wanda whispers into your hair.

You give a small nod, unable to move because of the soreness attacking each of your muscles. “Yeah,” you mumble, voice equally low. “Yeah. I love you, too. Do you know that?”

Wanda smiles. “Yeah, yeah. I do.”

[be-dazzled]

Pairing: Mirajane Strauss and Laxus Dreyar Series: Fairytail Rated:18+ Warning: Explicit content

Part 1; 2; 

…

Laxus dropped to his new leather sofa and sized up his new apartment. His blond head bobbed as he looked around, pleased with his choice of new abode but not quite satisfied. There was still something or someone missing. He threw his purple shirt dress on the floor, one less cloth to work on when his girlfriend came over. Because there was no way he was going to just talk to her like she proposed. Her lovely, sweet mouth was too good for just talking and he could think of more interesting parts of her body he could place his own mouth on. The night was theirs to marry. The world was their oyster.

Oh, just the thought of touching Mira’s smooth, delicate skin did awful things to his body. Awful now that all he could do was sit and wait for her in the new apartment.

Although Laxus lost his slippers somewhere in the house, the dragon slayer still had his pants on, which was a good idea at that time he arrived at his new home. He didn’t want to ruin the leather. And honestly, he wanted Mira’s skin, not his, to have the first feel. Her bare back, to be exact, making love with the leather cushion. Some sort of apology for all the splinters and burns he gave her for the past few months he had Mira on her back, on about any flat surface they could find. But damn, that woman felt good just about anywhere.

He missed their clandestine rendezvous. But Mirajane Strauss deserved more than that sloppy sex at the dark alley behind the guild building. Or that thrilling secret sex at the stockroom one afternoon when almost all the people they both knew were at the guild hall. Laxus shifted in the comfortable couch, scratching an ache between his legs. He came close to losing his pants along with his boxers. Where the hell was that woman?

Come to think of it, that drunken evening after Lucy’s victory party started all those late night’s of her doing ‘inventory’ and him stumbling into Magnolia from his travel jobs.

But like he said, a woman of Mira’s caliber deserved slow and long love-making with scented candles and milk baths. Many would have killed to be in his shoes. To have the opportunity to shower Mirajane lavish gowns, expensive diamonds, and make love with her in impressive mansions, in front of an elaborate fireplace, on top of soft fur skins from some animal hunted down to serve the purpose. Not in a guild hall, on top of an old, crumbling table covered with his decade-old coat. The dragon slayer was quite sure many made the offer and for some twisted, unknown reason, Mirajane Strauss settled for him.

He did try to treat Mira the way she deserved. Laxus tried so hard to restrain himself, to be that gentle lover he thought matched Mirajane more. But she made him break all those restraints with the way she reacted to him – to his touch, to his bites and his kisses –or how she would beg him to bring her to her highest and whispered sweet nothings to him when she came back down. And just recently, the dragon slayer didn’t think Laxus the Gentle would make a comeback any time soon with the way Mirajane, possessed by her Satan Soul as he requested, slammed him on the table and rode him like he was only there for her pleasure.

His thoughts were interrupted by a low noise coming from the other side of the main door. He heard keys clinging and his heart jumped out of his chest. The aching would stop soon, he sighed. Laxus scrambled to his feet as the door knob turned and the door pushed open, spitting one dressed take-over mage into his apartment. Laxus didn’t let her take another step and pushed the startled barmaid up against the door to put an end to his misery.

Lips bruising lips. Hands clutching curves. Mouth biting on skin.

“Have you even had dinner?” Mira managed to ask him while her dragon slayer was busy assaulting the crook of her neck, which Laxus well knew was one of her weak points.

“I’m having mine now.”

A husky, breathy giggle escaped her lips. Then, she felt all abandoned when Laxus’ head jerked away, his brows furrowed in a quizzical look. Mirajane bit down on her lower lip, having an idea of what made her lover pull away.

“You’re not wearing underwear?”

Laxus’ wandering hand discovered nothing beneath her skirt but pure delicate skin. On some other day he’d prefer that, encourage it even, but not when he knew Mira was working the bar the whole day with all those pesky old perverts hanging around his woman.

“I took it off on the way here.”

Mira ignored the shiver in her spine being under the dragon slayer’s intense glare.

“I thought…” She hooked one arm around her slayer’s neck and slid a hand on his bare chest. Then, trying to bring his mood back, she trickled kisses on the side of his neck down its crook. “I thought you want the easy access.”

But Laxus wasn’t moved. When Mira noticed her dragon slayer didn’t react, she stopped what she was doing to look up at him, anxious.

“Did I do something wrong?”

They stared down each other for a good few breaths before the corner of Laxus’ mouth slowly raised.

He snaked his hands on the curve of her waist down her thighs, lifting the slender woman away from the door and deeper into the new apartment. He covered the floor between the door and the sofa, prompting Mirajane to circle her arms around his shoulder to keep from falling off him.

Laxus remembered that little talk he had with himself earlier. In this relationship, Mira was always the giving one, the more understanding and the more selfless, always thinking what Laxus wanted ahead of her own. That had to change. He lowered Mira on the couch.

“No. You did exactly right.”

He said, pulling away from her entirely just to take his pants and boxers off and threw it somewhere on the floor. Mira did the same, only breaking eye contact to lift her dress over her head. Her lace brassiere followed after her black dress. Laxus, then, claimed her lips once more, but unlike the way he ravished her last night and the urgency of his mouth earlier, this kiss was slow, like a slow burn on her already heated skin. Both her hands yanked on his hair, telling him it was okay to get rough but he wasn’t getting the message. Her eyes forced open when Laxus began to lift her off the comfortable leather and flipped their positions in a slick maneuver.

Now, Laxus seated on the sofa while Mira was left straddling him between her legs.

“You’re in-charge, Demon.”

It took a few blinks for Mira to finally understand what was happening. The moment she had a grasp of that torch he was passing to her, Mira immediately put it to good use. Her canine found the soft skin of the crook of his neck and she plunged them onto it. His skin dipped, the ends of her teeth forming on the bare flesh. It hurt but nothing a dragon-slayer couldn’t handle.

“Finally found a use for those demon fangs?”

Mira ran her tongue over her masterpiece.

“Just marking my territory.” She said. Then, Mira did the same ministrations on the other side of his neck – sucking, biting then licking. “Don’t wear your coat tomorrow.”

“But people will gonna see.” He distractedly said, a foolish smile plastered on his gratified face.

Mirajane didn’t respond but with the way she was working on him, Laxus got the feeling that was exactly the point of this doing. He liked it. He liked it when his woman was being possessive. But the lower part of his body was getting lonely. And he needed to be inside of Mirajane, now. He restrained himself, however, reminding that stubborn erection that they both gotta wait since they put the Demon Soul in-charge.

Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait that long. Mira reached between them, seeking his hard erection, wrapping her delicate fingers around the shaft. A low, throaty growl escaped under his gritted teeth. Mirajane peppered him with feather kisses as she worked her hand on him. Up and down. Up and down. She didn’t seem to be an expert at it but Mirajane Strauss giving him a hand-job was fvcking gold.

The sensation forced Laxus’ lids shut. He was sure Mira had stopped kissing him to watch his face twinge in pleasure at her ministrations. But he couldn’t seem to care about what Mirajane was doing so long as she kept her hand on him, pumping that fist, giving him the best time of his life. He was losing all thoughts, gripping at Mira’s skin as he felt that familiar tug below his belly. He bit his lower lip, trying to control and prevent his own release. It would be embarrassing to explode into her hand. No. Laxus wouldn’t let his male pride get trampled on. He wasn’t going to…

“Do you want me to suck it?”

The whispered question forced Laxus’ eyes to open. If he wasn’t so concerned about his male pride, Laxus was sure he would have let himself go.

“Y-yes, please.”

He held her stare as Mira slid off him, biting down a giggle from his cute stutter, nudging his legs apart and placing herself in between them. She gave him one last look before Mira lowered her gaze at his erection bulging in her hand. She moved her lips close to it, opening her mouth and sliding his penis inside her wet, warm mouth, taking as much of him as possible. Laxus threw his head back, sucking in a breath at the warm sensation of her mouth sheathing his shaft, the head hitting the back of Mira’s throat. The fact that this demon could take a lot almost made him explode in that instant. He was, after all, very much gifted in that area.

Self control, Laxus. He told himself. Self. Control.

He barely could contain himself when Mira’s tongue started caressing the bulging veins of his shaft.

“Mira…” His voice was low and shaky fighting the urge to rock his hip against her head, even when she hummed with his penis inside her mouth. He tangled his fingers through her silky silver hair. The vibration almost sent him to the very edge. Mira slowly bobbed her head. Licking and stroking. Sucking the lightning dragon slayer slow and hard. Then, faster and faster until he gloriously finished into her mouth, a strained snarl tumbled out of his lips. Mira stayed with him until it was over.

Laxus pulled Mira to her feet and sat her on his lap. She planted her knees on either side of his thighs, resting her chin on his shoulder, waiting for him to recover.

“You can still get it back up, right?” Mira knew the answer but she wanted to make sure. After all, she was still very much turned on.

Laxus answered him with a boyish laugh. “If you have to ask that, I’m starting to worry about my performance for these last few months we’re together.” But he obviously was joking, pulling his girlfriend into a tight embrace. She smiled against his neck.

“Hmmm. Should I work on it again?” She was sounding a little impatient because she was, very much impatient. And that, somehow, the fact that Mira was rushing to have him inside her, did the trick. Just a little more cooing and that thing between his legs would definitely respond.

“A little making out will do.”

Laxus claimed her lips, locking them together in a tamed kiss. He dragged his mouth down her neck then her cleavage, drawing one breast into his wet, hot mouth. His hands didn’t stay idle; one palming her breast, kneading the mound the way he knew drove her crazy, while the other held her against him, keeping her from falling off him. Listening to her moans and cries of his name did the job, hardening his erection. Then, his hand reached in between them, palming and pressing her core, confirming what he already knew – that Mira was wet and oh so ready for him.

Normally, he would tease her; make Mira beg for it, for him. But with what she has done for him earlier, this demon didn’t deserve to be kept waiting.

He released her breast from his mouth with a wet pop, earning a puzzled look from the woman. Her concern quickly dropped when she realized what Laxus was about to do – hooking his arms underneath her thighs and lowering her into his erection. Slowly, until the bulbous head hit her cervix. He could barely get himself together as her walls close in and clasped around his penis, sheathing him with her warmth.

“You feel so good, Mira.”

Mirajane dug her nails on his shoulders, shutting her eyes close from the mix of sensation. She wasn’t in pain but it didn’t feel comfortable either. At least, not yet. She expected Laxus to move. When she opened her eyes, Laxus was staring up at her, waiting, gaze turning sultry by every passing moment. Then, she remembered Laxus put her in-charge. Mira used Laxus’ strong and wide shoulder as support, pushing her self up and sinking down on his hard erection. Once again, she quickly lose grip on her thoughts as Laxus slid in and out of her in a slow and steady rhythm.

“Laxus…” His name stumbled out of her lips as Mira slowly moved up and down his long shaft. Her eyes widened when Laxus started to move along with her, shoving his hips upward beneath her, hitting all the right places.

“Oh my gahd!”

That’s when her body demanded that she go faster and higher with every stroke, to ride him like she was the Queen of the damn Cavalry.

Faster. Harder. Mira couldn’t even think straight anymore. Her head felt fuzzy as the pleasure continued to build inside her. She threw her head back, intertwining her fingers behind Laxus’ head for support, and let out her voice into the room. She didn’t even care if Laxus’ neighbors might hear. Mira needed to let it out, to release some of the tension that was setting her body on fire, as she felt her first orgasm ready to rip her anew.

“Gahd, Laxus. It feels so good.”

That’s when he knew he was driving her to the edge, to the point of no return.

“Don’t stop or I’ll kill you.”

He wasn’t planning on it. Laxus forced himself to stare at his woman, to watch her go after her own orgasm. But that didn’t mean he’d watch idly and withhold help. That wasn’t how this relationship worked. So, Laxus reached between them and rubbed her sensitive bundle with the pad of his fingers. A scream tore from her lips and Mira dropped her head forward to watch his expert hands rubbing her clit in a circular motion.

“That’s it, Demon.” He encouraged, biting his own lip to make sure he didn’t finish ahead of his Demon.

Needing his warmth and the pleasurable friction, Mira pulled herself against him, pressing her breasts against his chest. Her bounces were fast but shallow as the race to her peak intensified.

And then, Mira jumped. She dove into that mind-numbing pleasure head first.

She shuddered on top of him, stilling as she waited for the wave of one of the most powerful orgasms of her life pass. Then she collapsed on him, gasping for air, and then placing light kisses on his ear as some sort of thank you. The lightning dragon slayer stroke his girlfriend’s spine, fingers merely grazing her moist skin, waiting for Mira to catch up with her breathing. A few minutes of silence passed and the take-over mage finally managed to form words, “Your turn, babe.” She whispered into his ear.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Laxus cupped her bottom, lifting her off the couch along with him; only to change their position without breaking contact. He gently laid Mira on the flat of the new couch, her back against the cool leather. Laxus planted his palm on either side of her head, gazing down at his flushed woman. He studied his features first: eyes half-open, mouth slightly parted, her silver bangs sticking to her forehead. He cleared them off her face so he could fully enjoy the beauty before him with no obstructions.

“You’re so beautiful, Mira.” He heaved out a defeated sigh. “And you’re mine.” Which was true. He was never one to go all sappy during sex but it was impossible not to appreciate Mira’s beauty. Especially, just after she climbed down from her peak. She was glowing.

Mira smiled up to him, reaching a hand to caress the side of his face.

“All yours, Dragon.”

He dipped his head for a kiss, tongue tasting the buffet in her mouth. He kept kissing her as he moved, swallowing her every moan in his mouth. Gradually, he picked up his pace, driving into her faster, slamming against her harder. Relentless. Mira’s cries echoed in the room, chanting ‘oh gahd, Laxus. Laxus. Laxus.’ like a spell. He was almost sure he’d get complaints from his neighbors tomorrow. Like he cared. He was driving his woman crazy with pleasure and that’s all that mattered. He wasn’t going to stop, thrusting into her with the need to be as deep as possible when he came.

“All mine, Mira.”

And he did. His body stilled on top of Mira as his own release clenched his belly and turned his body into stone. It felt so good for Mira too that Laxus’ hot release set off another orgasm and some more aftershocks.

“All. Mine.” confessed Laxus into her ear, punctuating the words with short, hard thrusts before he collapsed beside her on the couch.

…

The hours passed with Laxus and Mira breaking in all the new furniture the lightning dragon slayer bought for the occasion. They had to since Laxus claimed he bought them thinking how Mirajane would look good on top of them, against them, underneath them, wearing nothing but her sweet, sweet smile.

They started at his new round dining table when Laxus went up for a glass of water to bring to his dehydrated girlfriend. Then, up against his new fridge because she followed him and asked for another glass of water. His newly painted wall because… well, because Mira’s skin looked good against it. They rolled over the entire floor until they finally ended at his new, king-sized bed – him on his back and Mira lying on her stomach on top of him. They were tired. Spent. Mira rested her head on his chest as while he lazily played with her silver hair between his fingers.

Laxus stared up at the ceiling breathing heavily. Unlike the woman on top of him, the dragon-slayer couldn’t seem to get a shut-eye.

“Mira…” he called out. Only to be answered by a soft hmmm. “Mirajane? Babe, are you awake?”

“No.” She sleepily answered, stirring in her position.

It felt weird – funny weird – that he was now the one who wanted to talk when it was always Mira who talked his ear off after sex.

“Babe? The boys giving you a hard time at the guild?”

He heard a grunt. And Laxus laughed his heart out, Mira’s head bobbing along with the heave of his chest as he did. The reversal of their roles wasn’t lost on him.

“I’ll give them a word tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to Laxus. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Mira was still not like her old chatty self. Last night seemed to be repeating itself. He remembered how her mood soured when they talked about liking Mirajane’s demon side. An ugly idea crossed his mind. Was she still mad about that?

“Hey, is this about what I said last night?” He looked down at her silver head while his fingers now stroked the skin on her back. “Because I really do like all sides of you.” Laxus tried his luck at being the funny boyfriend, “The back side,” he cupped her bottoms, gripping them between his fingers. “Right side,” he slid his big hand on her side and up to palm her right breast, earning a muffled moan from his woman. “The left side…” doing the same to her left breast. “But most of all,” Laxus reached between them, “the front side.” He cupped her very naked core, parting the flesh, fingers stroking the sensitive bundle that had Mira squirming on top of him.

“Laxus, don’t.” She pulled his hand away from between her legs. “Let me rest for awhile.”

Obviously, she wasn’t in the mood and Laxus wasn’t going to push it. He couldn’t blame her wanting her much deserved rest after going at it round after round. He couldn’t blame himself either. Every single day away from her was torture. His frustrations built up over those months that he was on a job and couldn’t have some relief with random strangers. He’d given up the lifestyle two months into this arrangement, which turned into a relationship, with Mirajane.

However, if there was one thing he’d learned from the multiple fights they had, it was that he couldn’t allow neither one of them to go to sleep without getting into the bottom of the problem. They both had the tendency to sweep everything under the rug instead of dealing with it. Then, one day, it would all explode into their faces. And when Mirajane explodes, she 'explodes’.

Laxus tipped her chin, wanting her to look up at him.

“Hey, I really am going to talk to them.”

“They’re not the problem, Laxus.” Mira sighed in defeat, saying goodbye to a night of good sleep.

“Then what is?”

Mira heaved out another long breath. She looked like she was thinking it over, whether to say it or no; her silence was leaning to no.

“As soon as they get wind that you’re in town, they flock over the guild and clean us out.”

Or settling on a vague answer.

Laxus had inkling on what this cold-shoulder treatment was all about. He wasn’t quite sure if Mirajane Strauss was even capable of jealousy but this 'them’ she was talking about was certainly his groupies. He asked just to be clear.

“Who?”

“Your fans.”

Definitely, jealous.

Laxus tightened his arms around Mirajane’s slim body; possessively, in case she didn’t get the message. He knew Mirajane wasn’t exactly the person you’d like to anger. It probably killed her having to put up a smile in front of those women who wanted to claim him, unknowingly wanting to take him away from her. He wanted them to know he wasn’t available. That he already belonged to Fairy Tail’s Satan Soul.

“Well, what do you want me to–”

“–can we just stop talking about it?” He heard her puff, obviously worked up about the topic. “I’d really like to get some sleep. I’m about to open the guild in… four, five hours tops.” She finished around a yawn.

He felt her stir on top of him, probably shifting to his side. Laxus wouldn’t allow it. He liked being tangled with her in these new sheets. But above all, he loved feeling her bare skin against his own, sharing in her heat, basking in her warmth and soaking in it.

“Just ask Kinana to cover your shift.” He suggested. “I’ll be out on another job–”

“–You just got here.”

Mirajane planted both her palms on his bare chest and lifted her head to stare down at him. Her brows knitted in the middle, obviously surprised and disappointed with Laxus’ news.

“This apartment isn’t cheap to pay, you know. And besides,” He went to straighten the crease on her forehead, “I’ll be back in no time.”

“Well, you didn’t have to go renting such expensive apartment. Didn’t master offer–”

“–I’m an adult, Mira.” He interrupted, slighted with what his girlfriend was insinuating. “I’m not gonna stay in that old man’s basement. Besides, that old geezer doesn’t understand privacy.”

“You just wanted a place to bring your girls to.” quipped Mira, pressing the other side of her cheek on his warm, bare chest.

Laxus knew it was a jab at his old reputation – the womanizer lightning dragon slayer who had the finest women each city he travelled to had to offer. He didn’t take offense as he knew it was just Mira teasing him.

“One girl. I just wanted to bring one girl home.”

Feeling a little witty, Mira lifted her head and once again sought Laxus’ sunset eyes. “Yeah? Which one?” The quirk of the corner of her mouth made sure she he knew was just playing with him.

He answered with a grunt, falling back into his old, grumpy self. Mira giggled at this reaction, the cause of her sour mood all forgotten.

Then, when Mira went back seeking slumber on top of her muscled boyfriend and silence filled the air, Laxus began to ask.

“What do you think of the apartment?”

“I think it’s too plain for your taste. And too big for just one person.” She didn’t even stutter, answering him candidly without moving from her comfortable position.

