#that waistcoat was holding on for its LIFE

[tarrenterror25]

Andy Serkis Breaks Down His Most Iconic Characters | GQ

Ulysses Klaue in Black Panther

GQ Interview with Andy Serkis

That last bit tells me he MUST know he’s fine and knows what he looks good in 😩✨💕 Y’all can’t convince me otherwise ✋✨

[rain-on-wax-feathers]

louise's friends throughout the years

[rainrot4me]

Rain’s Kinktober 2024 - 09

Jason the Toymaker x Female Reader - Cockwarming/Waxplay

SMUT WARNING MINORS DNI

TW: Creampie, vaginal, cockwarming, wax play, desperation, begging, wax dripping as a punishment, pain and pleasure, teasing, forced restraint, orgasm denial

Tag: #rainykinktober2024

Words: 2.7k

A/N: First time writing Jason!!! Ate him up fr

Jason was a very busy man.

His life was full of quick calculations and harrowing demands, unrest always eating away at him to finish whatever project he was up to.

His only relief? You, his perfect girl. In his eyes, you were chosen. His perfect playmate, his girl, exactly what he had been searching for.

You were hesitant at first, understandably so, but he brought out the best in you and coaxed out the reciprocated feelings he knew you had. It didn’t take long, the universe had already made up its mind: you were made for him. Jason spent all his time searching for the perfect playmate, testing so many girls that had let him down countless times, but you held. So, of course, being separated from you was incredibly difficult.

Running errands, collecting supplies, tidying his workspace- the redhead kept you by his side no matter what out of instinctual fear of losing you. Jason had searched his entire life for a girl like you, someone to be his perfect playmate; it would take hell or high water to get you away from him now.

So, of course, you were perched in his lap while he worked at his desk. Your head rested on his shoulder, body shifting and wrapping around him every time his hands moved to work on the tiny wax figurine he had in front of him. The fireplace was lit, fire crackling and popping in the brick hull, the lateness of the night surrounding you both in warmness. It would have been so wholesome, so comfortably domestic, if not for-

“Jason…”

The fiery redhead smiles.

“Yes, my lady?” He tries to hide the smirk in his voice, focusing on carving out the features of the doll he’s working on, the wax molding easily under his tools. You cling onto his back, nails digging into that pretty waistcoat he always wears, his muscled back sat straight as you tag at his white buttoned shirt. He can feel your thighs shake and tense as you try to adjust, to let some weight off of your knees as you straddle his lap. He knows you’re trying to be discreet, holding out the best you clench your gummy walls around him, a subtle hint. “What’s the matter, dear?”

“You know what…” You huff, burying your nose into the crook of his neck and taking deep, calculated breaths, trying to recenter yourself. Jason tilts his head, eyeing down at the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing that covers the pretty view of your body plastered against his. Maybe he likes to be a tease, to hear you say it instead of hiding your face in his neck.

You’ve both been here for about an hour, your body so heavy and tired from holding this position that you could cry. Every time you try to force yourself up, just enough to feel the swell of Jason’s cock nudge your insides, he grips your hips and holds you back in place. You try it again, rutting your ass just a little to nudge the divot of his cockhead against the swell of your cunt, but his low hum of warning stiffens you back against his chest.

Stupid doll, stupid Jason.

You’re nearly dizzy, your walls fluttering and clenching against him, but left unsatisfied altogether. “Are you done yet…? M’so tired…”

When he asked you to come sit with him while he finished working on his project, you didn’t expect to be hauled onto his lap with slacks unbuttoned and heavy cock lying against his hip so expectantly. You were giddy, placing your hands on his shoulders and slowly sinking down, but losing all of that excitement when he didn’t let you come up, holding you there as he began carving and smudging his metal tools on the toy.

That felt like forever ago now, your pussy gushing and twinging with need every time his length twitched with excitement.

“I’m nearly there, you’ll be alright for a little longer.” But you didn’t know if you would be, back aching and hips stuttering just to flinch upwards, knowing the movement would be useless. “Jason, please…”

The redhead huffs, setting his tools down and pressing back against the workbench chair, forcing you to sit up and look him in the eyes. The adjustment made you moan, his cock nudging just a little deeper inside, rubbing sweetly against that pocketed nerve. He rests his grimy hands on your hips, patting at your shaky thighs with an annoyed glare.