Laxus knew she had already made her own opinion and drew her judgment the first moment she stepped into that expensive apartment. He, too, made his own judgment the moment he saw it.

“That’s because one, I wanted you to decorate it and two, this isn’t meant for one person alone.”

He waited for the woman to put two and two together and started to worry when a long time passed and she hasn’t responded. Laxus wondered if he had to spell it out for her.

“Mira?”

Then, there was a confused gasp. As expected, Laxus was now faced with equally surprised and slightly uncertain blue eyes.

“Laxus, a-are you asking me to–”

“–move in with me, Mirajane.” He finished for her, a foolish smile plastered across his face. He’d thought about it for so long, had run scenarios in his head on how she would respond: throwing herself to him, wrapping her arms around him tightly, and crying in happiness. Laxus was sure the last one was the most plausible.

Except that he didn’t expect how it would actually play out.

“No!”

Wait. Hold on. Back up.

“What?!”

[clansayeed]

Bound by Choice ― III.i. A Funeral and a Pyre

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ PART III ⥽

— Virginia, 1857. It was supposed to be their chance at freedom — their Shadow Kingdom. Instead it has become a battlefield. Tensions rise as the nation whispers of civil war and humans and vampires alike learn even freedom demands blood. No more will they pray to be saved. Not when the Shadow eclipses the Dawn.

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The Trinity will always be fighting for their freedom. The Godmaker has made sure of that.

WARNING: this chapter contains mature sexual content

[READ IT ON AO3]

Virginia, 1857

They get a fair distance from camp before it dawns on them both. They aren’t far enough.

Perhaps they have been spending too much time around mortal-kind. Not that either man would admit it.

So a fair distance goes just a little but further. Until their ears cannot pick up the din of tin flatware and the crackle of the fire. If they cannot hear their companions then they, too, cannot be heard.

The canopy is thin this time of year — summer long-gone and autumn welcomed in its place in falling leaves and nights that leave bitter fingertips come morning light.

Fingertips that, now and finally blissfully alone, come together in barely-there touches. They know the other’s touch as well as—if not better than—their own. Proven as much in the surety of their actions. In the wordless way their foreheads come together and share the things that should repulse them; the dirt and sweat and gunpowder clinging in vain.

But they know better; know one another better know themselves better than to think something as temporary as the earth beneath their boots could lessen their inevitable desires.

The rugged palm of his forever comes up to hold Cynbel’s cheek — to capture this moment in time and bring it to the reverent place where they keep every other.

Distraught are the souls who are unknown of such rapture, he thinks — and pities them, that they may try to take their god into themselves in words and scripture, but know flesh is beyond them.

He’ll never know what blind faith feels like. He walked in to his faith with eyes wide open and led by a divine hand.

Supplies are low—have been for some time though that is a thought for any time but now—but they make due. Use blood and spit and take their precious time while grass tickles their bare skin. At one point a dead leaf crumbles under Valdas’ palm and the pair laugh at the sight. Find joy in the little moments even after all these years.

And oh, how many years there have been. How is it that each time is as familiar and as new as their first had been? How is he so lucky?

Valdas stills inside of him; eclipses the sliver of the moon overhead as if he was not already Cynbel’s sky and stars. “Does my lovemaking bore you?”

What a ridiculous question. “Never.”

“Then what has you both beneath me and so very far away?”

Ah. He nods, feels the catch of twigs in his hair absently. Runs long fingers up the canvas of Valdas’ outer thigh before gripping it tight to hold them together as only lovers know.

“Do you know something I hate about this continent?”

Valdas barks a laugh. “I know many things you hate about America, my darling. You never waste an opportunity to make that abundantly clear.”

“Fair point.”

“But for the sake of the vice-grip you have on my cock, what do you hate about this continent, Cynbel?”

As amusing as it would be to torture them both for hours upon hours… They just don’t have that kind of time here.

“There are no ruins. No crumbled temples or ill-kept shrines. Well… none that have not been bastardized by invaders but —” but he, too, would seek release at least thrice tonight, “— and somehow the lack of such things makes me miss them all the more. It makes me miss your altar all the more, my Holy One.”

He smiles as recognition can be found in the dark eyes overhead. In the curve of Valdas’ smirk and the way he rolls his hips and brings them together near-seamlessly.

“While I too find myself reminiscing on such glory days —” the man beneath him keens in pleasure, body scrambling desperately to keep him inside but unable to deny him, “— I don’t let them take priority over the now. Especially when now is equally glorious.”

Valdas punctuates the word with a jerk of his hand, stroking Cynbel in something akin to haste. A direct opposition to his leisurely fucking. And while the contrast is good enough to bring his devoted progeny back with him to the present something unfamiliar lingers.

Hesitation. Doubt?

“It… is found equally so Cynbel… right?”

Perhaps before he would have taken such a question as insult. Would have disparaged his god for believing him to be anything other than in a constant state of growing love for him. Before all of this.

Before the war.

Thankfully for them both Valdas knows better than to take his lover’s silence as an answer he may not wish to hear. Resumes his pace and lets it build — lets them build. But his patience has a limit. Cynbel would know… he’s been the test of it for millennia now. He will have his answer before the night is through.

And he does — his golden son’s spite showing through in that he withholds it until Valdas falls atop the length of him, utterly spent and not in the least bit sated. Sweat and orgasm smeared between the places they long to knit together. To become one.

“It is not.”

The body above his tenses, readies to pull away. But it is only in things like this that Cynbel can refuse his Lord and Light. Only in the ways that ensure they are kept close; that they are kept whole and together.

Valdas pulls his head back enough to look up with guarded eyes. Sees mirth reflected back in dim pools of blue and the frustration he feels isn’t unknown to either of them. Though it is usually reserved for their beloved third.

Cynbel cards his fingers through Valdas’ dark hair and continues, “It can never be equally so, never in all our years. Because, my petulant divinity, each time with you is made ripe with age, seasoned with our years and the things we have done together, done with Isseya.

“It is never the same. It is always better.”

It is how they came to start and how they will end.

Though, he thinks — and lets himself fall back into the embrace of the earth with his religion hovering atop him, enveloping him; keeping him safe and giving him purpose in this endless labyrinth of eternity, if they are truly so blessed it will not be for many years to come.

Cynbel always makes sure he is the last of their regiment to enter the mines. Not only to ensure the safety of his beloveds but because it gives him the chance to see the barest ridges of sunrise over the steep Virginia hills. He waits until his eyes burn and send tears tracking hot down his cheeks — and then just a moment more.

He is never more glad of having no need to breathe than he is here. The newest among them still cover their mouths with scraps of cloth as though it is the coal around them they must fear, not the circumstances in which they have found themselves.

Especially to those such as the Trinity. To have wandered the freedom of the undiscovered world only now to cower under piles of stone.

One way in, one way out.

One more thing stacked against their favor in this their war for survival.

The hard-packed dirt makes it impossible for him to settle comfortable. Cynbel tries his best to find distraction in something—anything. And would be lost if he did not have the beauty of Isseya to gaze upon in the black.

She removes her hat and goes about the same routine she always does come morning light. Removes each of the fastenings that pin up her hair with the same care she used to give to the finest silks and fastenings of pure gold. The uniform she wears now does not do her justice — rather the opposite. She makes the ill-fitting coat look worthy of royalty even now.

“You’re staring.”

His smile is biological; instinctual. “Can you blame me? You know I have a weakness for pretty things.”

“Indeed…” she cards through her hair; lets the waves rest and he couldn’t possibly find her anything other than ethereal, “as I know they will be your undoing. You linger too long, Cynbel.”

Yet even as she says it she leans against him. Emotions are beyond the touch of flesh, now. And in this dirty hole no better than the coffins they have avoided for two thousand years… he cannot imagine doing it without her comfort.

“Yes yes — save it. I’ve heard it all before.”

“When you were feeding regularly. And I don’t chide you for stealing a moment away with our beloved—really I don’t. But you’re both fools for choosing not to conserve your strength.”

Their eyes meet in the dark. Held in a gaze of mutual longing… before he throws an arm around her shoulders and pulls her tighter against him. “Careful, Iss’. You almost sound responsible.”

“Someone has to be, what with you two wandering the woods like incubi.”

“What happened to the fun Isseya? I miss her.”

“Piss off…”

Their words may sting but all is soothed in a kiss. Long enough to make the vampires trying to sleep on the other side of the tunnel shift in discomfort — because she still is his darling minx at heart. But without her clear head they might not have lasted this long.

“Where is Valdas?”

Cynbel rests their foreheads close. “First watch.” Immediately he feels Isseya’s anger — holds her ever-tighter to ensure she doesn’t do anything brash. Not much for them to do stuck in here as they are, but he understands. “This is why he did not tell you. Relax, my love, please. We would not be here if it was not a secure place to hide from the daylight.”

The day watch is something they all must endure at one point or another. Such is their duty to the regiment; a task that discriminates on nothing and asks only that you do your part. As they all are doing their parts in this war.

And, as he is quite sure Isseya will agree, he rests easier knowing the one on the front line, the first defense between a den of sleeping vampires and the onslaught of the Order, is someone he would (and has) trusted with his life for thousands of years before.

For example — the scraggly boy who sits across, whose head keeps lolling around from slumber only to wake himself back up — Cynbel would rather place his fate in the hands of, say, Kamilah Sayeed. That boy looks like he can defend nothing.

But surely he looks no better. Starving as he is and now with a night of rough passion to further sap his strength.

One more day of this and they will reach Charlottesville. Hopefully with enough moonlight left in the night to sate their hunger. Even the thought of a neck, warm and not-necessarily-willing, underneath his mouth leaves him craven.

Isseya sees the needless torture in his eyes and at the very least it helps to know he isn’t alone.

Falling asleep is the hardest part. While Cynbel hasn’t slept alone in over a thousand years he isn’t exactly accustomed to sharing quarters with more than his lovers. With more than those he know intimately. Now he is expected to share the daylight hours meant for rest with complete strangers; their faces and stories ever-changing, one swapped out for another with every battle and every loss. More losses than he cares to think about — even if the dead have no one to blame but themselves for their fate.

But like all things it is made easier with her presence. Her touch, her breath on his neck. The Children of Valdemaras cling to one another among the rest and know that they are together.

And together they are made immortal.

It is rare to find a church in disrepair in these times. Faith seems to have an endless strength with which to carry humanity. And with which to draft them for battle, he thinks, and knows he isn’t the only one who finds a twisted sense of satisfaction as they pass the church’s boarded-up front doors.

Charlottesville. The last safe place left for their kind in the colonies — though even those were but a sliver of the developing nation that called itself America. While most cities and towns would be found with barren midnight streets it is the opposite here. Cynbel’s roaming eyes take in clusters of evening gatherers, are taken in themselves by the very same, and they simply know.

They were all summoned by the same man after all.

Even in the midst of a war for their very survival Cynbel finds it hard to believe the Godmaker has even the slightest capacity for compassion. Once upon a time it was simply fact that Augustine cared for naught but his ambitions. But over time all facts from the Old World were becoming irrelevant; laughable superstition even.

He would amend his beliefs, then. Allow for the same leniency Augustine had shown them no more than a decade ago — the wolves let back among the rest of the pack to ensure their species would continue. Would have a chance to continue.

The lists of names in smudge-free care that hang in the foyer, however, would challenge those beliefs further.

Near a dozen frames hang on either side of the corridor stretching back into the heart of Augustine’s Manor. He recognizes the handwriting to be the same from the missive which drew them all to Virginia in the first place. Takes in each name as passively as he does the faces of the flock.

What good does it do him to idolize the fallen? No longer will they accomplish anything worth being honored for.

Isseya’s hand brushes against his; a subtle comfort in unfamiliar territory. One he returns in kind.

“Remember,” she says to him, says to Valdas half a step ahead of them both, “all of this will be worth it in the end. Our freedom will be sweeter than the spoils of this war.”

Still, Cynbel’s upper lip curls in distaste. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then look it, perhaps?”

The last page must be a recent addition. The lacquered frame shiny and new and without dust, the wall around it smelling of fresh paint. And inside — a memorial not-yet finished, the last name still an aching distance away from the bottom of the page.

Hung in effigy and removed when the time comes to grow the collection of the dead.

“It’s these names…” Cynbel catches his reflection and stops; takes in the gaunt hollowness of his eternal youth in the protective glass, “they mock me — they mock us all.”

Valdas watches him with an unreadable expression. “They are the fallen.”

“They are the weak.” He corrects, in that moment made no more than men on equal standing.

“Weak enough to fail; to die. There is no honor in only being remembered after you’re dead. Honor me in life—demand more of me than I have already achieved. Instead of… idolizing me in my failure.”

Battles bring out in him the thrilled hunter. Wars, however, have made him old and temperamental.

Valdas’ hand finds his, laces their fingers together sure and strong. Isseya’s soft hand on his cheek is the only thing that drags Cynbel’s eyes from his contempt and to them — he could never look at them in such a way and they know it.

“We are fortunate then to never have to worry about such things.” She reminds him. And it is enough.

Together the Trinity is led onward. Passed what must have been built as a polished office but instead serves better purpose as a war room. Papers and maps strewn on every available surface and then some. The toll war takes on even those as seasoned as the Godmaker brought to life.

One map is hammered into the wall obscuring a painting of some kind. Knowing Augustine — one of his many portraits sacrificed for the ‘greater good.’ He recognizes landmarks and the border territories of Virginia’s surrounding states all hidden underneath spools’ worth of colored yarn acting as… as…

Ah, he understands after the office and map are several paces abandoned. Dark wax seals acting as markers for battles Cynbel himself had participated in… had fled from against everything gnawing hungry at his gut…

Far more losses than victories. Their supply routes bottlenecked — then extinguished. Fewer and fewer safe places to hold down fort through the long summering days to come. Battle after battle has blinded him to the truth now laid bare; unavoidable.

The Order is winning.

The air in the dining room, when they arrive, is a stifling heat. The smell of gas lingering high towards the ceiling. Antique candelabras—remnants from the Old World—stand vigil over a feast of kings. Sweet breads still steaming and the ashy aroma of well-bred meats. Vegetables no doubt from the fields they had just passed through on their journey. All decadent — all utterly wasteful.

All no better than a table of writhing maggots and soured mold in the face of the real hunger that consumes them.

“Valdemaras — how kind of you to finally grace us with your presence.”

Of course the Godmaker’s first words are a snide remark. Cynbel expects nothing less. But to bite the hand that feeds now would be suicide. He bites his tongue instead.

The King and Queen of Vampires take up either end of the long oak table. Guests — an unexpected and certainly unwelcome surprise — litter across the length of it. He can smell the blood in their wine glasses. Reaches out to cut his nail into Isseya’s palm to keep himself in check.

Cynbel doesn’t have to look up to know Augustine is looking upon the pair of them, Valdas’ only children, with disdain.

“I believe I told the messenger boy the nature of this meeting.”

Valdas nods; his chin raised among his lessers but eyes downcast in the face of his Maker. “A meeting of officers, yes. The message was relayed in full.”

“Then explain yourself.” Why are they with you, the question unasked. That he still has to ask in some form or another after all these years…

“Where I go they will follow. Always.”

Always.

But this war has changed more than the Trinity — it has changed the so-called ruler of their people. Gaius’ noise of discontent is only brief; stifled with supper. He waves to an empty seat on his right. “Enough time has been wasted in anticipation of your arrival. Join us and send your ilk elsewhere.”

“I would see them fed after the long journey.”

“Very well.”

Though their devotion is like a brand upon their shared skins — their love as famous as their cruelty, as infamous as the bodies left in their wake — Cynbel and Isseya don’t allow themselves the pettiness that might come with the way Valdas takes his leave of them. They must play their role as their Lord and Light plays his. All of it an act; dancing around a carnival faire for the Godmaker’s amusement.

When the curtain closes they will be free of him. Valdas ensures it with every placating act. He is willing to sacrifice for them — how could they do anything less but the same?

They wait until he is seated. A young boy approaches with a pitcher and pours their beloved his fresh meal. Their eyes meet over the head of a bearded officer and Cynbel knows his beloved will not consume in front of them. In solidarity.

“Leave!” Augustine barks; they do not give him chance to do so twice.

They arrive at the end of a funeral. Isseya recognizes the sight of ashes catching on the breeze; carrying whoever they once were far off and to a better life than the one that failed them.

How very… human. The sight of it nearly ruins his appetite.

In front of a dozen or so gathered stands a lone man. In his hands rests a plain box bearing no carvings or paint. The dead as nameless as the living.

Together they have no intention of stopping — when Cynbel feels resistance in their held hands he even looks at her as though she’s gone a touch mad.

But his beloved girl’s focus is cast over the field of grass to the ceremony. A furrow he does not like crinkles restless on her brow. They keep their distance but, for all intents and purposes, join in.

The leader’s voice carries rich and sweet over them all.

“It is from Her blood we are made anew; given strength and life where there was none to be found. But with each life born another must depart, for only She may live forever. And in that eternity we must believe She will be there to welcome our fallen friend, that She will accept the gift he now gives — Her strength no longer needed in this life.

“In these ill times, my brothers and sisters, the journey seems an unending path. But with each departed Her power grows… And I believe that by the end of this war it will be enough to see Her risen again, to bring Her to us in our darkest hour. Have faith beside me and She will see it rewarded.”

Cynbel would recognize such a reverence anywhere — bastardized by the New World though it may be. Of course the Godmaker had taken upon himself an opportunity that could not be passed up. The First Son of Valdemaras can’t say he wouldn’t have done the same in Augustine’s shoes.

Everyone needed something to believe in. Someone in which to rest their faith when they believed their destiny out of their own hands.

Not all were as lucky as Cynbel and Isseya. Not all were able to see the living face of their god and know the surety that came with it.

Not all yet understood that none could make their path but themselves. Divine intervention would not come unless one took it by the reins.

Or… in Valdas’ case, anyway, the fangs.

“Must we really house ourselves among these fanatics?” Whispers his darling, and Cynbel’s nod is a reluctant one.

“Better than a mine shaft.”

“And not with our heart.”

“He will join us soon enough. Rather in this life than in the home that Augustine would no doubt set aflame if we even tried.”

The look he gives her is rueful enough. Presses a solid kiss to her frown because he hates the sight of it, truly, and they leave the mourners to their invisible Goddess and Her empty promises for the promise of temporary peace.

Inside the barn has been converted into barracks for their like. Windows covered in layers of cloth and boarded up for good measure. Anything to keep the numbers of Augustine’s army. The Trinity exchange looks and know they are of the same mind; that to stay in such squalor is, as he said, “better than a mine shaft” but not by much.

They used to rest their heads under endless skies. After that with headboards of marble, of gold. Sheets beneath bare flesh woven by expert hands until they bled… and then more. Certainly more than the thin cots of stuffed hay and threadbare blankets they take up in this hellish space.

The blood is fresh enough to still be liquid in the bowls they take but only just. It curdles on the back of Cynbel’s tongue to the point where he has to hold Isseya’s hand near-breaking to stomach it. And on an empty stomach it refuses to settle — makes him feel sluggish and not at all satisfied.

Isseya coaxes Cynbel to sit on the edge of a bunk near the back of their quarters. Lets him hang his head while she comes up from behind and eases his uniform from his shoulders. That her touch does not immediately excite him is a testament to how hungry he truly is — but she knows him well enough by now not to take offense.

She’s seen him in the heat of the slaughter after all. Let her nakedness be a canvas of blood of which he was a master on par with the greats of the Renaissance.

They have before and they will again. Together. A trinity.

Though the closed-off space makes it impossible to know for certain Cynbel is sure he can feel morning dogging at the heels of the vampires who finally join them. Their things already resting by besides, some sharing a bucket of well-water to wash old blood from their bowls; they have called this place home for longer than the lovers.

The contentment of their routine disgusts him. The ageless thumbs pressing into the base of his spine eases that hatred only just.

She works him as she always has — down to the bone and further still. His muscles gone pliant under her touch, craven for it to continue. Desperate for the solace only she can provide.

Hands that once slaughtered her own family in the name of the Made-God and his Firstborn… that would have soaked endless stretches of land in blood if it meant appeasing them.

They pretend to sleep before they really are. He pulls Isseya on top of him and she doesn’t resist in the least. Here at least they can sleep comfortable even if it only ends up being the barest definition of the word.

Cynbel hears a whisper that might sound something like “They’ll break the cot that way,” but he’s hungry, he’s exhausted, and damnable hells he’s horny too and Isseya’s no prude but neither of them are in any fit state to be working themselves up right now.

So he lets it slide. This time. But his generosity has its limits.

They’ve gotten so used to the darkness of the mines during their slumbering hours that seeing sunlight stream through one uncovered sliver in the barn thatching is jarring to say the least.

But it reminds Cynbel of better times. Some happier — some not. But all of them better. Better than this hell he cannot even find contentment in. If it were a hell of his own making, perhaps… but it is not even that!

“What are you thinking about?”

The bunk they’ve taken is several cots away from the last of the vampires. And Isseya — his darling girl knows exactly how to whisper so their better ears cannot hear. Usually used for things of a far more seductive and sultry nature… but it works, too, in this.

“What would you wish me to think of?” She smacks his chest none-too-lightly and his laughter isn’t without a cough or two.

“You know that’s not how this works.”

“Fine, fine —” he relents and her heart leaps against his chest in victory, “— but you of all people know my thoughts are rarely so simple.”

He laces their fingers together, would rather she simply find what she wishes inside of his mind. A memory or dream that could take them far away from here and, ideally, with their beloved Lord.

They’re both too hungry, too weak for that. And without Valdas wrapped somewhere around or between them it just isn’t worth the energy.

“You like to think yourself so complicated… but I know otherwise.”

“Oh do you now?”

Her touch slithers downward, grasps him cheeky and knows even weak he can still get it up for her. “I do.”

He can have all of the silent moments he wishes… but she won’t rest until she has an answer — and that means neither will he.

“Oddly enough I was thinking to when we met you, Valdas and I.”

Such a fussy subject when it comes to his darling girl. Some days she enjoys thinking of the last act of her humanity to be anything but. Others… well there’s a growing concern for where exactly she’s grabbing… and how long healing might take in their current state.

So he can’t help but sigh in relief when she finally speaks.

“What brought that on?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Cyn…”

“What does it matter? It’s not as if we could go back to those times. Free of war… of pollution in blood and land. Before the forsaken fucking Order took a fucking continent for their own.”

And there it is. Cynbel raises his chin enough to see the sparkle of knowing, of understanding in her eyes. He may not be as skilled as they in the psychic arts but what he lacks there he makes up for in his memory. In all the things he’s learned and practiced… and one thing he can never forget—will never forget—is the happier times. The simpler times.

“You could not have known their intention to sail to the New World. None could.”

“No… I know that.”

“Then why do you linger on it?”

“I caused the actions that led to this, did I not? Paris, my love, Paris. It put them on the Godmaker’s heels and moreover put him on those of the Colonies.”

It’s a rare kind of talk from him and Isseya knows it better than any. Has her propping herself up on splayed palms and a dark concern in her eyes still like stars…

“Remorse is not like you, Cynbel.” Her curls tickle at his cheeks.

“Think of what we could have been doing these last years. The gifts we could have given you — the ones you and I could have bestowed upon him. The wonders of the other side of the world where all this… nonsensical fighting is beyond us.”

In Valdemaras’ name… what is that look in her eyes? Frustration but… pity? Psychic though he may not be he knows her. She’s angry at him. Why the fuck is she angry at him?

“You spend one breath taking the blame and the next calling it all ‘nonsensical.’ You contradict yourself, my bloodsoaked lover.”

“You know I’m better with actions than words.”

“Yet words show your true colors. Not just red… spare me the guilt, Cynbel. You feel nothing for this conflict but what it has cost us.”

Through his furrowed brow… he relents. “Yes. Yes that’s… that’s true.”

“Only it isn’t enough for you to say it. You must mean it, too.”

He doesn’t have to push her further. Knows exactly what she means… But what they both know is that certain things are just out of their control.

“I will,” he swears; and like pack animals they butt heads, nuzzle their noses, the intimacy of the moment temporarily granting their wish to live outside of time… outside of the things that keep them bound to all this madness, “just as I will spend the decades to come making it up to you—to Valdas—to you both.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear on my life.”

Then Isseya’s hand is in his hair, golden bright on her olive skin. She forces him to meet the same eyes that have served as the doors of death for legions. “Swear on something that matters to you.”

Cynbel hesitates only in that he would loathe for her hold on him to end.

“I swear on your lives. Yours, and His.”

“Again.”

“I swear on your lives.”

She leans down and licks the outer shell of his ear. Immediately takes it back with a sharp pain… Cynbel watches in rapture at the sight of her pulling back to swallow the cartilage whole.

“Again.” The Priestess of Valdemaras demands through bloodstained teeth.

As if he could ever deny her looking like that.

“I swear on your lives.”

“Hey, hey here he is! Over here!”

“Cynbel! CYNBEL!”

“Help me lift this —”

“— HEAVE!”

Laying there choking on ash—ash from hay, from old rotting wood, from his dead kind but not his kin—gives Cynbel a strange kind of perspective on immortality.

He’s never been a fan of self-reflection.

Relief hardens into confusion, into anger at the sight that filters through burning eyes and tears. Not the face of his beloveds but someone else. Cynbel recoils because the mere possibility of death, even a terrible death such as this, is better than what seeing a strange face as his rescuer implies.

Perhaps I am already dead, Cynbel thinks as the face laughs above him, because none other than the Devil himself would separate them, would laugh and revel in his misery. I deserve Hell — for that I could not kiss them one final time…

“What disappointing rumors, Old Blood!” The Devil says through pearly fangs, “that the infamous Golden Son would need rescuing by one such as I!”

The words force Cynbel to stir. Yet… why would he? Why should he? Surely they are each in their own separate voids, to be cut off from one another their eternal damnation…

“Hey—hey! Come on now!” A few harsh smacks to his cheek, stinging offsetting the burn of flames under his heels. Hadn’t he worn stockings to bed…?

“You really gonna let your grave be a damp barn in Charlottesville, Old Blood?”

Unfortunately the Devil has a point. Always knows how best to tempt the vices of sinners.

“My… my bb-beloveds…”

“— would have my head if I walked outta this barn without you.”

Begone, tempter. Please.

Though Cynbel can’t help but wonder where the Devil truly lies this day. Is he the face above shrouded in smoke and flame, the one that hauls the smoldering remnants of a rafter off of him? Or is he the ones who tells him to turn away from the choked-out light of day and slumber deep?

No… no he has seen Hell before—

Hell was watching them swept in a manic crowd and to an uncertain fate.

Hell was screaming, begging through skin splitting open watching her lips whisper a silent “I love you, goodbye.”

Hell was the broken will of a God who would sacrifice every ounce of his pride for his first and only loves.

No. He is Cynbel of the Riedones and he has seen Hell every time they have been beaten and broken against the hard edges of the world. He has walked through those flames and been made molten; hammered into something stronger. This fire, too, will strengthen him.

It has to. For them.

When he reaches out there’s a hand to grab him. To help pull him and the smoldering husk of the rafter up and bat it aside.

The face of the Devil isn’t what he’d expect. But Cynbel doesn’t give himself time to linger on it — some things are a bit more pressing.

They make their way through the chaos; the air like burned molasses. When the Golden Son realizes he is the one slowing them down he only pushes himself that much harder — refuses to be left to die in this… this madness.

Everything is supposed to feel better once he’s left the burning barn behind, so why does he still feel alight? Cynbel looks up and has his answer — eyes stinging the same way they did in the last moments before the mines swallowed them all up.

Daylight.

And if he had hoped for salvation once they were clear of it, he’s sorely mistaken. It isn’t just the barn but the entire field; everything scorched as far as his watery eyes can see.

“What—” gasping for air like he needs it, but what he needs is blood, “—happened?!”

The other vampire scans the smoky horizon with dark eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know. We woke up, everything aflame… the lands reeked of oil. We couldn’t even find cover in the nearby forest — whatever this was it was planned.”

He knows the rage that laces the man’s words. He’s felt that kind of rage — been it incarnate — and were he able to he would feed from it, let it seep into his pores beautiful and righteous.

But even the thought of raising his hand to a sword saps energy from him. His rescuer will have to do.

And if he is as weak as he is…

But Fate doesn’t let him entertain the thought. Perhaps they know the chaos he will reign should such a thought come to pass… should it be true.

“CYNBEL!”

The very sound of her voice pulls him forward on a tether. He breaks away from the man, learns a little too late he doesn’t even have the strength to stand alone—

But she’s never let him fall before. She doesn’t now.

“Iss’…”

Isseya pushes the ash-covered hair from his eyes and the fire that prickles on the edges of his vision is nothing like the fire he just left behind. Cynbel’s lungs are raw but give him the blessed ability to sob in relief. They will burn out here, exposed.

And as they pull back from a kiss of peeling lips and dry tongues they share the same thought. As they always have.

They will not burn without him.

“How did you—”

“I couldn’t —” her voice chokes in her throat, she chokes on the air, “— I was too weak. Too—too weak and…”

She’d fled for help. Even now, especially now, it pains her to admit weakness. His unbreakable darling girl… And she thinks she has to look away, to shed her tears alone?

Their second kiss is harder; more a demand of her. They have demanded so much of one another. To die, to live… to be…

“We must find him.”

“We cannot— not alone.”

But the vampires at her back, stragglers relying on luck as a means to an end? They aren’t worth the time to waste.

Isseya looks over Cynbel’s shoulder, barks an unfamiliar name like an order—like the General she should have been. “Ambrose!”

Cynbel watches as his rescuer turns with a grim face. He recognizes the man, then. How the smoke reminds him of the ash from earlier that night. The leader of the ceremony.

Ambrose waves away a scout and approaches. “You should find shelter before you take to the sun, the both of you.”

“We will do nothing without our own.”

“Not even die, apparently.” Before he can continue there’s a whistle; through the haze they can see the swish of horse tails, the creatures riled and desperate to escape the oncoming blaze but held tight by the vampires clutching at their reins.

Ambrose shakes his head; makes to leave them to their own devices. “Your choices are your own. I have no time to argue with Old Blood! Not when there are others who need me.”

“Ambrose, quickly!” calls one, heaving himself on one of the load-bearing steeds, “The fire’s took up the main house and the well is emptied! We’re wastin’ time!”

The Trinity reach as one — weak as they are but still stronger than the likes of these. Grasp with the weight of ages and bear down on the man before he can take flight.

“What are you—let go of me!”

Cynbel snarls with bared fangs.

“What house?!”

But they already know, don’t they? They already know.

[aha-my-villainous-thoughts]

Please, Keep Me. (Good Omens)

Well then. That was a lot longer than previously planned. The whole concept of NaNoWriMo is great, but the practical application is tricky. This chapter was exhausting, and reminded me why I hate writing weird characters. It doesn’t help that I switched countries half way through writing it, and could only pick it up in snatches through Christmas, 200 words there, half a page there. 

Doesn’t matter. Part 1 here!

I have a series of chapters planned out in a random order, I’ve been trying to form them into the type of plot I wanted, we’ll see what happens. I just plan to enjoy spending time in this little world and maybe will restructure it once it’s more or less complete. 

Part 9 

The wooden bookcases slowly gave way to tall trunks of trees, their branches twisting over them in a wide canopy. Light peaked through but only in a dim series of warm shards. The floor became knotted with roots and packed down earth, moss growing underfoot as they made their way through the blackberry patch. Looking back they could see the dull glow of the library, but the trees stretched around them in every direction, tree trunks obscuring the dimensions of the forest they found themselves in. Crowley led the way with a certain version of confidence, his senses so flooded with the sensations of the forest he forgot to feel any form of trepidation. There was a stillness here that didn’t sit quite right. Stillness in a library was one thing, but stillness in a living forest was another. Crowley turned his head, searching for the sounds of birds or animals but he could only hear the rustle of leaves, the gentle creak of branches. 

Had he been paying attention he would have noticed that the angel - usually so keen to fill the silence with observation - was also uncharacteristically quiet. He could still sense Aziraphale close behind him, feel his feet on the ground and the swish of his robes, but the Keeper was also completely absorbed in their surroundings. 

As they continued along the path the tall trees began to shrink a little, bringing the canopy closer to the forest floor, and became more twisted and relaxed, if there was in fact a way for a forest to appear relaxed. There were definitely birds here now, and sunlight breaking through leaves to encourage bushes and flowers to weave their way upwards. There was no real order here, only a pleasant thriving chaos that Crowley approved of greatly. Weaving their way through what could have been an orchard of fruit trees - although oddly devoid of fruit. They had spent time reading up about all the different types of fruit trees and the kind of soil they favoured, the light they enjoyed, the kind of harvest to expect. Crowley knew without looking behind him that Aziraphale was peering into each cluster of branches with a dim hopeful expression of veiled curiosity, hoping to find a shining red skinned apple to pluck down or maybe even a peach. He didn’t have to look behind him, but he did anyway, and seeing the angel’s careful expression as he parted leaves to search for fruit was enough to make his heart beat a little harder. 

Aziraphale would go without a second helping of freshly picked fruit this day it seemed, as all of the trees were harvested. They soon uncovered the reason why. 

Coming to a small clearing in the woods, the trees thinned out to allow the sunlight to pour through and fill the space with a warm glow. Crowley had heard about sunlight casting out warmth, but it was the first time he had ever experienced the sensation like this. Moving into a beam he wriggled with delight feeling the warmth spill across his skin. Twisting over to let the sunlight cover his belly he greedily soaked up as much of the heat as he could. 

Crowley had bathed in pure starlight every day for all of his existence. He had wrestled stars into orbs, harnessed cosmic fire and sent it spitting across the night sky in a brilliant comet. He had held fire in his hands, letting it play over his fingers like a living creature. None of these were like this, this was so delicate and soft and good. 

Filtered through skies of emptiness and dust, the roaring heat of the sun reaching out and only barely skimming the soft earth with its fingertips. All that destructive energy reduced down to this one glorious little pool of warmth that filled Crowley with its very purpose. 

He continued to wriggle indulgently, coiling around himself like a rope knotted onto itself. When he finally looked up he found Aziraphale’s blue eyes creased up in a fond smile, the angel kneeling next to him. He stilled, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Aziraphale’s smile only grew. 

“Does it feel good, little thing? Oh, my little thing,”

The gentleness in Aziraphale’s voice could have broken Crowley, and he slowly unknotted himself until he was back in his traditional coil, lifting his head to meet his angel’s eyes. He wanted to say something. He wanted to agree, to nod and say ‘Yes, your little thing. I’m yours. Please,’. He wanted to whisper Aziraphale’s name, if only so the angel could hear how softly he would hold his name in his mouth, how carefully he would form it with his tongue. 

But that would mean revealing the deception. And curse him, he was too weak to tear it away just yet. 

Aziraphale reached out one hand and slipped his fingers into the beam of light, watching it illuminate his skin. He cast out his fingers, turning his hand over to feel the play of shadow across his palm. His hand kept coming, and brushed against Crowley’s jawbone lightly, fingertips tracing the heat from his scales. 

“Glorious,” he whispered, “Beautiful,” he told Crowley, his eyes practically glowing. 

The moment broke just before Crowley’s resolve, with a sudden rustle in a nearby bush and a sound of feet thumping across moss and tree roots. A patter of little feet as a small creature ran through the orchard and appeared just to the other side of Crowley, his eyes snapping to the movement and following the animal. They both turned, and watched as the animal barrelled its way into the clearing and towards the large twisted oak tree in its very centre. Around the  old roots woven into the dirt there was a sloping sandy bank which dipped before rising up to meet the forest around it, where the two observers now hid behind a large felled trunk of an old tree now coated in moss. Aziraphale crouched carefully, peering over the edge with his nose stuck right up against the trunk. Crowley slunk his way up it, already perfectly suited for disguise. 

The animal that had bolted past them wasn’t much larger than Crowley’s snake form, but with four legs and two long ears which moved from being flat against its head to loose as it reached the opening in the roots of the oak tree and collapsed - somewhat dramatically - on the sandy porch of the tunnel leading into the ground. It had collapsed in front of a larger version of itself, but this animal happened to be wearing a large blue cotton dress with a very clean white pinny, and a shawl tied around its shoulder with a cerise pink ribbon wound through its border. 

“Rabbits!” whispered Aziraphale, with the kind of excitement reserved for only the greatest of discoveries. “I’m sure of it!”

The mother rabbit - for that was who she was - bent down to the young rabbit panting for breath on her doorstep and smoothed back his ears, but there was no denying from the set of her shoulders that she was scolding him as she did so. 

Straightening up, she turned and went back to the mouth of the tunnel where three little rabbits sat as good as gold. It was only then Crowley realised why Aziraphale had been denied another juicy snack. There were baskets stacked with fruit all lined up neatly along the low table the little rabbits sat at, some almost overflowing with apples, pears, peaches and berries. One sat with a bucket at her rear paws and was hulling strawberries one by one, dropping the little green heads into the bucket. Another was chopping apples one by one, quartering them and slicing away the cores into a small pile of seeds. The last one was washing the pears, cupping them gently in her paws. 

The whole scene was so soft and calm, even with the little rabbit’s abrupt arrival, that Crowley felt Aziraphale soften next to him, crossing his arms over the edge of the tree trunk and sighing gently. 

“Do you suppose they’re making jam?” he asked Crowley wistfully, his eyes glimmering as he coveted the box of raspberries closest to them. Flicking his tongue Crowley could taste the tang of fruits in the air, and judging by the deep breath Aziraphale drew in, so could he. 

“Or maybe some crumbles? Quite a lot I would imagine…”

They watched for a little longer, both sitting together in silence watching the rabbits go about their business. After a little time, the mother rabbit returned with a warm pail of water and a flannel tied to a stick. The little male rabbit made a motion as if to slip away but she caught him by the ear and tugged him over to it before setting about poking, prodding and pestering him through all of the rituals of a bath. His sisters giggled at him a little, but did not stop their work. 

Eventually he was deemed clean enough and sent inside to get dry, the mother returning to help her little daughters with the day’s work. 

Crowley watched them a little longer, but soon grew bored. He nudged Aziraphale’s arm, slithering his body off the trunk and returning towards the path. 

“Oh, must we? But… oh, alright,” 

Pushover, thought Crowley with a smirk. 

They picked a path around the clearing, treading softly as to not disturb the family of rabbits, and Aziraphale pointed out a well trod path weaving between trees. They continued on at a leisurely pace, Aziraphale lifting his face up to the small snatches of sun coming through the canopy and Crowley picking his way between roots and small flurries of flowers along the path. Soon the canopy grew thicker and the light dimmed, the flowers giving way to moss and the occasional bramble that Crowley carefully avoided. A stillness descended over the forest ahead and around them, not quite silence but devoid of movement or birdsong. 

“Maybe we should head back the way we…” Aziraphale trailed off as they looked behind them, and found that the path they had been following seemed to look exactly the same as the path in front - any patches of sunlight and rabbit warrens no longer visible. They stood for a moment in a pensive silence, within Crowley could practically hear Aziraphale’s thoughts as they played out across his face - a mixture of concern, amusement and curiosity. A rustle of leaves drew his attention away from his angel, and he turned to spot a flash of red well ahead of them through the trees. Footsteps became clear, crunching dry leaves underfoot. 

Very soon a figure appeared not far from them, a petite one a head or so smaller than Aziraphale and dressed in a red cloak and hood. Aziraphale noticed her too, and gave a small and enchanted gasp. Crowley understood this immediately, and knew without looking up that the Keeper’s face was soft and glowing with feeling upon sighting this little person. It was well understood that the forms She had gifted them were the blueprints upon which She had designed her dear humans, and although they had seen a handful of wonderful creatures in their adventures, nothing had prepared them for seeing a real living person - a person with free will, wild thoughts, and an appetite for life only those with a limited time of it feel. 

As the figure drew closer Crowley could see she was possibly female, if only signalled by her bare legs and the dress she wore under her red cloak, if not also by the brunette pigtails and freckled nose framed by her wide dark brown eyes. She was young, no older than an adolescent but closer to a child. He wondered for a moment if his form would scare her, but as she came close to them it became obvious that she was as unbothered by the appearance of a giant snake in the forest as she was to the appearance of an angel accompanying it. 

“Hello,” she said, stopping in front of Aziraphale and shifting her woven basket in her hands. Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and shining with excitement, and he stammered over his words. 