“My girl. You know you’ll get what you want, you just have to be patient.” He talks sternly, eyebrows furrowed just enough to make his harrowing green eyes bore into yours. You huff, trying your best to discreetly shift your legs a little wider to push him further to the hilt, rubbing against your g-spot.

Jason takes notice, snagging your upper thigh and holding you there as you groan, pleading with him. He lets out a hearty chuckle.

“Right. Seems we need a little incentive to stay still, huh?” Ruffling the bottom of your shirt up, Jason hauls the heavy fabric over your head, exposing the entirety of your naked body. You flush, embarrassed redness high on your cheekbones as he examines you. “Having a hard time listening today, dear?”

You shake your head, groaning a little when large hands press against your back to force you against his chest again, back into your original spot. You whine when his cock slips a little, tugging against your swelling entrance and beckoning for more. You stare into the fire behind you, the flames crackling and popping and warming your now exposed skin as you claw against his shirt.

You hear things shuffling, tools moving, and draws opening against his workbench, but you stay seated- defeated and all too pent up.

Until you hear the flicks of a lighter, the sparks snapping against the metal as Jason flicks a flame. You try to turn, to see what he’s doing, and his free hand presses you back firmly against him. “Jason?”

“Shhh, quiet, my dear.” Anxiety pools in your gut, unsure of what intentions he has as the lighter sounds extremely close to you and your bare skin.

“I want you to listen now, alright?” He cooes into your ear, widening his legs and shifting your weight a little as you nervously wait. You hear a subtle drip, drip, plopping against the wooden table behind you, the noise so ominous until you feel his arms press closer.

“Every time you move, try to sway those pretty little hips-” A sharp sting on your back has you jumping, clawing at his shoulders as the liquid- wax- runs down your exposed shoulders and onto your shoulder blades. “This’ll be your little punishment, alright?”

Another drop, then another trails onto your skin, hot stings of scalding wax dribbling and then hardening on reddened flesh. Jason has collected the excess wax from the doll he was working on, rolling it all together and holding the lighter underneath to melt the stuff right onto you. You shrieked, arching your back away from the sensation when you tried to flinch away again.

Until you sat still, forcing your chest against his, did he finally take the droplets away, setting the lighter back onto the workbench. “Good girl. See? You can listen.”

You panted into his neck, taking deep, settling breaths of his scent and centering yourself back. You didn't want to admit it, didn’t want to let him win over you- but as the wax dried and crusted onto your skin, you realized just how good it had felt.

After the initial shock, the initial wave of pain, the sting was euphoric and fun. You sat for a moment, contemplating just how serious he was as you felt him get back to work on his project. Did you dare?

But when you felt his hard cock twitch inside of you, flinching against your swollen walls, you knew you physically couldn’t restrain yourself any longer.

Pressing your hands against his chest, you dared to shift your hips, pressing your ass back far enough to shallowly ride him back and forth. Jason huffed, a tsk leaving his gritted teeth as you felt him reach for the lighter again, flicking the flame to life.

Before the first drop could even reach your skin, you shakily forced your hips up, snapping your ass back down with an obscene slap that echoed in the small workshop. Jason choked, your shrill moans as the wax dripped achingly slowly onto your bare shoulders, soaking their way down to your spine. You forced yourself back up, the redhead’s hands too occupied with the wax and lighter to force your hips still.

“Fuck- fuck, you little brat.” He groans, digging his heels into the floorboards as he tries to forcefully ignore the way his cock twitches and rings with excitement every time your ass makes contact with his bony hips. “I said-”

And then you’re sliding your hips up and down, snapping your ass back as you ride him with such depravity it leaves the redhead choking out a moan. He grits his teeth, wax sharply dropping lower and lower onto your back until the drops reach the plump curve of your ass, colorful liquid decorating your red skin. “S’too good, Jason- F-fuck you’re so- hah-”

His cock is swiping across your sweet spot, pressing in so hard you can’t help but let the tears pooling at your waterline trickle down your cheeks, face so puffy and red from built-up frustration. Jason seems to have lost some hold on the tools he was using to reassess you, the wax dripping across the swell of your ass and trickling down onto his clean slacks, staining the fabric. The sting is euphoric, every pinch of the burning liquid egging you to bounce your pretty ass faster.