“Oh! H-hello,” he said, his hands wringing slightly in a motion that Crowley mentally translated into ‘Oh look! I’m talking to a human!’. 

“Are you lost?” she asked him, unperturbed by his general flustered nature. 

“Oh, um, yes, well, I suppose you could say that,” he got out, gesturing behind them. “The path seemed to have… well, changed, if you like,” 

“It does that,” she agreed, shifting her basket again. “We’re not far from a signpost, I’ll show you,”

She turned her attention to Crowley and cocked her head a little to the side, looking him up and down. 

“My, what a large snake you are,” she said, following his body along to his tail with her eyes. He said nothing - obviously - but blinked slowly. Apparently little girls were not scared of snakes of any size, maybe this form wasn’t scary at all. Maybe when the time came for the Earth to be finished, he would have to find out what humans actually found scary, just to be sure he knew. 

“I suppose it’s all the better to cuddle with,” she said after a moment of study of his coils. “After all, what else would all that tail be for?”

Aziraphale beamed. “Naturally, a wonderful cuddler, I assure you,” 

Crowley turned his head to Aziraphale with an air of bafflement, and also a little part of his mind yelling that, yes, of course this long body was for cuddling, feel free to try it, but Aziraphale chose that exact moment to ignore his gaze and turn pink at the tips of his ears. 

“After you,” the angel said, motioning for the little girl to pass in between them along the path. He held out his hand in offering and she handed him the basket gratefully, the contents covered up by a cheerful red and white checked cloth. 

“Where are you going?” she asked as they fell into step, with Crowley following along behind. 

“I suppose you could just say we’re exploring,” Aziraphale told her, twisting to look at her as they walked. Crowley smirked to himself as the Keeper tripped a little, but couldn’t pull his eyes away from the human child. 

“You picked a good place to explore,” she told him, pointing forward. The path was approaching a clearing with a large single sign post staked into the ground at a slight angle. The break in the trees illuminated the wooden boards that lined its length, and there were little white flowers growing at its base. They came closer and Crowley could see each one of the boards pointed in different directions away down multiple branching off paths, all with names painted on carefully. 

“You see what I mean?” she said, taking her basket off Aziraphale and gesturing to the dozens of paths leading off around them. “Lots to explore, but don’t get lost again,” 

“We’ll try our best, thank you so much,” Aziraphale told her, smiling. “Where are you going today?” 

“To my grandmother’s house,” she grinned, reaching into her basket and pulling the cloth back. Aziraphale made another noise Crowley was able to translate into pure desire, and moved forward to peer inside. On one side rested a meat pie with thick buttery pastry, wrapped in bees cloth and smelling strongly of sage and onion. On the other was a pile of chunky gingerbread men, with chocolate eyes and gumdrop buttons. In the middle was a large sprig of lavender tied in a ribbon, and nestled underneath it flashed something sharp and silver. 

“Oh, that’s… that’s a big knife you have there,” commented Aziraphale, his gaze interrupted from studying the golden brown gingerbread. 

“That’s for any wolves that might be lurking around,” she told him, shrugging. “And for the pie,” 

“Ah, of course,” 

“Anyway, have fun on your adventure. It was nice to meet you and your big snake,” she grinned, and covered her basket up again. She waved and set off down her own path, her red cloak swinging with each step. 

Aziraphale watched her leave, smiling with a fond glow in his eyes. Crowley watched Aziraphale instead. He could watch Aziraphale all day. Should he feel jealous seeing the swell of love in the Keepers face looking at these creations? Maybe, but he found he just couldn’t. Not when he got to be there in the orbit of the angels uninhibited love. This was reaffirmed as Aziraphale turned his gaze back to meet Crowley’s gaze and that glow deepened into a wide smile with the crinkling by his eyes. 

“Oh, little thing, wasn’t that special?” he sighed, his hand loosely clenched over his heart, his robes caught between his fingers. “I… I never thought they would… that they would be like that,” 

Crowley flicked his tongue, moving closer to Aziraphale. He understood what the Keeper meant, could feel the same excitement in his own chest, albeit more of an echo to the Aziraphale’s delight. He was rewarded by Aziraphale’s fingers skating across the bridge of his head, pressing with warmth against his scales. 

“Isn’t She just such a wonderful artist?” the angel murmured. “Such wonderful, intelligent, brilliant creations,” 

Crowley wriggled with delight, before turning away in pleased embarrassment. There was only so much pure unadulterated love a snake could take.   

Looking at the signport, there seemed to be endless options scanning out in every direction possible. As Aziraphale joined him by the towering pole of destinations, the Keeper began to read some of them aloud. 

“The Shire… The Crooked House… Hatter's Tea Party - ooh! The Chocolate Factory!” 

Crowley would have rolled his eyes playfully, but he was distracted by his own series of destinations, some promising sights he couldn’t imagine. 

The Dungeons… Diagon Alley… Toad Hall… Cair Paravel

“It seems there may be more than we can see in one day, little thing,” commented Aziraphale. “I don’t know about you, but that only seems like a good thing to me,”  

Days on days exploring the forest and its treasures with his gentle angel? Of course it was a good thing, how could it possibly be anything other than good? 

“You should pick, dear one, I picked blackberries and you were clever enough to find us the rabbits, so I know you will pick an excellent adventure,” 

Crowley circled the post, but other than names there was no other information given in terms of distance. It was likely in this bizarre world that it didn’t matter much, he felt confident that the library wouldn’t leave them walking for long before offering them up another wonder. 

With this in mind, he chose from among the first Aziraphale had read out, followed the arrow of the sign and set off in a manner he hoped would make it obvious for Azriaphale to follow him. He was correct in two things: firstly, that Aziraphale followed him, and secondly, that the strange magic of the library didn’t make them wait long. 

The path wound up the side of a small hill, the trees becoming thinner and bendier with soft draping leaves that trailed down and tickled Crowley. The sunlight was softer now, more of a hazy glow of late afternoon. Reaching the peak of the hill, they found themselves looking down into another clearing, one which seemed to contain a much more lively scene than others they had stumbled across. 

The whole clearing was crisscrossed with strings of lights, with hanging brightly coloured lanterns that increased the warm glow of the whole scene immensely. Paper chains were randomly thrown into the fruit trees that lined the area, a sign that someone had taken great care to create the linked chains, and someone else had taken no care in arranging them. Under this canopy of lights there was a long table, which apparently seemed to be a procession of smaller tables of varying widths and heights arranged into one long table and covered with an enormous pink tablecloth. Positioned around the table were a wide variety of chairs, from wicker garden chairs to overstuffed chintz armchairs and even the occasional deckchair. Some of these chairs had occupants, but the majority were vacant. Whilst Crowley studied the occupants with narrowing gold eyes, Aziraphale seemed entirely focused on the many, many overburdened plates and saucers on the table. 

“Oh, little thing, look!”  

Every inch of the table was covered in brightly coloured teapots and stacked towers of teacups and saucers, none of the china matching and some of them cracked and leaking tea onto the tablecloth. In between the numerous teapots were plates and tiered trays stacked high with dozens of examples of finger foods. It was these finger foods in particular that Aziraphale seemed focused on, and Crowley couldn’t blame him, for the majority of them appeared to be miniature versions of the cakes, pies and desserts he had been reciting to Crowley with great joy in the library. Tiny cupcakes with rainbow spotted wrappers and swirled icing, mountains of buttery pastries striped with chocolate, a pyramid of perfectly curved meringue shells in every colour imaginable. 

Whilst Aziraphale composed himself, Crowley returned to his study of the party occupants. The central figure seated at the head of the table was an oddly proportioned man with an oversized head - or at least, he assumed it was oversized, maybe She did intend for the males to appear different - topped with a large velvet bottle green top hat, with some artefacts arranged in the ribbon. He was dressed in clashing colours, with a mustard waistcoat and high-waisted slacks which appeared liberally stained with tea. Whilst all of this suggested the man in the top hat was perhaps a little strange, it was the enormous yellow bowtie with haphazard red polka dots that confirmed he must have been just a little mad. 

The host was obviously in the middle of a long speech, gesturing wildly with an empty cup of tea in one hand and the other unable to rest in between pointing, fluttering, adjusting his hat or tie, or occasionally curling into a fist for emphasis. His guests seemed to be unmoved by his speech, although they appeared to be unmoved by anything. One was a larger version of the rabbits they had seen earlier, although with usually elongated proportions and long grey wiry hair frizzling away from his body, giving the illusion of a hare struck by lightning. He had several ears of corn stuck into his coarse hair, and a few remnants of brambles and hay attached to his person, whether rumpled into his cranberry red patchworked coat, or waving along with every slow bored blink of his eyelashes. The hare was at least sitting upright with his eyes open, which was an improvement on his neighbour, a much smaller animal with short soft hair who appeared to be slumped into the highchair it was propped up against and completely asleep. 

“How curious,” murmured Aziraphale, his face close to Crowleys to whisper. Crowley flicked his tongue out, angling it to press briefly against the angel’s cheek. “Do you think they would mind… additional guests?” 

Crowley fought a smirk, and gave out a low hiss of amusement instead. Making the decision for his indecisive friend, he uncoiled and began to move down the slope towards the party. As he got closer, it became clear that the host was lecturing his guests on the importance of saucers, and how a great many cups had lived ling without a saucer, and by gum, it was their duty to see to it that every saucer had a cup of any size, colour, pattern or purpose. 

It was the hare who saw them first, Crowley leading the helm while Aziraphale covered the rear. 

“Ah, new guests! Please, come, join us! Please!”

The Hatter at the end of the table stopped mid sentence and looked thunderously towards them at having his speech disrupted, but the storm clouds lifted quickly as he saw two new guests to educate. 

“Welcome, welcome, come and sit!”

Aziraphale - pink with pleasure for the interaction of more of Her genius devices - sank into a low and enthusiastically springed armchair made of a violent yellow velvet intertwined with roses. He sat back a little too far and was unable to reach the table, so quickly reseated himself and his eyes grew ever wider at being face level with the afternoon tea. Beside him, Crowley slithered up onto a stool and arranged himself in an artful coil, the stool not having enough space to accommodate his tail, but kept him within reach of the Keeper and nearly directly in the eye line of the newly awoken dormouse who glared at him suspiciously (and sleepily). 

“Come, guests, tell us your names!” insisted the Hatter, “But only if they are completely new names,” 

“Yes, we won’t do with reused names, simply won’t do!” agreed the March Hare. 

“Oh!” said Aziraphale, tearing his gaze away from the finger sandwiches. “But whyever for?” 

“For we won’t go sharing them about, too greedy if you should want for more names than others,” 

“Precisely!” agreed the Hatter, stirring his tea with his finger. 

Crowley glanced sideways as his companion, and saw that Aziraphale’s face was crumpled up in mild confusion, but his fingers had laced in a way that he could sense a debate coming on. 

“Is it greedy for two to have the same name? Or is it greedy for one to have two or more names?” he offered, leaning forward a little. 

“It is greedy to do any of the above, phonetically glutinous!”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to pursue the point, still confused and a little ruffled by the ridiculousness of the conversation, but he closed it again. He looked at Crowley with an odd expression, but Crowley did the snake equivalent of a shrug.

“What are you celebrating?” Aziraphale diverted, with a note of hope in his voice. “Is it a party?”

“Why of course!” agreed the Hatter, “Why else would we be drinking so much wine?”

“Oh! But I don’t see any wine,” 

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale again, who now was looking utterly forlorn at the absence of the wine.

“That’s because there isn’t any,” said the March Hare. 

“Why would you say you were drinking wine when you only have tea on the table?” 

“Because it’s rude to sit at a party’s table without being invited!”

“But we were invited, you invited us,” “Rightly so!” interjected the Dormouse, glaring at Crowley through the handle of a large duck shaped teapot. Crowley ignored the mouse, but kept it in his side-view in case it did anything stupid. Aziraphale sighed heavily, and leaned back into his chair a little, and flashed a look at Crowley that he interpreted as ‘maybe She hasn’t worked out all the kinks yet’. In return Crowley blinked slowly and flicked his tongue at the Keeper, before looking meaningfully at the cakes. If they could make no sense at the table, they may as well eat. 

“May I?” asked Aziraphale, straightening a bit and gesturing at the tiered tray of cupcakes in front of him. He didn’t wait for a response, and reached out for a little finger sized puff of cake with a long stripe of icing along it. Crowley waited for the cake to disappear and for the long waited moan of pleasure his angel would give on finally tasting his beloved sweet treats. 

This expectation was almost immediately dashed, as Aziraphale lifted the cake to his mouth but then stopped and inspected it closely. 

“What kind of party celebrates with stones painted like cakes?” he asked, partly to himself and partly to the collected audience. Crowley came closer to look. The ‘cake’ was in fact a smooth river rock painted to resemble  sponge and topped with a chalky paste for the icing. The sprinkles appeared to be coloured in wood chips. Crowley could feel his angel’s disappointment keenly, and watched as he morosely placed the rock back onto the table. Examining the remainder of the tier revealed macaroons made of old doorknobs stuck together with jam, finger sandwiches comprised of pieces of paper glued together and chocolate kisses that were most certainly mud. Crowley slithered onto the table to investigate the remaining plates, with a dim hope that maybe there was something present he could offer to his angel. 

“Only the best rocks for this party, for we only have it once a day!” said the Hatter, with what seemed like an out of proportioned sense of pride. 

“What do you do with them if not eat them?” asked Aziraphale, getting exasperated. His eyes followed Crowley’s investigations, with the kind of pout that melted ice. 

“If we ate them then how could we share them?” 

“Share them? Oh good Lord…” sighed Aziraphale heavily, sinking back into his chair and covering his face with one hand. Crowley returned to his angel and slithered across the arm of the chair, dragging his tail against the Keeper’s sleeve in what he hoped conveyed some comfort. “Are you sure there isn’t any wine?” he asked, with his last little shred of hope. 

“Why have wine when you could have tea?!” laughed the March Hare, standing to pour himself another cup to one side of his already full cup. 

“And why have cake when you could have rocks?” agreed the Hatter, now using one of the paper sandwiches to stir his tea. 

“And why have sense when you could have bafflement?” moaned Aziraphale under his breath, with a frustrated tone and a roll of his eyes as he stood. “Come along, little thing, let’s take our leave,” 

Crowley hissed in agreement and they left the tea party behind them, neither looking back. 

“And why have guests when you could have riddles?” came from somewhere behind them. 

“And why have answers when you can have questions!” came a response. 

As they came to the edge of the clearing and started along the path, Aziraphale fell into step beside Crowley and sighed heavily. Crowley stopped and looked up at his angel, who looked very tired and disappointed. Upon meeting his gaze, the angel smiled gratefully and Crowley felt the familiar warmth spread out under his scales. 

“You know, I do love your company, little thing,” Aziraphale sighed. “I am very thankful to have you close,” 

Crowley wriggled a little in delight. Aziraphale reached his hand down and cupped his fingers carefully under Crowley’s jaw, rubbing his thumb along the ridge at his snout. Crowley flicked his tongue out and traced it along Aziraphale’s inner wrist, enjoying both of the familiar scent of his angel as well as a shiver brought forth by his tickle. 

“Why have nonsensical wonders when one could have a companion like you?” 

Crowley was set to wriggle again, but this was interrupted by Aziraphale’s follow up. 

“Intelligent, observant and blissfully quiet,” sighed the angel happily, before removing his hand and setting off along the path. Crowley stared after him, indignant. He hissed lightly, lowering himself back down the earth and sulking as he followed the angel back towards the library. 

“That’ss what you think.”

Following their return to the silent shelves and endless corridors of the library, it was agreed by Aziraphale and seconded by Crowley’s flicked tongue that Crowley would be choosing the next adventure, and possibly the one after that, since Aziraphale felt that the Tea Party arrangement hadn’t really panned out how he had hoped, whereas his beloved little thing seemed to have struck gold more than once. It was also agreed that they would choose very carefully which creations they engaged with, as they weren’t sure if the quality of conversation was really up to par at this stage of creation. 

“I’m sure She’ll have all the oddities fixed by the time it all gets going,” assured Aziraphale, but there was a slight frown buried in his brow, an odd expression that Crowley knew translated into more of a hope than a certainty. 

There was no need for either of them to be concerned, but of course they weren’t aware of that. It would be quite some time before Aziraphale would finally be able to locate and cross off Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland from the shelves of the children’s literature section. By this time, they had already discovered so much more than they had hoped for, and were feeling a lot more confident that when they finally got to meet a human, if they were ever required on Earth, that the whole affair would probably be more like a mundane version of babysitting rather than a Mad Hatter’s tea party. 

[misserabella]

𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡

Joseph Quinn x Fem! reader PT.2

LINK TO PART 1!!

REPOSTS AND COMMENTS ARE VERY MUCH APPRECIATED!<3

✧ Synopsis;; Joseph Quinn was filthy rich, for he was royalty. Handsome, charming and a gentleman, a dream dressed in pure silk for any kind of woman. But not you.

✧ y/n is a mere slave of a nobel family who just turned 18. On the night of the prince’s royal ball she is dragged against her will to this dance just to be used as a coat rack for the purses and coats of the family ladies, who, of course, treat her like absolute sh’t, to the point where they could agreed to hand her over for a generous amount of gold

“Just name your price, sweetheart.”

“Screw you, my prince.”

Just how lucky you were for had caught the

prince’ s attention!

< enemies to lovers 3

17th century royalty!

A/N;; i’m sorry if this is sloppy and like…, BAD, english is not my mother language and it’s my first joseph x reader story. either ways, i hope y’all like it. <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!!!

CW;; this series might include 18+ content (details will be given at the start of each new part uploaded) MINORS DNI AND SKIP!!!

Please, under no circumstances, repost my work on any other sites. I do not consent to anyone taking my work and posting it as their own.

WARNINGS PART TWO: cursing, blood, violence and a nude scene(?)

WORD COUNT;; +2,5k

(A/N pt.2; it is much enjoyable(??) if you read it with a british accent since this fic takes placed in the U/K)

:¨·.·¨:

`·. lastly; enjoy! <3

‘Because from now on you belong in this castle.’

You stepped back at his words, his smile never dropping as you amused him with your fighting against the maids that had returned in a clap of his hands. “You shall let them help you with your clothes and washing, I promise you you’ll feel better once you’ve found yourself clean.” he tried to convince you, his brown eyes glistening under the lights and his voice soft as a caress.

“I can take my clothes off myself.” you spit, your hands making your way to the back of your dress to unbuckle the single button that was left, among those who had fallen off through the years, and undo the bow that molded it’s skirt to your slim waist, letting your clothes slip to the floor and around your feet, leaving you completely naked to their sight since no petticoat had been given to you by your old family.

The maids gasped, as you had dared to undress yourself in front of the prince, whose eyes never left yours, not really budging at your actions for he was a ‘gentleman’. His smile only grew up more, which you’d started finding pretty goddamn annoying.

“Then, I shall excuse myself… Ladies.” he bowed to the maids, who did the same and said their goodbyes.

“Oh, bless my soul!” Ballard exclaimed as his eyes accidentally took a glance of your naked body once the door had opened, quickly adverting them to his right.

You gave them your back as he closed the door with a mocking smile towards his right hand, your feet, and later on your whole body, being surrounded in clear warm water for what you thought it was the first time in your life.

You sighed in relief and sank deeper into the bathtub, letting your eyes close once a pair of hands started washing your long hair, getting lost in the feeling of it all, in its warmth.

“I won’t put that on.” you shook your head at the dress that was currently being showed to you. Starting from the fact that it’s skirt was way too big for you to freely and comfortably move around, the puff on its sleeves looked ridiculous and seemed really troublesome and the corset which strings stood in the bag really threatened your ability to breath. It was a simple and definite no for you. And the color! That shade of yellow won’t flatter you, that’s for sure.

“It seems that the dresses that Lord Ballard sent are no good…” one of the maids sighed, tossing the last one of them aside.

“What a pity…” you falsely pouted, adjusting yourself in the padded chair you had been forced to sit on so the women could take care of your hair.

“Well, there’s still the one that the prince sent! Let’s give it a try.” a brunette one smiled, to which you huffed, you hair being combed by another maid that simply giggled, really entertained by your reactions. “Where was it…, ah, yes!” she seemed to find it, her gentle fingers taking a grip on the strip sleeves of the dress to reveal it to the rest, who let out a delighted gasp.

“Crumbs*! It’s beautiful!” the maid that combed your hair exclaimed, her eyes shining as brightly as the rest of the ladies’.

It was a really simple dress, though it looked more like a nightgown. It was made out of the most beautiful lace you’ve ever seen. It was light blue, and large, enough to cover your thighs, ending below your knees. It had different layers of silk and lace of all types with little ruffles and decorations. The chest was made out of two triangles of silk with lace surrounding them in a soft-looking way that made you…, not hate it. In fact, it was really beautiful.

“Would you like to try it on, miss?” they all inquired, hoping for a positive answer since they seemed to have fallen in love with the dress.

“Well, it’s the most… pleasant to the eyes,” you muttered, trying to not show your true feelings about that piece of clothing, winning exited smiles from the ladies, who helped you to stand and took off your body the towel that embraced you to help you get on the dress.

You felt free in it. It moved with you and it let you breath, and it was so soft. You jumped and twirled, testing the waters. Nothing seemed to get exposed, what made you really happy. Your incredibly long hair caressed your almost bare back, falling to your waist. Your fingers went through it in awe, no knots being found. You smelled like pure lilies and you felt so clean and soft that you almost felt the urge to cry once you’ve taken a glimpse at your reflection in a mirror the maids lent you. You touched your clean face in disbelief, your cheek was bruised and stung when touched, the same as your lips, but your wounds have been cleaned and your skin looked so pure you felt unrecognizable, always being greeted by your reflection full of dirt, cuts and bruises in the pond’s water you used to visit when the mistress’ clothes needed washing.

“You look truly wonderful, miss.” one of the maids said, the rest nodding and agreeing with her, and just when you were about to thank them for their help with a smile, two knocks at the door caught yours and their attention, the prince stepping in after a short minute just in case you were still getting dressed.

“I apologize for my intrusion, ladies. Is everything alright, here?” he asked as he stepped in, along with Ballard, his eyes quickly finding your back and later on when you had turned to face him, your eyes. He simply stood there, silently staring at you, his eyes capturing every single detail in your body and sinking deep in the way you looked…, with the dress he had chosen himself. “You chose it…” he smiled, his eyes finding yours once again, his soft voice reaching you.

“Well of course, it is the most comfortable amongst them all.” you said, looking down at the dress, catching him staring as you did.

He cleared his throat before bringing his hands from his back to the front, letting you see a couple of, really low heels, almost flat silk shoes. “I brought these, though I couldn’t find anything more comfortable, I’m afraid.” he awkwardly smiled, stepping closer and kneeling in front of you, what caused you and the maids to step back in astonishment and Ballard to whisper-yell a ‘Your highness!’. “May I?” he inquired, one of his palms facing upward as he signaled to your feet. You slowly and unsurely nodded, surprised by his actions, but allowing him help you put on the shoes.

You could guess what everyone was thinking at the moment;

Why in the world was the prince of the realm, no one else than Joseph Quinn, kneeling and helping a slave like you put on some shoes?

You slightly bent down to take a better glimpse at them. They were white with a little piece of lace surrounding its collar. They were beautifully simple, and they looked really comfortable. When you put your feet back down on the floor you could agree on your judgement by their appearance. Compared to your wooden ones, this shoes felt like walking on clouds. When your sight drifted from them, your eyes met the prince’s once he had gotten off the marble floor once again.

“Well?” his eyebrows rose in anticipation, wanting to know your opinion on them. Everyone seemed to.

“They are not too bad.” you shrugged, your pride making him smile and let out a soft and short laughter. The tension inside the room seemed to dissipate with that sound.

“I’m glad to hear that.” he nodded, making his way back to the door. “Then? Are you ready to go and eat supper?” he offered you, opening the door whilst his eyes looked into yours.

You glared at him for a couple of seconds, still not truly trusting nor liking him, but still decided to take your first step. And after the first one came a second, and later on; a third.

His eyes never left your body as you exited first, waving your hand to the maids as a quick goodbye, which they returned. He bowed at them before closing the door. You awaited next to Ballard in the corridor, which was carpeted with crimson velvet carpets and glistened under the candles of the chandeliers above your heads.

“Shall I fetch the cooks and maids to set up the table, your highness?” the blonde spoke, his hands intertwined behind his back, which stood straight, awaiting for an answer.

“You shall not.” he shook his head. “I wouldn’t like them to work so much this late at night.” the singing of the cuckoo clock hitting midnight catching your attention as your eyes met with the wooden cuckoo that jumped in and out of its home. You wandered through the corridor, your fingers detailing the marble and wood of the oak chest you found on your left, plagued with porcelain decorations and flowers. There were multiple of them through the interminable corridor, perhaps for embellishment. “Though I would appreciate it if you could fetch something for her. I could wager all the gold I have in my hands that she hasn’t eaten for days.” he seemed concerned, his smile fading for a couple of seconds before appearing once again when he saw you twirling around a porcelain doll sculpture of a ballerina.

Not even the blonde could understand his actions nor read whatever wondered inside his mind. But he thought he could just wait for whatever the future would offer.

“Sure, your highness. I’ll make sure to send it to her room in no time.” he nodded, after a ‘thank you’ from his friend and prince heading the other way.

You were about to place down another sculpture that you had picked up when his voice startled you.

“It’s Greek.” you felt your heart plummet to your stomach when it slipped from your hands, his being quick enough to catch it in the air. “Almost a was.” he mocked you with a smile, putting it back down on the chest amongst the others.

“Didn’t know the prince would be into collecting porcelain.” you winded him up.

“That would be my mother, the queen.” he chuckled. “Along with the king she has parted to the east to meet Rembrandt and discuss about his new works of art.” he explained, making you now understand his announcement at his ball, asking forgiveness for the monarchs’ absence. “Though I must admit, I take pleasure in pretty things.” his eyes met yours and for a moment you felt as if you were frozen in place, the only warmth you felt being the touch of his fingers gracing yours on top of the oak chest, after his hand had fallen near yours. Your eyes met his hand and later on his eyes again, pulling away from his warmth after a couple of seconds.

“And what does beauty mean to you, your highness?” you inquired him, giving him your back and taking a few steps away from him. “Perhaps gold? Diamonds? Maybe castles?” your hair softly fell on your shoulder as your turned back to face him once again, your dress beautifully dancing along with you.

He just silently stared at you, his hands once again on his back as he took a couple of steps closer to you, a smile tugging on his lips. “I guess I still have yet to find out.” his brown eyes found yours once he stood by your side, the amber of the candles shining on them. There was something in them that you could not read. “Then, shall we?” his eyes left yours just to show you the way in which you supposed you should head to to meet ‘your room’. You seemed unsure for a couple of seconds, to which he decided to taunt you a little bit more. “After you, sweetheart.” he moved aside, giving you a little bit of space.

“Don’t you dare call me that again.” he laughed at your rudeness.

You gave him a side look before taking a step forwards, and then another, and another, the moonlight of the windows hitting your skin, perfectly matching with the color of your dress.

He took a deep breath before following you.

What beauty was…, huh?

“I hope you find the room to your liking. If you are in need of more pillows or sheets just ask for them, alright? You can ask one of the maids to light up the chimney for you if the night gets too cold too.” he said while opening the door and letting you step inside. It was spacious and beautifully decorated. As you stepped in, the very first thing you could see was a huge window that met the gardens of the castle, to your left a chimney with red velvet sofas and a central tea table with books on top of it, you could find more of them on the willow bookcases on both sides of the chimney. And to your right you could find a queen size bed with puffy white sheets, a white dosel and an incredible amount of pillows of all kinds, along with oak nightstands with candles and a big white closet. When you looked upwards your eyes met with the shiniest of chandeliers.

Once you’ve turned around to meet his eyes once again, these caught a glimpse on a food trolley.

“The maids discussed that since you’ve probably not eaten in days it would be better for you to eat something soft so it wouldn’t upset your stomach.” he said, while taking off the top of the plate cover, the smell of chicken stew along with baked potatoes and steamed vegetables making your mouth water. But that was not really what caught your attention. “I apologize if you find it too-”

And before he could even finish his sentence or take a hold onto your actions, his back was slammed against the half-open door from which you’d entered the room, closing it in a very harsh slam exactly when Ballard seemed to be back to check on the prince.

“My prince?!? My prince!!” he desperately knocked on the door, trying to open it but finding it imposible due to the weight of both your bodies on the other side. “Guards!” and as he called for the guards that rounded the corridors…

“Give me a single reason for which I shouldn’t kill you right this moment, my prince.” your breaths intertwined as you stood completely pressed against his body, a knife that you’ve snatched from the trolley threatening to cut his throat as you pressed it against the skin of his pale neck.

He seemed astonished at first, his brown eyes staring into yours as your heavy breath caressed his lips, which parted as he spoke.

“You wouldn’t dare.” he pressed against the knife to get even closer to you, its edge sinking into his skin and the vermillion of his blood making its way to his collarbones like a river flowing down the hills.

“And what makes thee think that?” he smirked at your inquisition, his fingers brushing delicately your arm, its pads descending. From your shoulder to your elbow and later on to your free hand, which stood slightly hidden behind your dress. You gritted your teeth as he slowly and carefully rose it up ‘till both of you could clearly see it. You were trembling, so much it was actually impressive that you could hide it so well.

“Your body speaks to me, sweetheart.” he answered, caressing your palm with his thumb as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss on its back.

And before any of you knew, more blood spilled as you rose the knife.

To be continued…

*Crumbs;; used for expressing surprise.

A/N;; guys i cannot believe y’all have already given Filthy Rich over 600 notes in less than 48h! i’m about to cry about the support and new followers. i really hope i don’t disappoint all of you with this story and you love it as much as i do <3

TAGLIST ♡!!!

@kik51199 @alicegrayson @hardysbitch @gamorxa @knifeluvr @estrellitams @elarasstardust @therealbattleangel @cherrypieyourface @stardustworlds @the-iridescent-phoenix @darkened-writer @brlnamy @ellathefriendlyalpacaaa

[tisfan]

Title: (Consider this) The Hint of the Century @tisfan Square: R1 - KINK: mind-controlled sex WinterIron Bingo: B2 - Losing Religion @27dragons TSB: S4 - Resurrection  Warning: dub-con (ish), anal sex, ghosts, possession, Bucky has a plan, this wasn’t it Pairing: Bucky/Tony Summary: It’s just a box that they found in the crypt of a desecrated old church that rumor says is haunted. What could possibly go wrong?Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19107763 Word Count: 7382

For @tonystarkbingo and @winterironbingo

A/n https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Puller_von_Hohenburg Richard and Anton are, in fact, real people who had a real relationship and were burned at the stake for it. Obviously, we’ve fic’d it up a bit, but here’s where the origin story came from. 

“God, this place is probably older than I am,” Bucky said, looking around the demolished remains of the cathedral. Admittedly, they were in central Europe in one of those countries that Americans could never seem to remember the name of, and therefore something that was only five hundred years old were ‘upstart buildings.’ So it probably didn’t matter that they’d wrecked the place.

It really wasn’t their fault, Bucky was going to raise his hand and swear before God that they did not mean to knock down the church.

Some wanna be sorcerer had taken over the joint, raised a bunch of zombies with some magical… thingie… and made a complete mess of the entire area, terrorizing the locals. The Avengers hadn’t been called in until the Ghost dude -- he’d shouted his villainy name as being the Ghost Whisperer, or something -- had brought down a damn aircraft with a resurrected pterodactyl. Bucky wasn’t entirely paying attention to the rant-and-rave, being much too involved in the set up and take down part of the operation -- and he was being dragged away by a combination of local police and Dr. Strange.

Tony was consulting with the local police, which involved a lot of hand-waving, and he was clearly growing more and more annoyed by the second. Finally, he stomped back over to Bucky, rolling his eyes so hard that it looked painful. “Strange says the guy had some kind of magical pendant that he was using to... he wasn’t controlling the zombies with it -- that was the grimoire -- but to protect himself from them, maybe? I don’t know, magic doesn’t make any sense to me. Anyway, he doesn’t have it on him, so it’s got to be in there somewhere.” He waved a still-gauntleted hand toward the half-destroyed old church. “And the locals refuse to muster a crew to search for it, because they think the place is haunted.” Another eye-roll. “We just arrested the guy who was haunting it; you’d think they’d get that. But they don’t. So it’s up to us to dig through the mess and find the pendant.”

“Great,” Bucky said, watching Tony stride around through the rubble, occasionally assisted with a repulsored hop or delicate leap. Watching Tony in that armor was like witnessing a very aggressive ballet dancer. Beautiful, powerful, great ass-- Bucky sighed, shook his head. “Seems a little, I dunno, heretical or somethin’. Don’t you think? Digging through church wreckage? I feel bad enough about smashing the building to bits in the first place.”

Tony glanced back over his shoulder. “Didn’t take you for the religious type, Klondike. It’s just a building, really. And Strange says we really can’t let anyone else walk off with that pendant; we’ll just end up with another villain in three weeks.”

Bucky shrugged, a little sheepishly. “I grew up in in the 20’s and 30’s, Stark. I was an altar boy and everything. Used to take communion and listen to the litany in Latin.” He grumped about that; he’d been back to church a few times since Hydra. His first confession in seventy years had taken almost four hours, and he’d barely been able to talk for two days after he was done with his penance. But the service itself was in English, and that had been weird enough that Bucky had mostly given up the habit.

Tony tipped his head a little, which meant he was conceding the point. “Still, I’m pretty sure this place was deconsecrated long before we got here. Zombies will probably do that.” He crouched, took hold of a fallen beam, and heaved it out of the way. “...Huh. There’s a door in here. I didn’t notice that before.”

(more below the cut)

“Where, in the Sancrist-- oh.” Bucky stopped. “Uh. I think I know where he was getting the zombies from. That probably leads down to the catacombs.” He crossed himself, kissed his thumb, and then pushed the door open, very slowly. Haunted, the locals said. Bucky wondered if the place had been haunted before the Ghost Whisperer showed up.

Tony muttered something and a soft, wide light shone out of his chestplate, dimly illuminating the stairs leading down. He eyed the passageway. “Strange definitely said that closing the grimoire would drop any remaining zombies wandering around. So there’s nothing down there to worry about. Just...”

“Dead people.”

“Yeah, that.” Tony hesitated a moment longer, then sighed and started down the stairs. “Okay. Might as well get it over with.”

Bucky crept down behind him, torn between wanting to hold Tony’s hand, because part of him was always going to be that scared Catholic boy who was positive he was going to hell, and the other half wanting to yell Boo and see if Tony shrieked like a little kid, because that would be funny as shit.

“Did the locals specifically say what was haunting, around here, I mean, are we talking angry poltergeist that throws the bones of the dead at us, or just scary sounds at night?”

He was working himself right up, that’s exactly what he was doing. Given that they’d been fighting zombies in the morning, complete with the whole hunger for brains and the horrible smell, he was pretty sure he could be excused.

Still…

“Nope, just ‘haunted’ and ‘cursed’, over and over,” Tony said, sounding annoyed. “There was a bit in there about... it didn’t translate well. The two in one body? The two who became one? Something like that.” He glanced back as he reached the bottom, flashing Bucky that insouciant smirk. “So maybe there’s only two ghosts. I bet we can take ‘em.”

“Lovely,” Bucky said. “I don’t really want to take them anywhere. It’s not like it’s their fault that they’re dead. Someone mucking around with the natural order of shit. Oh-- look at that!”

Bucky turned as something glinted and glittered. It probably should have been blue, reflecting the arc-reactor, but it wasn’t. It was golden, sunshine, and pure. Beautiful. A tomb, carved from marble and inlaid with gold.

On the top of what looked like a double-sized burial chamber were two marble statuettes, naked and beautifully done, almost lifelike, reaching for each other but never quite touching.

“Wow.”

“You said it,” Tony agreed. He came over to look at the tableau. “There’s no dust on them.”

“It’s beautiful,” Bucky said, staring up at the statue. While gorgeously done -- Michelangelo's David might well have been jealous -- the expressions on the statues faces were of people who were in terrible pain. Grief, or despair. Bucky’s gaze was drawn to the space between their hands. “Sad, though.” He walked all the way around the statuary, and then-- “Huh, what’s this, I wonder.” He pointed to a reliquary at the end. There were strange marks on it, but the container didn’t look locked or anything.

“How should I know?” Tony wondered. “You think the pendant might be in there?”

Bucky reached for the box; gold and colored enamel, pictures. He squinted, picked it up. “There’s a story here.” He turned the box around in his hands until he found the beginning, an ancient series of events. A wedding, but the man was looking over his new wife’s shoulder-- at her brother, maybe? The estranged couple fighting, the man fleeing to be with his lover. “God, they were burned at the stake.” Bucky shuddered, still looking at the pictures.

“Well, that’s horrible. What are they doing in the church? I thought heretics weren’t allowed proper burial, or something like that?” Tony came closer, shining his light a little more clearly on the box.

“I don’t know,” Bucky said, his fingers grazing over the lid. “I wonder what’s in it.”

“You probably shouldn’t open that,” Tony said sharply.

“I just want to see,” Bucky protested. “It’s just a box, what harm can there be in looking inside a box?”

“Have you not paid any attention to the movies we’ve watched? At all? There are dozens of movies that explain why it’s a bad idea to open random artifacts in a cursed graveyard.”

“If I took your movies seriously, I wouldn’t go to the beach, either,” Bucky said, getting his nails under the lid and prying at it. “Man-eating sharks and everything.” Ahhh, there, there was a little catch under one side, and he pressed it. “Ha, got it!”

The box opened with a soft hiss and a delicate blue mist flowed out, all shiny, pretty, something highly magical is going on here fog. Great special effects, Bucky had time to think before he inhaled--

Richard von Hohenburg opened his eyes for the first time in six hundred years, looking around. The church, where they’d been tortured, forced to confess, burned, and then cursed. As if what they’d done was so terrible.

He’d been locked in a tiny space, no body, no anything. No contact with the realms of the dead. And sensing that Anton was nearby, sensing it, but not being able to touch him, tell him, apologize, nothing.

But he had eyes now. He could see now.

“Anton?”

                                                        ***

“It’s just a box, what harm can there be in looking inside a box?”

Tony nearly choked on his own spit. “Have you not paid any attention to the movies we’ve watched? At all?” To be fair, Tony hadn’t been paying a lot of attention during those movies, himself, largely because he’d spent them surreptitiously watching Bucky. Not that he had any intention of ever telling Bucky that. “There are dozens of movies that explain why it’s a bad idea to open random artifacts in a cursed graveyard.”

“If I took your movies seriously, I wouldn’t go to the beach, either. Man-eating sharks and everything.” Bucky was peering around the edges and seams of the box, and Tony couldn’t quite suppress a foreboding feeling.

“Maybe we should--”

“Ha, got it!” Bucky flashed Tony a grin, that bright, boyish smile that lit up the room and seemed to dissolve at least half a century’s worth of suffering from Bucky’s eyes.

Which meant that Tony saw, before Bucky, the glowing blue mist that curled up out of the box. “Bucky, back away!” But the mist had already slithered into Bucky’s mouth and nose like a hundred sparkling snakes, and was spreading rapidly.

Tony snapped his helmet closed. “Bucky! Are you okay?”

Bucky’s eyes met his, and for a moment, their normal stormcloud gray flickered and flashed the same blue as the mist.

“Shit, Bu--” The mist was seeping right through his armor, because of course it was, because fucking magic, and this was why Tony was never going on a magic mission again without--

Anton Mätzler gasped his first breath in centuries, since the smoke of the fires had choked out his last. He staggered back, away from the cursed relic with its compartments, keeping him from his beloved even in death.

“Anton?”

Anton’s head turned toward the sound of his name, a voice that was both utterly unfamiliar and at once well-known. “Richard, love?”

“What’s… what’s happened to us?” Richard was staring down at his hands, one was normal, human, if wearing strange gloves with no fingers, but the other-- the other was gleaming silver, unyielding metal, but as flexible as a normal hand. “And you, Anton, my dearest, look at yourself, clad in armor, like a knight?”

Anton looked down at himself. It was a strange armor indeed, with more of magic about it than metalsmith, ghostly messages and symbols writ across his very vision. “A strange knight, indeed,” he said uneasily. “I wonder how one removes such armor.” No sooner had he spoken the words than the armor... unfolded itself, spilling him out into the dank air of -- the crypts? Long abandoned, the sacred tombs fallen into disrepair and rot.