Above you, Jason is lost, teeth gritted so tight he might chip a tooth at just how good the swell of your cunt feels constricting and tugging his veiny cock. He’s soaked inside of you so long you’re all warm and gushy, your arousal glistening down his length and pooling on his hips. He was satisfied just warming himself inside of your pretty cunt, but now that you’re moving and riding him as you need him, it’s all he can do not to give in to your minxy little rebellion.

“Jason- please, please. Just wanna- wanna cum so bad-”

Shit, the sweet sound of your tired voice sends chills all down Jason’s aching body, gnashing his teeth to withhold your desperate claws down his shoulders.

“[Y/N].”

“Jason-”

Using the last of his restraint, the redhead flames the light across the remaining stick of wax as close as he can, forcefully heating up the stick to a high degree. You’re bouncing on him, taking his cock all the way to the hilt each time, your thighs screaming for rest as they work over and over. Dropping the lighter onto his desk, Jason wraps around the small of your waist, holding you still for just a moment as he presses the stick of gooey hot wax right in the middle of your shoulder blades.

You cry out, pressing your bare chest as close to his as you can, and moan gutturally through the striking wave after wave of flashing pain. It’s only reasonable that he leaves you with a mark, the skin already turning red and blistered as the rest of the liquid dribbles down your spine and onto your flushed ass. It’s such a sight, your whines and labored cries moving closer to his ear as you nip at his neck. Jason groans, your lips pressing behind his blushing ears and sending chills down his body.

“Don’t cry when I give you what you want, my dear. I won’t- hah- I won’t stop now…” Wrapping his arms tight around your waist, Jason spreads his legs, digging his feet into the floor as he shifts your hips up onto him. You smile sickly, letting out a hearty moan when you feel his hips begin to snap up into yours, his cockhead ramming your cervix with cruel intent.

You gush around him, cunt shining with the sheen of your arousal and staining his nice clothes, the squelching, and slapping of built-up neglect obscene to listen to. The redhead claws against your back, fingernails digging into the trails of colorful wax and smearing the crusted liquid across your skin further. You huff, sobbing into his shoulder with every heavy thrust he delivers you, an even better punishment than the one before.

“Hah- Is it worth it? To be such a brat?” He pants, snagging a handful of your ass and digging his nails into the excess skin. You smile into his shoulder, sniffling your tears as the ache from your back subsides with the immense pleasure from your gut.

“Yeah.” You hum into his ear, nibbling the skin of his earlobe to make the man choke on his words. You dig your knees again, bouncing your ass down in time with his cock curving into the swell of your cervix and abusing the nerve over and over again.

Jason’s face is flushed, cheeks nearly matching the redness of his hair as his balls tighten and strain with every slap against your ass, his harrowing pace faltering just for a moment when you arch into it, tightening your gummy walls onto his veiny length. “Hn- My dear-”

Tears stain into his white button-up the same as the juices from your pussy stain his slacks, your cunt fluttering and constricting terribly tight around the hilt of his cock. Jason can feel his hips ache, his gut swell and knot every time the divot of his cock nudges your sensitive g-spot. He knows you’re close too, each bounce of your hips leaving you shaking for just a moment before you force yourself up to meet him again.

He leans close, sweat building across his brow as he pushes fiery strands out of his face to whisper close, “C’mon, dear, you wanted it so bad, now let me feel you cum with me inside, alright?”

It only takes a few more calculated thrusts up into your pussy before you’re snagging your fists into his hair, holding on for dear life as wave after wave of nauseating orgasms wracks your body. You cry into his shoulder, thick globs of tears staining your cheeks as your cunt clenches something awful around the thick girth still fucking its way inside you.

“Inside- inside, Jason- You’ve been in this long, don’ pull out now-” You choke, snarling into his neck.

That's all the poor, utterly feral redhead needs to cum. He’s clenching his eyes shut, digging his nails into the small of your back to force your hips impossibly closer down onto his cock as he delivers pulse after pulse of globs of cum up into your messy cunt. You rut your hips, riding out the crashing high that has Jason gripping you by the arms and forcing you off of his chest, staring with heavy, droopy eyes at the mess he’s made of you.

He trails his bright eyes down to the absolute mess of stains as his cock flinches and pulses, buried so snugly inside of you. You dizzily glance down, thighs still shaking as you’re met with the lewd sight of your pussy being absolutely stretched, lips so puffy and red as they grip so tightly around his girth. The sight is enough to make you moan again, weakly trying to sit your hips up and slide him out of you, desperate to see the mess he’s made inside also.