Anton felt no pity for them. Not after what they’d done to him, and to Richard.

He turned toward Richard, hands outstretched. “My love... I know not how this miracle has come to pass, but I can only be joyful to see you again. To touch your hand, your face...”

“I must say, you don’t look quite like yourself, but--” Richard came over to stand directly in front of him, clasped Anton’s hands in his own, and spread them, admiring. “It is a good form, nonetheless. And quite well-displayed in those strange garments. T’was always your brilliant mind that most captivated me, my dearest, although I did not object to a lithe form beneath me.”

Anton laughed. “Nor did I object to being beneath you, though it was your kindness and patience for which I first loved you.”

“Hey, hey, hey, sorry to interrupt, guys--” the voice that came from Richard’s throat was the same, but had a faster, less formal way of talking, an almost incomprehensible rumbling accent. “Tony-- Tony, you okay in there? Stark. Come on--”

Anton shook his head. “I know not this Tony--” And then it seemed he was rudely pushed aside, shoved to the back of his own consciousness, though he felt his throat working as he said, “I’m here, I’m here, Buckaroo, I’m okay. I think.”

Anton tried to push his way back to the forefront. “What sorcery is this?”

“I’m fuckin’ possessed,” Richard complained. “I owe you, like a hundred fuckin’ beers man, when we get out of this--”

“Stop! These forms are ours now,” Richard continued, face working uncomfortably as he seized control of the spirits that shared their bodies. “We have earned this, through countless centuries of torment. You will not--”

“Uh, no, dude, no, just-- ow!”

Richard went to one knee, heaving as if he was going to cast up his accounts, but when he looked back up, from his position on the floor, the twinkle in his eye and the suggestive smirk was entirely Richard’s own. There was a time when Anton would have killed for that look; a time where he had died for it.

Anton felt his own co-habitant jostling him, and wrestled for control. “Bucky! What the hell did you do to him, you--” Anton twisted back into place. “Please,” he said. “We died for our love, only to be held forever apart, unable to so much as whisper. Grant us a short while, at least!” With all his strength, he summoned his memories of the torture -- beatings and burnings, heavy chains and the ducking stool -- and pushed them at his host.

The body stumbled, and it was not Anton’s doing. “Christ,” the other said. “That’s--”

“Here, I’m here, my darling,” Richard said, and it was beyond heaven to be clasped in strong arms, willing to hold him, eager and exalting. “Let me kiss those honeyed lips, so long denied me.”

A kiss, tender and sweet, was pressed against Anton’s forehead, and even if the body was not his own, he felt it, keenly. Doubled, even, with a taste of regret, guilt… longing, underneath, until the sensation was almost unbearable.

Anton pressed into Richard’s arms, and if the feel of the metal one at his back was strange and unyielding, the gentle caresses of the other more than made up for it. “I love you,” Anton whispered, aching with the strength and sincerity of that emotion. “I could not recant that, even in the flames.”

“Nor did I,” Richard promised him. “Thus, this elaborate prison to keep us apart.” He spat through his fingers, protection from evil magics. “And I have you back, in my arms again, and nothing will keep me from you.” He stroked his fingers through Anton’s hair. “Say you will still be mine?”

“I have never been anything else,” Anton swore, “not since the moment of our first meeting.”

“Uh, hey--” The spirit that inhabited Richard’s body shivered and shuddered, “look, no, come on, romantical as all this is, I ain’t-- that’s Tony’s body and this one’s mine, and we’re gonna have to take up habitation again, an’ okay, no, seriously, that’s not fair, get out.. Get out of my memories!”

Anton felt his host’s frantic terror and fiery rage and laughed, delighted. “I believe these two hold each other in near as much esteem as we feel for one another,” he confided.

“It’s not like that--” Richard’s host snarled. “I ain’t nothin’ to him, an’ I don’t…”

“Shhhh, it shall all be well, my host,” Richard said. “You hunger for him, and you shall have him. It will be well. We will treat him… very well.”

“He doesn’t hunger; are you insane?” Anton’s host snapped. “Look, I’m sorry you got killed and locked up in a box for so long, but he’s not interested and you can’t just--”

Anton wrapped mental arms around his host. “My Richard does not lie,” he promised. “Nor are we mad, except with wanting each other. Let us have this, and enjoy your own desires come into fruition.”

“Tony--” and there was not a lot of change in the longing in Richard’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know, maybe it’s me. I can’t… I can’t fight it.”

“Bucky.” Anton’s hand tightened on Richard’s. “It’s, it’s okay. I don’t mind. Not if it’s you.”

And then, with an eager, fervid groan, Richard’s mouth was on his; a kiss of no finesse, no sweetness, but instead all avid hunger, devouring Anton, as if they could become one, as if they could hold each other tight enough to never have to let go.

Anton moaned, surrendering himself to that kiss, wrapping his arms around Richard’s shoulders, clasping at Richard’s clothes and hair and arms, anything he could reach, scrambling to press closer and closer yet, as if determined to merge their bodies into one.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, Tony, it’s okay,” and that was not Richard, but as he’d stopped fighting, and was letting those hands touch and caress, seemed to know how to unfasten the strange clothing they both wore, had stopped resisting and was now actively helping… well, it was good. It would be well.

Anton’s host -- Tony, apparently, and how strange that their names were so similar -- came forward again, more gently this time, showing Anton the strange clasps and catches that held Richard’s clothes together. “Yeah,” he said. “You always do. I’ve got you, too.”

Too hungry for his lover’s kiss to speak, Anton pressed their mouths together again, tongue flicking at the corner of Richard’s mouth, teasing and tasting.

Richard cupped his jaw with one hand, his thumb teasing at the corner of Anton’s mouth, coaxing it open. “Ain’t you sweet,” he murmured and Anton didn’t even know anymore, who was who, but it didn’t matter, those clever fingers were stroking his skin, raking passion up from the coals that had long since been banked.

Richard ran those hands down his chest, thumbing nipples erect, and then, “Beltpouch, second from the left,” he said, which made no sense whatsoever to Anton, but his host -- Tony -- was already sliding their hand into the indicated-- pocket? On a belt?

What Tony found there was some sort of packet, shiny like metal but softer, and whatever it was, it amused Tony greatly. “Really?” he said. “On a mission?”

“Look, you wanna go in dry with some randy old ghosts, be my guest,” Bucky said, and that didn’t make sense either, but that metal hand was curling around Anton’s member, stroking light. The metal wasn’t cold, either, but warmer than human flesh, and there was the faintest shuddering to it, a vibration from deep inside that stimulated and aroused. “But I done my share of trench quickies, an’ I’d rather be prepared.”

Still amused, Tony conceded the point. A deft twist of their hands opened the packet, and then Tony retreated a little, shooting Anton a burst of memories demonstrating the purpose of the contents -- it was like oil, it seemed, for this very purpose. Anton poured some over his fingers and -- oh, Tony had not been exaggerating; it was so much better than oil. Slicker, smoother. Anton reached between his legs and pushed the stuff into his hole, shuddering at the sweet burn of it.

“God,” Richard said. “You’re so beautiful.”

And Richard was nudging Anton over onto his knees, helping spread the oil, rubbing at the opening of his body eagerly, spreading it, tugging. “Careful now, you gotta-- gentle. It’s… well, I ain’t gonna apologize, but it’s a lot.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Anton returned, teasing. “But I have waited too long to delay any more than necessary. I would have you, my love, and soon.”

One finger pressed inside, thrusting, the slick easing the way, smooth and silky and perfect. Then a second, and that burned, but Anton had experienced fires much more potent, and all it did was make him whine and twist his hips, urging.

The fingers withdrew and then, yes, there it was, pressing urgently on him, and he bent his back, fingers clenching at the stone underneath him.

“Tony--”

“Yes,” they gasped, and Anton wasn’t sure which of them it was, speaking. “I need you, now.”

A strangled moan, hands gripping Anton’s hips, and he was pulled, slowly, impaling himself on Richard’s fine tool, filling him up, stretching him out. One hand went to the small of Anton’s back, rubbing in soft, soothing circles, tracing the line of his spine, and then gripped the curly mass of his hair, tugging his head back.

Anton gasped, curving his back even more, keening at the overload of sensations. “Fill me,” he begged, all shame long since gone, burnt up in their holy fire until all that was left of him was wanton desire, a burning need hotter than any flame. “My love, please!”

“I have you, I--” It was all hard, urgent rhythm then, being thrust into and pulled back from. The body that covered his was unfamiliar, and at the same time, that same, tender lover that Anton had given everything to, and been everything for. They moved together, hurried, racing toward release, eager to share in each other, the way they always had, and it was sweet, and rough, and just this side of blissful.

They moved together, push and pull, rocking together, words unimportant, only feelings, and the fire inside them, until..

“Oh, yes, yes, my darling!”

Anton cried out, groping for his own member; it took no more than a half-dozen frantic strokes before he was spilling, his whole body aching as it tried to clench down around Richard’s still-firm erection. He shivered and shuddered with the force of his release, a sudden wash of relaxation sweeping over him, like a deluge of warm spring rain.

Richard matched him, then moved slowly with him, stroking him down, soothing and sweet, and then he stiffened, biting down on Anton’s shoulder to stifle his scream. “Oh, oh, my darling,” he was saying, kissing the skin, as if tasting the imprint he’d left, his soft tongue stealing away the sting. “It’s always been you. Always you. Forever.”

“Until the end of days,” Anton promised, lassitude creeping in. “My only love.” How he longed for a bed, or even a rough pallet, where they could lie together and rest, tangled in one another’s arms.

“Look, a bed we got,” Richard said, apparently negotiating with his host. “Jus’ need to finish our mission here, yeah? There’s a guy, he hurt a lot of people, an’-- we’re looking for a pendant, about -- so big? You seen anything like that?”

“The priest who tried us wore an amulet of that size,” Anton recalled, sitting back on his heels. “He would have been buried...” Anton considered the catacombs, then pointed. “In that chamber.”

“Thanks,” Richard said, and offered him a hand up, already finding and pulling on his clothes. He made a face, apologetic, and handed Anton a-- surprisingly soft -- pale white shirt with no buttons and no laces. “T’ clean up--”

Anton might have protested, but what else was there to use? He wiped away the oil and the rest of it, rolling the shirt up around it. His host rolled their eyes. “Come on,” Tony said, “let’s find this pendant and get out of here.”

That chamber had been half-heartedly cleaned, and someone had set up a bedroll, and a desk. The cellar had been partially cracked open, perhaps in the battle, but Richard’s host was able to lift a portion of the collapsed rock out of the way.

“Our ghost whisperer,” Richard’s host said. “So, he probably already ransacked this place. You see anything in this mess, Tony?”

Anton moved over to the desk, looking it over. It was a spindly little thing, flimsy and unimpressive. He pulled open the first drawer and shuffled aside a few scraps of paper, and--

Anton backed away. “I don’t like it,” he said decisively. The pendant gleamed with power, sharp-edged enough to separate a man from his own shadow. He couldn’t quite take his eyes off it.

Richard went to him, as if to shield him from the amulet. It buzzed with surging energies, gleaming. “That is what our forms came to find,” he said. “To destroy it, or see it safely locked away, so no one else would suffer what we have suffered. They are, I believe, good men.”

Tony grunted. “Well, that’s the goal,” he said. He looked around. “We need something to put it in, until we can make other arrangements.”

“The box,” Anton said, pointing back the way they’d come. “The prison held us for centuries; it will surely hold this amulet for as long as you need.”

“I shall retrieve it,” Richard said, and he leaned in to kiss Anton’s cheek, soft and sweet. It shouldn’t have hurt to watch him walk away, he was barely going out of sight, and Anton would be able to hear him the whole time. But still, it ached with concern, throbbed with fear. The last time he’d let Richard out of his sight, they’d been separated, imprisoned. Told always that if he was willing to recant, to confess, to point the finger at his lover, that he would be spared. Told that Richard had recanted.

Anton had never believed that. Ever.

And, in the end, he was thus proven. Faithful, through all the long-- “How long, even, has it been, good host? What is the year?”

“What? It’s twenty-nineteen. Er, two thousand nineteen.” Tony, too, was watching the way Richard had gone, though Anton rather suspected it was the host who occupied Tony’s thoughts.

“That is… quite a long while to be imprisoned and alone,” Anton said. “We died in the year of our Lord, 1482. Richard was a knight, from Switzerland. I was his servant… and his downfall. He gave me gifts, clothing and jewels, and-- I looked too high for my station, so the church… declared us heretics.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony said. “Things are... better, now.”

“This thing ain’t exactly light,” Richard’s host complained, coming back into the room, “but I guess it’ll do as good as any. Strange’ll make heads or tails out of the whole mess anyway. Pop it in the box.”

Anton reached out and then hesitated, not quite able to make himself touch the horrible thing. Tony took over, scooping it up. It felt cold, much colder than mere metal and stone should be, even in a crypt.

There was a tug, like something pulling at his soul, loosening it.

“You know you have to go, right?” Richard’s host said, and it was very gentle. He reached out, touched his flesh hand to the other side of the medallion. “Not back in the box, but… you died. It’s time t’ move on. Tony can make a big church donation, get the bishop t’ do Last Rites, or whatever.”

Anton’s vision blurred. “Must we? We’ve only just come together again, and I’ve missed you, my love, so much.”

“Wish for it,” Richard’s host said. “You can feel it, right? The power the amulet’s got over the dead. Stay together, all eternity. No heaven or hell without the other.”

“Richard?” Anton wasn’t even sure what he was asking, but he needed to see the spark of his lover in those strange gray eyes, one last time.

“I am here,” Richard said. “And I will-- always protect you. Even if I failed before, I can-- together. Always.”

“Always,” Anton promised through his tears. “Until the end of days.”

There was another tug, and--

“Well, that’s… look at you, all non-corporeal and shit,” Richard’s host said, although he wasn’t really the host anymore, and Anton couldn’t seem to bring himself to call him Bucky, like he was some sort of pet deer or something.

Nor was Anton still in Tony’s body. Rather, they floated above the two men, and when he looked at Richard, he saw -- a ghost, like a wisp of smoke caught in a Richard-shaped glass, but it was Richard, the countenance he’d known and loved. “Oh, my love.” He reached out and, incorporeal as Richard looked, he felt solid, even warm, to Anton’s touch.

“My most beloved,” Richard said. “Always. We will have it, our forever.”

“Uh, so, like, it was good to meet you an’ all, but we really need to get this thing gone and safe,” Bucky said. “An’ like, totally take a shower.”

“I’m seconding the shower idea,” Tony agreed. “You two lovebirds have a good time, now. Don’t spook anyone who doesn’t deserve it.” The ghosts barely even glanced at them, then they were fading away entirely, hands twined and hearts in their eyes.

Tony dropped the pendant into the box that Bucky was still holding and twisted the cover into place. “Right, well. That’s that, then, I guess.”

“It… uh, it was somethin’, all right,” Bucky said, not quite meeting Tony’s gaze, cheeks and neck flushing.

And they were both standing around in an abandoned and half-destroyed church’s catacombs in their underwear. Because they’d let a couple of ghosts use them to fuck.

Yeah, that was going to land pretty high on the Weird Shit rankings, and Tony was just going to hope Bucky attributed the embarrassing stuff Tony’d said to ghost. That would probably be for the best. “So. We should probably, you know. Get dressed. And get this back to Strange.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Totally that’s what we should do.” His hand fluttered a moment, like some wounded butterfly, in the space between them, and then dropped it before he could make contact. “Uh. Are you okay?”

“What? Fine,” Tony said, only a little brittle. “Never better. Well. Tired. And I really want that shower.” He eased past Bucky and went back to where his armor waited, his clothes still crumpled on the floor where they’d been dropped. He picked up his jeans and pulled them on.

“You know,” Bucky said, staring at his tactical armor, all over the place. “This is why Strange can portal. I gotta put all this shit back on… for what, ten minutes while we cross town?” Bucky gave Tony a grin, a little hesitant, like he wasn’t sure that Tony was going to laugh at his jokes anymore.

Tony grinned back. It wasn’t like he’d forgotten how to fake being relaxed and easy with someone he’d seen naked. And he didn’t want to stop laughing at Bucky’s jokes, anyway. They were friends, these days; once the awkward wore off, Tony wanted them to stay that way. “I mean, you could stroll across town shirtless,” he suggested. “Earn a lot of local goodwill that way.”

“I am shirtless,” Bucky pointed out. “You… uh… yeah, I have a tac-vest, but. My undershirt was sacrificed to the cause. It’s good, it’s great. I mean… we’re okay, yeah?”

“Of course,” Tony said. He pulled on his t-shirt and stepped back into the armor. “I mean, awkward. But no reason not to be okay.”

Bucky just nodded at that, threw the tac vest on and didn’t bother to lock it in place, showing off arms, and ribs, and the very bottom strip of his belly between his pants and the bottom of the vest. He bent down and hefted the case under one arm, and his gun in the other hand. He didn’t say anything then, either, just jerked his chin toward the exit, watching Tony with eyes that seemed somehow… thoughtful.

Tony wondered what those thoughts were, but shut that down almost immediately. It didn’t matter. They were going back to their separate rooms at the hotel, take hot showers, and catch a night’s sleep. And then in the morning, everything would be back to normal. He nodded and made his way back out of the church.

                                                          ***

Bucky couldn’t decide if he was feeling satisfied and smug, or guilty, and the two extremes were yanking at him. He showered, water hot enough to boil a lobster, until his skin was pink and stinging. It would fade soon enough. It always did.

Ug. This was not how he wanted any of this shit to go down.

Tony had been drawing back the whole time between when the spirits departed and when he’d faux-cheerfully waved Bucky off into the next room.

They needed to talk.

And god damn, if there was one thing Bucky was really, really bad at, it was talking. And in that subset of bad things about talking, there was talking about feelings. Bucky hadn’t had bloody damn feelings in so long, figuring out what to do with them sometimes took him all damn day.

Sit a plate in front of him, and he’d eat. Ask him what he wanted to watch on the television and he’d freeze up for an hour or more, trying to decide.

But letting Tony get back to the Compound without talking about this, or making a terrible attempt at talking about this, and Bucky wouldn’t see him for a week or more, while he hid down in the ‘shop and pretended that nothing ever happened, he was fine, why?

“Fuck.”

Well, yeah, and that’s exactly what had happened, too.

Bucky yanked on a pair of soft sweatpants, a tee, and a hoodie, his preferred clothing for between missions.

Knocking was pointless. Tony would pretend not to hear him, if he didn’t want to talk. Bucky was going to go with the Natasha method of talking shit out. It took him exactly six seconds to scramble the hotel’s expensive key-card entry system and he let himself into Tony’s room.

Tony… was still in the shower.

Which was, in and of itself, a little worrisome. Was he washing… Bucky off?

Bucky threw himself down on Tony’s bed and prepared to wait it out.

Not too much later, the water shut off. Another moment or two while he dried off, and then the bathroom door opened, and Tony walked out, stark naked, still scrubbing a towel over his hair and humming something under his breath.

“Oh shit! Fuck!” Tony practically teleported back three feet when he spotted Bucky on the bed, jostling the towel down to cover himself, more or less. Mostly less. “What the fuck!”

“Oh, my god, stop screaming, it’s just me,” Bucky said, sitting up. “And I literally just saw… all of that, like not two hours ago.”

Tony pressed a hand to his chest, the other one still holding the towel over his groin. “Jesus, don’t do that shit. Christ, you take in a handful of spies and assassins and suddenly there’s no privacy anymore.” He grabbed up a pair of sweats and pulled them on quickly, half-turning in an effort to preserve his modesty that only gave Bucky a really fantastic view of his ass. “What do you want?”

“You--” Bucky said, and Tony shot him a look so incredulously disbelieving that Bucky amended his statement somewhat. “To talk this out with me, Tony. I mean, maybe you didn’t notice, or somethin’ but we just had sex. I think… we should talk about it.”

Tony huffed, then opened the mini-fridge and pulled out a couple of bottles of beer. Local stuff, so it probably wasn’t swill. He tossed one toward Bucky. “What, you want a Yelp review? ‘Four stars; excellent technique and presentation but the ambiance left something to be desired.’”

“That was shitty technique,” Bucky said. “I totally would have-- it was rushed and relatively unconcerned about your pleasure. I’m just saying. If I was… in control of the situation.”

Tony took a swig from his bottle, throat working as he swallowed, his still-damp hair dripping water down his chest. “If you were in control of the situation,” he said, “it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Well, no,” Bucky admitted, “because I ain’t crass enough-- okay, no, not true, I’m totally crass enough t’ ask a fella for a quickie after a near-death experience. Jus’, you know, not… you. I wouldn’t do you like that. An’ I’m sorry as hell that it went down this way.”

“This way?” Tony was giving him that sardonic look, the one he used a lot when he was being snarky at the press. “What way would you have preferred, dare I ask?”

“I had a plan,” Bucky muttered. “I know they say Steve’s the man with the plan, but that idiotic bastard jumps out of airplanes with no chute, he doesn’t have a plan, he’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of the Titanic. I… I had a plan. Thought it might have been goin’ well. These days, we split off for a mission, I’m usually your backup. Which is good, right? You trust me… trusted. Me.”

Bucky sighed. Tony probably didn’t trust him at all, anymore. And Bucky didn’t blame him, not one bit, really. It wasn’t his fault, but-- but it was. He was the one who opened the damn box, wasn’t he? And he was the one who didn’t fight it, because he wanted Tony, and it was so damn easy to just let Richard have his way, have his body, have Tony’s body under him.

God damn it.

Frowning, Tony sank down onto the little desk chair. He rolled the bottle between his hands, intent. “You had a plan,” he repeated slowly. “For... me?”

“Yeah,” Bucky admitted. “We already-- the concert series, this spring, that we went to? I know you like music, an’ I’m still tryin’ to figure out what I like, so… we had fun, right? That was fun?”

“Yeah, that was great, I-- Wait, that was... part of the plan? The plan where... What, exactly, is the end goal of this plan?” Tony’s eyes couldn’t possibly get any more focused.

“The plan, Tony--” Bucky said, and he couldn’t quite resist the urge to roll his eyes, “was for us t’, you know, figure out if we liked each other. I mean, that’s what people do, when they like a fella, think he’s somethin’ else. If we like spendin’ time together, not the whole saving the world shit, that gets old, but… normal stuff. An’ then, I was plannin’ to see if maybe you liked me back, an’ we could spend more time together. I got… I got so much time back, Tony, and I just want to live it, an’ share it with someone special, and I thought… maybe that could be you.”

Tony’s lips moved, soundlessly, repeating the phrase someone special to himself. “You’re talking about dating,” he said, looking startled. “The plan was to date me?”

The plan itself had gone up to dating.

That Bucky had wild and crazy flights of fancy after that, well, he didn’t need to dump his whole heart on the ground right this second, did he?

“The plan was to find out if we wanted to date. Or… whatever,” Bucky said, waving a hand. “Who knows, you couldda been terrible to hang out with. Not… I mean, you weren’t, you were great, it was… yes. The plan was to date you. I thought it was goin’ well, and now it’s all smashed to shit, an’... it wasn’t my fault, except that it was, and Tony, I am so, so sorry.”

Apparently he did need to dump his whole heart on the ground, right this second.

“Oh my god, I’m an idiot,” Tony said. He was staring at Bucky, though at least he didn’t look angry or disgusted. “Those were dates. How did I not-- Well, obviously, because I was too busy trying not to let on how much I wanted them to be dates to realize they actually were.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Idiot,” he reiterated.

“So, uh, it was goin’ well?” Bucky asked, because Tony was getting really deep into self-recriminations, and that wasn’t the direction Bucky wanted this to go, at all.

Tony lowered his hand, and he was smiling, not that practiced press smirk, but a wry, almost hesitant smile that was purely Tony. “It was going well,” he said. “Maybe a little slower than it needed to be.”

Bucky blinked. “I tried for a kiss once, and you backed off an’ asked me if you had cheese on your shirt,” he pointed out. “I thought… I dunno. But you didn’t say no, the next time I asked you to go somewhere, so--”

“I thought I was imagining that,” Tony said. “I thought... overactive imagination, it’s a thing, with me. Also, I did in fact have cheese on my shirt,” he pointed out. “Your first kiss with someone shouldn’t be with them looking like a slob who’d just nosedived into the nachos.”

“They were really good nachos, though,” Bucky said. “I was brushing crumbs out of my shirt, too.” He inched a little closer, probably not being as smooth as he would like to be. “So, what-- should my first kiss with someone be like?”

“It probably should also not be because you’ve been possessed by a couple of horny ghosts,” Tony said. “I think... I think maybe it should be after you’ve told someone you like them, just so you’re both on the same page. And then it should be...” Tony swept forward, fingers curling into Bucky’s hair, palm cupping the back of his neck as Tony’s mouth brushed over Bucky’s lightly once, twice, three times, teasing, drawing away when Bucky tried to lean into it, and then finally lingering, tongue flicking against Bucky’s lip. “A little like that,” Tony finished, a little breathless.

“Just a little like that?” Bucky asked, his thumb brushing against Tony’s jaw, coaxing him to stay, to sit down, to-- enjoy the moment, Barnes, you didn’t think you were going to get to have one.

“Well, you know, there’s a lot of variables, it’s impossible to account for all of them at once.” Tony hadn’t pulled away, was tipping his head into the light caress. “Lots of different ways a kiss can go, you know.” His eyes were wide and dark and full of something like wonder.

“We could, uh, try some of them out, if that… was a thing you wanted to explore?” Bucky suggested, hopefully.

“We’ll have to test all of them,” Tony said thoughtfully. “Probably more than once. Science requires repetition, you know.”

“It’s only science if you write it down,” Bucky said. “An’ uh, I was thinkin’ this was more of a what happens in Zurich stays in Zurich kinda sitch here. I mean, not the dating. Or the kissing, that’s… I’m totally open t’ you know, having the team. Well, know. Not that Nat doesn’t already, but… spies, what can you do? But… I think we can skip on the whole sexual possession post-mission report.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s fair, that’s... definitely not anything anyone else needs to know about,” Tony said. “Went down into the catacombs, found his camp and the necklace, the end.” He brushed his thumb down the side of Bucky’s neck, considering. “So what’s your candidate, then? For a kiss?”

“Oh, I kinda like those standing kisses, pushin’ someone back against a wall, and kiss til your legs get all weak an’ the wall’s the only thing holdin’ you up,” Bucky said. “That’s my favorite.”

“Yeah?” Tony looked around. “Oh look. A wall.” He hooked his hand in Bucky’s shirt and tugged until they were both upright. “Want to show me?”

"I would, in fact, love to," Bucky growled. New plan, his brain decided. How to get Tony out of these pants and into the bed, a three phase project.

[darrowsrising]

You know, I will just throw questions back at you if you don't mind because I can finally scream with people! Tell me about your favorite RR characters aswell, please? ♥

I never mind people asking me things about RR. I love this series with my heart and soul and everything in between. Also, stop apologizing to me about long posts regarding RR, I love them and I have lots of long rants to confirm that.(don’t search for them, they are full of spoilers…and my distaste for Dancer and Roque!) Also, I’ll try not to spoil the fun for you…

Darrow:

My absolute favourite. I love him to bits, he’s my precious, murderous baby! I’d start a #DarrowDefendingSquad or a #DarrowPreciousMurderousBabyBoy, but that’s not my style. Or his style for that matter. He can take care of himself, 75% of the time…the other 25% is not really up to him (it’s a combo of his friends and pure luck).

Jokes aside now, Darrow’s feelings and realness always got to me. When I started reading Red Rising I was 17 and I was recovering from a very bad…burnout (I went to see a psychologist and she told me that I was hurting emotionally from many bad things happening at once, but it wasn’t like…depression or anxiety per se). His feelings, whether it was rage or kindness or anything in between, were so valid to me. He reminded me that it’s perfectly alright to have confidence in yourself, to go after what you want, to be proud of yourself, to love again (friends, lovers, whatever) and many other things. I was at my lowest then and he showed me that ambition is not a dirty word, that confidence in yourself isn’t a bad thing and even if these things intimidate the people around you, they are valid and you shouldn’t be ashamed of despicting such things.

That made me relate to him a lot. I still find myself (whenever I revisit the books) being like “mood” or “same” or “that’s my boy” or “my pride and joy” or “Hail Reaper” at many of his thoughts, actions and one liners. I will always love him, although he is very thick headed sometimes and that’s annoying.

Mustang:

She is my favorite female character. I love the fact that despite growing up with Nero au Augustus as a father and Adrius as a twin, she is still kind. She is also fair, open-minded and highly intelligent. And strong in more ways than one. I love that she is multi-faceted (although haters think she is bland and 2D…Pixies, where? Did we read the same books?) and despite her family and the way she was brought up, she finds it hard to pretend and is mostly genuine (unless she has a plan). I love how she doesn’t give (to use Sevro’s terminology) two squirts of piss over the title of heir of House Augustus, although she’s more than capable to fill in the spot. But she’s more concerned with making the world a better place (she is a Reformist and although the story follows Darrow more, that is a big deal giving that she tried to make laws to help other Colors including the banning of the Board of Quality Control). I love how she is a logical person, yet she sacrifices a part of herself for her family, because she is human and bound to do illogical things. I love how, despite loving her family so much, she often goes against them, because it’s the right thing to do. I love how she is underestimated and she just spits (not literally) in their faces. I just love how she is a fighter, a politician, a leader, because we rarely see females like that. 

Sevro:

Sevro is a breath of fresh air. He is who he is without warning labels and apologies. He is a survivor, a loyal friend (very rare kind), a badarse. He is amazing. His existence is a defiance and I love it, although that resulted in a lonely childhood. I love him to bits tho, because he also shows how good it is to be yourself and like yourself despite everything. He is very sweet despite being a hard arse and his insults always leave me very impressed. It’s obvious that at the Institute, he just wanted to survive and get a modest job (like Fitchner - thing which Fitchner probably encouraged), but he started to see Darrow and his behavior with the others and he wanted to make friends. And when Darrow became his friend - his only real friend until then - it made him want more, dream for more. And I just love that. I love how Sevro evolved and how he protects his friends - Howlers included. The only thing I’m not a fan of is his hygene…and his pornographic collection of holoFilms.

Victra:

Victra is a warrior, an heiress and a business woman. She kicks arse, takes names and simply slays. I love that there is more to her than meets the eye (although I don’t trust NerdsTM to appreciate her like she deserves). I love how bad arse and loyal she is. I love how she enjoys life and all it entails. I love that she lets herself be vulnerable in public and it makes her courageous. I love how open she is about herself, yet she is still mysterious. I love the fact that she never lies and she loves jade jewelry and displaying her scars like jewelry and the smell of the air before the rain hits the ground. 

Fitchner:

I feel like Fitch is way too underrated. He was fairy chosen to be Rage Knight -  a position Lorn filled which only makes it legendary and harder to get. He beat Proctor Jupiter and Tactus’ eldest brother - which I hope is Tharsus, because Apollonius is in my graces atm. Not only that, he created the Sons of Ares, he lead them and infiltrated into the Society’s highest ranks to destroy it from the inside and build something better. It was his plan, his sacrifices, his dream. There would be no Rising without Fitchner. Not even Sevro, but hey, it’s not like the guy would say something like “The entire world should thank me for Sevro - he came from my sperm, ok, my swimmers made the little Goblin. You’re welcome!”…when we all know Sevro’s enemies would rather curse Fitchner’s balls for helping create their doom…

Getting back on track, Fitchner was the okay-est Proctor and one of the best characters.

Adrius: (no, it’ not an unpopular opinion, here we love Adrius)

I believe Adrius is the best villain hands down. There are no excuses for his actions, he is a genocidal maniac with daddy issues. He looks at people like they are objects, not human beings, he has no compassion and has no knowledge of empathy. And I love him. I give him sympathy, because he is a monster, but he was made that way. Although he displayed terrifying behavior from a young age, his fall towards evil could have been avoided if his father gave two (2) fucks about him. I love his relationship with Darrow and how they were rivals, then sort of allies, then…you’ll find out. I just love how Adrius was written. He is really great as a villain. I hate what he did to Darrow, tho. When he killed Nero I was happy for him, but no one touches Darrow, so that was his worst move ever. Like…Pixie, you just signed your death warrant, stay away from Mustang’s Bitc- Boo!

The Telemanuses: 

All of them are amazing! Much love to all of them! They deserve the world! I include Niobe, Thraxa and Xana, but that’s all I’m going to say, because you need to read for yourself to believe me.

Cassius: (long stoty, because i didn’t really like him at first)

You know what? I disliked Cassius as much as Darrow did first time he saw him…too annoyingly perfect. And after what Darrow endured it felt like a disgrace to see an entitled little Pixie dance his way on marble corridors at the expense of so many Colors. As the story progressed, Cassius’s entitled arse didn’t improved and the most annoying part was him bragging about the death he claimed. I know he did it to make people talk and find out who killed Julian, but that doesn’t make him right. The 49 other people killed in the Passage were just as innocent as Julian. He made the death of the person he killed sound cheap. Even Antonia had more respect towards that. And Titus made it worse, but that gets off tracks. I understand his pain. If someone would have killed my sister in the Passage, it would have sworn revenge too. But the painful thing is that Cassius saw only Julian’s death, Julian didn’t deserve to die. But that is also true for all the other people who got murdered in the Passage. They didn’t deserve to die either, but you don’t see anyone going at Mustang or Sevro with blood oaths to murder them. The whole system is fucked up and must be changed. Killing Darrow might be a thing of honour, but honour doesn’t bring back Julian.

The fact that he lied to everyone that Darrow was killed by Adrius to claim his spot as Primus of Mars wasn’t good publicity either. And then, he got to be even more of a Pixie in Golden Son. But it was Mustang who convinced me to give him a chance. Because she was the one who revealed that Cassius is conflicted, that he regrets losing not one brother, but two. That he suffers, but tries to do his duty to his family and honour them. Bit by bit, I was open to seeing Cassius from this perspective, so I gave him lots of benefits of the doubt. Until he killed Fitchner and all I wanted was to see his head on a spike turned ugly by gore and maggots. Then Morning Star happened and I went from: fuck Cassius (and not in a nice way) to Bloodydamn finally, Pixie, you made me so proud. Then, we got Iron Gold and man, if something happens to him I’ll kill all the Gold families of the Rim and then that bitch of a ward. 

I really love his character development. I can see that mine is an unpopular opinion everywhere in this fandom, given that even the author has a soft spot for Cassius (not that that stops him from making Cassius suffer even more), but yeah…that is the story of how I got late to the “We love Cassius” party. I’m being short on the good details, because I don’t want to spoil you, but I hope you understand.

Holiday and Orion:

They are amazing human beings and although they are side characters I love their contribution to the series. I love their personalities and talents and their overall no nonsense attitude. 

I’ll stop here, before we go off charts. Here are some honourable mentions in no particular order: Aja au Grimmus, Ragnar Volarus, Theodora, Matteo, Mickey, Tactus au Rath Valii, Lorn au Arcos, Apollonius au Valii Rath, Alexandar au Arcos, Rhonna of Lykos, Diomedes au Raa, Trigg ti Nakamura, Volga Fjordan.

[acsversace-news]

Rather than offering standard gore and merely giving us the willies, The Assassination of Gianni Versace, Ryan Murphy’s second installment of American Crime Story on the FX channel (now available on Amazon Prime Video and ITunes), is one of the rare serial killer dramas genuinely interested in sexual mores, complex character, spiky history, and salient issues of class. Demanding, sometimes confounding, but nevertheless searing and absorbing, the series piles on layer after layer of pain, irony, and god-awful coincidence, its counter-clockwise structure designed to take us deeper and deeper into a human abyss.

Andrew Cunanan, the elusive Minotaur at the heart of this real-life ’90s labyrinth, is a deadbeat on the lam, a name-dropping, designer-obsessed social climber. On a tried-and-true procedural-thriller level, the limited series, chronicling the curly-haired monster sacré’s notorious murder spree and suicide, sheds light on the largest failed manhunt in U.S. history—a fascinating botch, the whole law enforcement fiasco resulting from rampant homophobia and pure incomprehension regarding “a gay parallel universe,” as Vanity Fair reporter Maureen Orth labels it in Vulgar Favors, her juicy recounting of the roller-coaster case. Another key factor is the homicidal young con man Cunanan’s startling ability to evade the cops. A wizard at blithely rearranging his Filipino-Sicilian heritage to suit his gold-digging needs, Cunanan could blend with chameleon ease into different communities—Italian, Greek, Latino, Asian, etc.—as “a multi-purpose ethnic.” Since the fugitive Cunanan had never been arrested, the only fingerprints to be found were on his California driver’s license.

The series is set in 1997—a pivotal year in LGBT history, as it marked the discovery of a viable treatment for AIDS, so the dread disease was no longer an outright death sentence. The show’s backward historical movement is a strategy that illuminates the beleaguered gay world of the period and ably avoids a Psychology 101 approach to motive and pathology, creating a dramatic and poignant memorial to the fleshed-out lives of Cunanan’s victims: we get the appealing, even ecstatic early moments of Cunanan’s relationships after we’ve witnessed the desperate, unraveling scenes and harrowing murders, and the effect is unsettling and difficult to shake.

As the far-reaching series spins further away from Versace’s sumptuous life in South Beach, “the pleasure capital of the gay world,” and from the spirited realms of high fashion, its trajectory and intent become a little puzzling, but the last few riveting episodes suggest Murphy’s main focus is to plumb Cunanan’s lethal mix of unhinged aspiration and greed and to link Versace’s well-documented life as a lauded fashion king, an openly gay man (challenged by AIDS-related illness), with the accomplished lives of Cunanan’s other gifted gay victims. Protean Andrew, a glad-handing, money-flashing teller of tall tales, functions as a soul-crippled shadow version of the flamboyant Italian designer. It’s primarily the last two episodes, “Creator/Destroyer” and “Alone,” that underscore the genius of Murphy’s overall design.

In his native Calabria, the child Versace, shored by his seamstress mother’s approval, sketches and discovers his interest in fashion, developing his métier, despite cruel bullying by his Catholic teachers and classmates. In contrast, Cunanan is raised, in neurotic, almost farcical fashion, to be a petulant Filipino-American prince by his dictatorial, cock-of-the-walk father, an embezzler and reflexive con man, so it’s clear Andrew’s propensity for around-the-clock deception is a direct result of his appalling daddy’s over-the-top spoiling, with a pinch of his Sicilian-American mother’s religious mania and mental illness added to the stew. Andrew is flimflam Pete’s and frail MaryAnn’s Frankenstein child. What we see of Cunanan’s shaky upbringing also clicks with his penchant for hooking up with “beaucoup-bucks” johns and well-heeled patrons: just as his father gave him the best and biggest room in the house, Cunanan lives and moves, for the most part, from one gravy train to the next.

Facing jail time for financial crimes, Cunanan’s dad flees his wife and children for good, but later an unusually determined Andrew tracks him down in Manila. In a savage moment, in what amounts to a 180-degree turn from his previous paternal adoration, Pete slaps and spits on Andrew, calling him “a sissy boy with a sissy mind.”

On Murphy’s hit series Glee, Darren Criss had the heart-on-his sleeve emotionality of a young Streisand or Garland, gradually emerging as the most expressive musical talent on the show, which was praised for—beyond its weekly ebullient songfest—its groundbreaking emphasis on “baby queers” and high school bullying. It seemed enough that the dynamite Criss could sing. In The Assassination of Gianni Versace, he gives a prismatic performance as Andrew Cunanan: he’s voluble, sly, strung-out on drugs (even shooting up between his grubby toes) or he’s coolly, scarily detached—a crystal meth Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. As the series progresses, we get to follow Andrew-in-a-social-whirl scenes (frankly a relief after the brackish murder segments) and to observe: the precocious, nose-in-a-book child reading Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited; the attention-grabbing, boundary-less teen sneaking off in cars with married men; the deluded, self-loathing bon vivant; the facile, coke-fueled charmer, with a geisha’s skill at entertaining rich men; and a relentless operator (with an IQ of 147), lying through his teeth, working the upper echelons of the gay community.

In several of its telltale social scenes, the show resembles John Guare’s Six Degrees of Separation, a drawing-room tragicomedy about a similarly adept gay con artist, and Anthony Minghella’s elegant 1999 film version of the Patricia Highsmith classic, The Talented Mr. Ripley. I remember watching Ripley when it first appeared and actually being reminded of Cunanan: what is it about the prospect of losing the good life that unhinges once-struggling or working-class people and sometimes drives them to murder? Is the luxury and the freedom money brings really so hopelessly addictive?