Until fingers dig into your hips, forcing you back down to the hilt and keeping you pistoned right there, unmoving. You feel the warmth of his cock back inside, cum soaking into your gooey arousal. “I’m not done just yet, my lady.”

Pushing you back against the workbench, Jason reaches for the lighter, another stick of wax held tight in his other hand. It’s not a moment before the droplets of fiery liquid are dripping onto your chest, running down the curve of your tits. His hips flex, nudging his cock in and out at a terribly infuriating pace, just barely reaching as far as it was.

“I say another round’s in order, don’t you, dear?”

Thanks for reading!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated! 𐚁₊⊹

Thanks to my wonderful editors @h3llw1 and @solarbites!

[a-case-of-attachment]

So in Hell’s Greatest Dad, Lucifer tells Charlie that ‘with a punch of a pentagram’ and ‘usually I charge a sacrificial lamb’ when he’s offering to help her with the hotel and it got me thinking. Surely he must have had people sacrifice things in his honour or for favours before right? So….what if when something is sacrificed to him it ends up down in Hell?

It works like some sort of inter dimensional postal service. Lucifer will just be doing whatever then a portal will open up above him full of weird oil slick coloured clouds and lightening cracking across the endless sky with the boom of thunder not far behind. Out of the portal flies a cherub sized faun wearing a shirt, waistcoat and bow tie brandishing a clipboard that’s got the contract attached to it. All the important things will be on there like who’s doing the sacrificing, what they are sacrificing and what they want in exchange for it. Lucifer can either accept the sacrifice and sign the document, giving the sinner what they want or just straight up refuse to sign, decline the sacrifice and instead have it sent off to purgatory.

The problem is that Lucifer is so jaded that he doesn’t even bother reading the contracts any more. Sinners all want the same thing anyway, fame, fortune, revenge, so what’s the point even bothering to look these days? It’s not like he gets that many sacrifices in his name anymore and when he does it’s mostly just lambs and goats, the occasional dog or guinea pig and a cat that one time. He often just gives them to people as pets, it’s how Charlie had gotten razzle and dazzle.

But you know, people are deranged and over the centuries there have been a handful of human souls that come his way. Lucifer never accepts those, often get angry that people actually think killing someone would make him happy. Shocker, it doesn’t. All it did was prove that humans really are just the worst, a race of violent psychopaths hellbent on causing as much pain and destruction as they can. Yes Lucifer felt bad that these people had died and for nothing but he wasn’t about to reward some lowlife scumbag for taking another’s life so unfortunately that meant the sacrificed soul was purgatory bound. It wasn’t ideal but it also wasn’t permanent. At least there they would get the chance to move onto heaven eventually and not be stuck in this infernal nightmare for all of eternity.

So no, Lucifer didn’t do human sacrifices. Except, well, maybe he did.

It was an accident! Lucifer had been distracted, him and Charlie having a slight disagreement about the hotel and her expectations when it came to heaven. He hadn’t meant to upset her but she needed to realise that very few angels would be as open to the idea of redemption as he or Emily had been. It had been just about the time Lucifer had been urging Charlie to proceed with caution when it came to Heaven that a portal opens above him, a little faun flying out, clipboard already in hand and looking down at Lucifer through the spectacles perched on its nose.

Lucifer had attempted to ignore the blasted thing but it just flys around his head, brandishing the clip board and tapping impatiently at its wristwatch until Lucifer finally had enough and snatches the board off him, quickly flipping to the back and signing it before shoving it back at the startled faun. It just huffs at him, jotting something down before tearing off a sheet and giving it back to Lucifer only to disappear back into the portal. Lucifer doesn’t look at the contract he just signed, not caring what shallow and self serving thing the mortal had asked for. He goes back to Charlie, continuing to urge to not trust heaven so easily, all the while holding his arms out expectantly to catch whatever animal is going to drop out of the portal.

Lucifers expecting a lamb or a goat, heavyish for a human but nothing for him, except he gets something much larger and heavier, the shock of it knocking Lucifer to the ground. His first thought is some wretched mortal had sacrificed a cow or horse, either to lazy to find the usual offering or thinking the bigger the sacrifice the better the reward. Either way Lucifer is already regretting his choice to grant their wish, no clue what he is supposed to do with a cow other than send it down to a farm on wrath. Grumbling Lucifer sits up slightly, tugging at his hat that had been pushed down over his eyes but when he mages to pull his hat off Lucifer realises it’s so much worse than a cow.