Melding rock with rebel fashion and, according to Orth, “a diehard infatuation with rank and power that smacked of new money vulgarity,” Versace’s brash, innovative work was “inspired by antiquity and sadomasochism.” In revealing counterpoint, Andrew Cunanan, an outcast aiming for an A-list life with a kind of “If they could see me now” fury, keeps his S&M habits, sideline drug dealing, pimping for the rich and closeted, and serious crystal meth use on the down low, so as not to scare away his upper-crust friends, lovers, and patrons. A bondage scene in the first episode, set to Phil Collins’s breezy “She’s an Easy Lover,” is the sort of libidinous freak-out Ryan Murphy has been serving up since the late seasons of Nip/Tuck;Criss does an impromptu, preppy-trying-to-be-wild dance before his duct-taped john that’s so perfect and right for the era that I almost laughed. He’s his own demented go-go boy.

Criss gives a tour-de-force turn as Cunanan, but the moving supporting performances are also stellar: Edgar Ramirez (as Versace); Ricky Martin (as the designer’s longtime partner); Jon Jon Briones (as wily Pete Cunanan); Cody Fern (as Cunanan’s dream man, a wheat-haired Midwestern Apollo); Mike Farrell and Michael Nouri (as Cunanan’s classy, wealthy, older lovers); Finn Wittrock (as a decent, brave but disconsolate Navy man caught up in Clinton’s swampy Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy); and the always-reliable Judith Light (as the blinkered wife of one of the murder victims, a honeyed Home Network purveyor of perfumes, cosmetics, and folksy advice). Penelope Cruz gives one of her most ferocious performances as Donatella, the world-weary fashion insurgent; Cruz uses the trademark Donatella snarl and swagger in such a creative way that it becomes almost lovable, suggesting the impassioned, caring sister underneath all the come-hither leather and glamorous packaging.

Despite some initially mixed, even dismissive reviews, this second installment of American Crime Story recently garnered 18 Emmy nominations, six of which went to the risk-taking actors. Murphy has, in the past, been all about shock and showmanship, but Assassination represents a newfound candor, fraught complexity, and daring in his work: he’s gone for something deeper and subtler here than his dynamic crowd-pleaser, The People Vs. O.J. Simpson, 2016’s most lauded show, or even his affecting, Emmy-winning TV version of Larry Kramer’s AIDS drama, The Normal Heart.

Just as the emboldened right has renewed its predictable attacks against the LGBT community, Murphy’s piercing, intricate series delves into the tyranny of the closet—the toxic effects of suppression, bigotry, and mainstream rejection. I’ve never admired Murphy’s bold, baroque eye and vision more.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

Okay now I wanna love demon harry what the fuck

I feel like Y/N would find out about his history in an unexpected way.

They’ve gotten in a fight about their relationship and their future because Y/N is tired of having to sneak around and hide it from heaven and he snaps at her for being weak and then she snaps at him for being a demon and “What does it matter, anyways?! It’ll only be so long before you get tired of me and throw me away like I’m nothing! Just another one under the belt for you— just some party trick you can flaunt around when you wanna impress all of your stupid friends! ‘Did you know I slept with an angel? Made her think I cared for her and everything!’ I want to think it’ll work but in reality, you’re just a soulless, loveless, careless piece of shit!”

And Harry’s entire face is red with rage, his eyes melting into darkness and the veins in his neck are bulging because he really does care for her and he’s never felt like this about anyone since he was alive all of those centuries ago. But here she is, throwing these lies and accusations in his face when he had let himself be vulnerable for her.

So he goes right out and tells her, shoving her back against a wall with his face mere centimeters from her’s as he grits his teeth and nearly spits his words onto her face.

“You think I’m a piece of shit? Think I’m careless and loveless and soulless? Well, guess what, sweetheart? I did have a soul. A bloody fucking good one, actually. I was 13 and I had my whole future in front of me but I gave up my life to save my family. I sold my soul to keep the people I loved safe from an excruciating death with the plague and what do I get in return? Ten years later, a beast the size of a fucking truck drags me out of my room through the window and tears my chest to shreds.”

He can feel tears gathering along his waterline as he remembers that night so many centuries ago when that horrible monster had slammed into his home, it’s black fur matted with the dried blood of his past victims, it’s maw dripping acid, and its beady red eyes trained on him with nothing but pure evil and murderous intentions.

The faint scarring on his chest burns as the memories flood past his eyes in quick, gory flashes and it’s as if he can feel the claws puncturing his lungs all over again.

He forces himself to continue.

“Do you know what it’s like to have your heart torn out of your chest? To see it lying on the grass next to your head, still beating. Know what it’s like to feel the life draining out of your body as you lay there, choking on your own blood and watching your family cry and scream, not being able to do anything to save you? And the thing is, death wasn’t a release from the pain. It was only the start. Because what came after made death feel like nothing. Imagine being tortured in Hell for decades and decades, and all because you did what you knew was right. All because you wanted to protect everyone else before yourself. And now I’m standing here, in front of a self-righteous asshole who’s had a silver-spoon in her mouth from the second she was zapped into her pearly white existence, telling me that I’m nothing but shit.”

Y/N stares up at Harry with wide, watery eyes as his chest heaves and jaw clenches tight with hurt rage, the edges of his black eyes tinging blood red.

“I opened up to you and put my ass on the line because, for the first time in almost a millennia, you made me feel something. And now you’re telling me you want to walk away because you’re tired of having to travel back and forth a few times a month and lie about it?”

The empty blackness in Harry’s eyes starts to melt away, leaving behind his mossy green irises, the specks of gold in the middle no longer shimmering, but rather glinting a dull, muted bronze. He pushes back from the wall, backing away from her and wiping at his eyes messily, trying to hide the red veins that are bulging around the rim of his pupils.

When he speaks, his voice is raw and low, full of anger and pain and, mostly, betrayal.

“Then go. But don’t ever come back here, do you understand? And don’t you ever utter shit about things you don’t know again, because the next time you push your stupid allegations on me, I’m going to rip your tongue from your mouth and make you fucking swallow it.”

[evenstevensranked]

#5: Season 3, Episode 1 - “The Kiss”

Season 3 begins with a bang -- bringing us one of the best, most memorable episodes the show has ever produced! Louis and Tawny accidentally kiss at lunch and the two decide to start dating!!! AHHHH! Everything's great until Tawny has to kiss Zack Estrada (yes, the saga continues once again) in the school play. The subplot is all about Donnie, who feels like a broken human because he never cries.

This is it, guys. The Top 5. The home stretch. The crème de la crème. Let’s go. 

This episode was a really big moment in my childhood. I was going through some old VHS tapes I found not too long ago, and came across one with this episode on it! That’s how you know it was a major deal. The first minute or so was cut off on the recording, and this was before all of our TVs had in-depth guides at our fingertips -- so I had no idea what episode was going to be airing. All I knew was “Even Stevens is up next!” So as soon as I saw it was the kiss episode, I popped in that tape and recorded this thing ASAP. I was a tweenage hopeless romantic with a crush on Shia LaBeouf. Of course I had to record the episode where Louis gets a girlfriend. 

It opens with Louis and Tawny at lunch together being adorable, trading snacks and sides until each of their lunches are completely different from what they started with. When suddenly, Tawny ~gets something in her eye.~ The oldest cliché in the book! I love it. Louis gets reaaal close to Tawny and goes diggin’ for gold in her eye, eventually identifying the “thing” as a soy cookie crumb. That’s when some person bumps into Louis and thankfully Tawny’s lips are there to break his fall.

The two are in absolute stunned silence once they break apart. It was a magical moment, clearly, as you can see. Ren interrupts their mutual daze by walking over with Zack Estrada and Tom in tow, reminding Tawny that she has a fitting for the school play. This does a hard cut to Louis’ room after school that day. Twitty dramatically spits out his drink when he hears the news: “DUDE! THIS IS HUGE YOU KISSED TAWNY?!?!” 

I’ve mentioned before that Even Stevens comes across as more of a ~bro show~ in comparison to the majority of Disney Channel shows which typically follow a teen girl as the lead. This is why I love rare moments like this scene between Louis and Twitty. Two guy best friends freaking out about one of them kissing a girl for the first time. I feel like we never see this on Disney Channel anymore. It feels so real and genuine too, especially for these characters. Louis isn’t entirely sure if it counts as a kiss though, so Twitty demands to get the facts straight. (“Kissing is like basketball, either the ball went in the hoop or it didn’t!”) He asks Louis how long he kissed her for and Louis guesses it was a “one-Mississippi” length. Twitty rejoices. 

“SWISH, DUDE! You kissed her!”

Louis is elated. Both of them agree that Louis + Tawny = Beautiful. (Can’t argue there!) So much so, that Louis starts to skip around with happiness. One of my favorite parts of the whole episode is here, when Louis takes a moment to think about how Tawny might be feeling. He has a mental breakdown when he realizes “Wait, whoa. There she was... Eating her lunch... and I, like... JUMPED on her! For all I know, Tawny’s disgusted by me!” Louis Stevens is the kind of guy we all deserve. I know it’s such a small thing, but it’s something that has aged amazingly. This line stood out like a sore thumb to me given today’s political climate and the Me Too era. I’ve said a million times that this show has aged super gracefully because it really has. It’s not entirely perfect though. No show is without its blemishes. There are some things we haven’t made it to yet in the countdown that have definitely not aged very well, but we’ll get to that later. Let’s just say, this one little line shows that Louis has grown exponentially as not only a character, but a guy in general, and sets a good example. Twitty vows to go on a “fact-finding mission” for Louis to figure out how Tawny feels about the situation. 

Tawny is still back at school rehearsing for the play which was written by... you guessed it! REN STEVENS! This woman does everything. How does anyone else even have a job at LJH? Ren is in charge of everything ever. Ren’s brilliant and totally not boring play is about Abigail Adams, played by Tawny, and her relationship with John Adams, played by none other than Zack Estrada! Knowing these characters and their history, it’s clear that Zack is still into Tawny to some degree. Coach Tugnut is there because they apparently pay him $92 to be the theater advisor. I love how specific that amount is, lol. He has no problem telling Ren that her play is a pile of trash and needs to be spiced up if she wants to sell any tickets.

I love how Tom is playing the “lowly manservant.” He’s ridiculously dedicated to staying in character at all times throughout the episode. Tom’s the best. Tawny’s pattern mixing though. A plaid dress with red and black striped tights and Docs? She was so ~alternative.~ I love it. 

Zack is trying to ask Tawny out for a root beer when Twitty crashes the rehearsal and not so subtly tries to ask Tawny about the kiss, skirting around the issue by nervously asking stupid questions instead like “where are your parents from originally?” But of course, Tawny is freaking awesome and has no time for anyone's bs as usual. She literally says “I’m gonna stop you. Because eventually, you’re going to ask me about the kiss Louis gave me today at lunch. If he wants to talk to me about it, he can talk to me without your help. Tell him to meet me at his locker 10 minutes before first period,” YAAAASSSSSS! TAWNY IS NO NONSENSE AND ONE OF THE GREATEST FEMALE CHARACTERS ON DISNEY. Praise. 

The next morning Louis is waiting for Tawny at his locker and you’ve undoubtedly seen this screenshot of when he notices her walking his way: 

Smooth. For whatever reason this is one of the main images that comes up as a “Louis Stevens” search result, therefore nearly every single nostalgia article uses it. It’s kind of annoying. 

Louis and Tawny have a preciously awkward conversation, talking about how they both couldn’t sleep because they were up thinking about what happened. They’re also sort of skirting around the issue until Tawny puts her foot down once again: “Look, Louis, I like you. I always have. Since the first day I met you.” I am melting. Louis is so freaking happy and says “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?! WE COULD’A BEEN KISSIN’ UP A STORM!!!” Oh, wow. They immediately start dating and I’m a puddle of goo. Also, this happens. Which... yeah, lol. 95k notes. Wow. 

The first gif tho. Louis when Tawny was saying “I like you.” HOW GENUINE IS THAT FACE?! Shia won an Emmy for this so there is justice in the world. But yeah. They are so pure. :’)

This leads into a montage that spans possibly 3 days or so, showing us Louis and Tawny interacting as a couple. I hate that this is all we get. They should’ve stretched this montage into 3 episodes instead tbh. I live for this crap. 

“Hey, babe. Want some celery?” 

“Only 15 more hours ‘til I see you!” 

"Thanks for walking me to rehearsal.” “Oh, anything for my beautiful lady.” 

QUALITY CONTENT. Also, gotta love how polite Louis is being by wearing that hideous sweater Tawny knit for him. 

I love this episode because we get to see actual ~Boyfriend Louis~ for the first and pretty much only time, and man is it something. Once again this show nails the awkwardness of Junior High relationships. It’s so intense when you’re 14, right?! There’s no such thing as casually dating. You have to be all in, 24/7. It takes over your life because you’re not really equipped to mentally handle a serious relationship at 14. This is why I never get tired of watching TV teen relationships. They’re always endlessly entertaining to me. 

After watching a cheesy 1940s “Casablanca” knock-off romance movie with the fam, Ren realizes the “spice” her play needs is the passion of two people in love. She rewrites the play to make it more exciting and even adds in a passionate kiss between Abigail and John... a.k.a. Zack and Tawny... for the big finale. UH-OH! We’re introduced to Donnie’s little subplot there because Steve, Eileen, and even Beans -- bawled their eyes out at the movie but all Donnie could do was burp after stuffing his face through the whole thing. He starts to question “what’s wrong with me?!” because he felt no emotion whatsoever.  

Ren announces the script changes at the rehearsal Louis walked Tawny to a few screenshots above. Coach Tugnut observes Louis and Tawny’s obvious couple-y vibe and tells Louis “First girlfriend? Get ready for a lifetime of pain.” Oh, god. That’s the last thing you should tell Louis Stevens. He starts freaking out and it only gets worse when he hears Ren tell everyone about the addition of the big kiss and Zack cheers “YEEEEEAHHHH!!!!!! *transitions into a cough to cover his excitement*” Because as I mentioned, it’s clear that he’s still into Tawny. I feel like if it was anyone other than Zack, Louis might be okay with the kiss. There’s just something about this guy that he absolutely cannot deal with. We first saw Louis' jealousy over Zack and Tawny way back in Season 1 with "Easy Way" and then "Strictly Ballroom." We also see Louis become super jealous over Twitty's friendship with Zack towards the end of the series. Also... I swear, I did not plan for 3 out of 4 episodes in The Zack Estrada Saga to end up in the Top 10 and be counted down in serial order. Pretty cool that it worked out that way though, haha.

Louis feels that Ren’s rewrite is “too predictable” so he decides to write his own ending for the play and presents it to Ren at home that night. He envisions the story concluding with Abigail running to her husband and giving him a haircut. HAHAHA! Anything but a kiss! “I’ve never seen it before!” he says. Welp, he’s definitely right about his idea being unpredictable! lol. Imagine?! Of course, Ren can tell that Louis is actually just freaking out about Zack kissing Tawny and Louis is like “Are you trying to embarrass me in front of the whole school?!” -- But, would it really be that bad though? Would people taunt him like “lol ur girlfriend kissed another guy” or something? Because, like... It’s just a play. But then again, it is middle school. So. 

Louis is super down about the whole thing and Tawny finds him sulking on a bench the next day. She’s all “Hey, Cutie Pants! I’ve been looking all over for you!” -- ‘Cutie Pants’ is a little too far, lol. She brought Louis her “Tater Slabs,” which he declines. Side note: Are those supposed to be a form of Tater Tots? Because I feel like Disney Channel has a million different names for Tater Tots. They call them Tater Slabs here. These days, they’re calling them Baby Taters on Andi Mack. It’s just a constant reminder that “Tater Tots” is a registered trademark that Disney can’t say without coughing up the cash, lol.

Tawny asks Louis if something’s the matter and he’s like “I think you should quit the play” and pulls a bunch of bogus excuses out of his butt as for why. Tawny being Tawny cuts right to the chase: “Does this have anything to do with me kissing Zack?” I love this bit. She reassures him that all they’re doing is acting, it’s not real -- and there’s only one person she really wants to kiss. She asks Louis to promise he’ll be okay with it and Louis’ response of “Alright. I promise,” is the softest, most sincere thing I’ve ever heard this character say. It warms my heart every time. Tawny heads off to rehearsal and Louis is feeling prett-ay swaggy knowing he’s ~the only man in Tawny’s life~

I CAN’T DEAL WITH THIS. I also never knew what he was saying here, but I think I just realized he’s mouthing to himself “I’m the only one she really wants to kiss” 

Louis was just accepting the fact that it’s ONLY ACTING until he sees the newly unveiled poster for the play that features a cozy picture from dress rehearsal. 

CUT TO THE PLAY! It starts with a bit where Tawny/Abigail calls Tom’s character Renee “a loyal and faithful manservant.” Tom originally had a speech, but Ren cut it in her rewrite. So he milks his time on stage by saying “Thank you, thank you, thank you” repeatedly to Abigail. It’s great. Tawny and Zack are up there acting really well together! Louis’ whole family is whispering about how great their chemistry is and Louis is quaking. 

One of John’s lines in the play is that he will think of Abigail “on two occasions... when my eyes are open, and when they are closed,” -- Is that a Babyface reference?! HAHA. Louis can’t take it anymore so he goes running backstage and I’m not sure what he was planning to do, but he ends up going completely insane. He somehow managed to steal Tom’s costume right off his back and goes running on stage demanding for John to leave before kissing his wife goodbye. It’s so cringeworthy. I can’t help but laugh though when Louis says “You must come with me at once! You gotta send her a postcard, email, or something! We gotta miss rush-hour traffic!” LOL. 

Ren: “How did Louis get your clothes?!”

Tom: “He can be very persuasive...” 

What could Louis possibly have said to get Tom to strip?! Omg. 

Tom goes running on stage like ^ that in an attempt to save the play somehow and says “Excuse the undergarments, m’lady! I was under the cherry tree napping!” which was always one of my mom’s favorite lines, haha. Tom tries to drag Louis off stage but the entire play officially goes down in flames when Louis starts fighting Tom off of him. He goes rollin’ all over the stage, knocking down everything in his path -- completely ruining the set. It’s funny, but I also feel so bad for Tawny. Ugh. 

After Louis destroys the whole shebang, he tries to play it off by doing this... which is truly hilarious: 

Louis meets up with Tawny outside after the play and the two have such a dramatic conversation. I love it. Louis apologizes: “You gotta understand... I tried to be mature and cool. And the next thing I know, I’m up on stage wearing Tom’s pants! I’m really sorry.” It’s way more sincere than it sounds. Louis decides that he’s not ready for a relationship. This is actually such great character development for him. Interestingly, he’s mature enough to realize he’s NOT mature enough to seriously date someone. As upsetting and frustrating as it is to see the two break up, it’s also really satisfying to see him own up to his immaturity. This creates a true arc for when they finally get together in the series finale. It feels earned. Like they’re actually ready that time around. They decide to go back to being just friends for the time being. Before they part ways, however, Louis decides to leave Tawny with a super suave kiss?! What the heck?!

This was the biggest kiss of my entire childhood between two TV characters aside from Lizzie and Gordo at the end of The Lizzie McGuire Movie tbh. Everyone was expecting that Lizzie/Gordo kiss though. THIS one was outta left field here! This is so weird to me! He’s super smooth with Beans’ cousin later on and here he’s kissin’ Tawny like a pro. Idk, man. 

The episode ends with Donnie finally crying over that Babyface lyric: “When his eyes are open, and when his eyes are closed......... THAT’S ALL THE TIME!”

And that’s it! 

Gaaad, this episode is a classic. Like I said, it was a pretty big deal for 10 year old me, let me tell ya! I feel like it’s definitely one of the most memorable episodes ever. Not to mention, it technically has 3 plots (Louis/Tawny, Ren writing the play, and Donnie) and ALL OF THEM ARE INTERTWINED FLAWLESSLY! I gotta commend that. The only department I’d say this episode is lacking in is quotable dialogue. But that’s it really! It checks every box for me otherwise! This episode and the finale probably had a lot to do with Season 3 being my favorite as a kid, haha. 

What are your thoughts on this wonderful season opener?! Please add to the conversation via Disqus belowwww!

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