There’s a person on his lap. A very human person sprawled across his lap and legs, their weight pinning him to the floor. You are dressed all in a white, the fabric almost see through though the top part was stained red with blood. Lucifer can’t look past your chest, the demonic sigils carved there still oozing blood. When he does manage to look up it’s to fined wide fear filled eyes staring back at him. The two of you just stare at one another, Lucifer feeling more and more panicked as the seconds drag on whilst you look close to passing out.

The whole room is silent and Lucifer just knows that they are all staring at the two of you, just as shocked as him and waiting for one of you to do something. Charlie is the first one to make a move, slowly creeping across the room to lay a hand on your shoulder. She probably meant to be a reassuring gesture but it’s a mistake nonetheless. It startled you, causing you to fall from Lucifers lap and giving you the first real view of the room and the rest of its inhabitants. Things go about as well as you would think.

You start screaming, Charlie panics as she tries to calm you down but only makes it worse, Angel dust offers you a drink that gets knocked out his hand and ends up all over Husk and Alastor offers to silence you permanently. Needless to say that none of what they are doing helps calm you down or make you feel any less afraid and all Lucifer does is sit there, staring down at the smear of red on his white pants and struggling to wrap his head around what in the hell is happening because he couldn’t have just accepted a human soul as payment. He’s never done that before, never, and yet there you are, cowering in the corner like a frightened animal, eyes franticly darting around as you look for some form of escape.

It’s that look of pure terror that gets Lucifer up and moving, handing off his hat and cane to Charlie as he gets everyone to back up and give you some space. He approached you slowly, hands held up in front of him to show you he meant no harm and keeping his voice soft and calm as he tells you that no one’s going to hurt you, that your safe here with them. He makes sure to leave a little bit of space between you when he stops, sinking down into a crouch so he’s eye level though you won’t look at him for long, eyes darting around at even the slightest movement. You’re still bleeding, the sigil for his name looking the deepest. It makes Lucifer feel sick, that someone could do this to you and claim that it’s in his honour. He found no honour in an act like this, only hate and disgust, igniting a strong desire inside him to hunt down those responsible and show them the same kindness they had you.

It takes a good few minutes of Lucifer talking at you before he gets any form of response. He introduces himself, tells you once more that he isn’t going to hurt you and that he just wants to help and maybe even clean up those markings so they don’t get infected. It’s slow going but eventually you give him a slight nod, uncurling from where you had been trying to make yourself as small as possible so he can get a better look at the ugly mess of cuts on your chest. He startled you when he conjures water and a cloth, Lucifer apologising as you bang into the wall behind you in an attempt to get away from the sudden action. He does get you to calm down though, at least enough for him to clean away the blood and apply bandages.

These wounds will not disappear like the injuries the now resident of Hell would sustain, their origin in magic and acting as a physical sign of your binding to him. But Lucifer vows to look after them and you, after all this is all his fault and though he knows that Charlie would care for you if he was to up and leave he can’t bring himself to do so. It’s his responsibility to look after you, you are his after all and isn’t that just a horrific twisted little thought. Lucifer wants to cry, to beg your forgiveness because unless he was to gift your soul to another you were bound to him from now until eternity, forced to obey his every request regardless of what you wanted. He can’t cry though, not when you already are, silent tears rolling down your cheeks and dripping off your chin onto his hand and arm as he cleans away the blood. So he fights back the tears, completely focused on his task and trying to be as gentle as he possibly can be.

When he’s done and the now ruined rag and pink water are vanished away with the wave of his hand Lucifer doesn’t know what else to do other than offer you a safe space of your own and a comfortable bed to sleep in so he does exactly that. You look terrified when he asks if you would like to go to bed, eyes dropping down to just below his belt. Lucifer might actually be sick when he realises what you are scared is going to happen and he can’t get the words out quick enough to reassure you that he means to sleep and that you will be the only person in the room. His obvious horror at the implication seems to reassure you and you give him a small nod.

You use the wall to support you getting up but as soon as you go to take a step forward your legs buckle and Lucifer has to lurch forward to grab hold of you before you can hit the floor. Your to weak, wether that be from the shock or the blood loss Lucifer doesn’t know, possibly both, but what he does know is you are not going to make it up the several flights of stairs on your own.

He asks before picking you up, waiting for you to give him a nod of agreement before he slips one hand behind your back and the other behind your knees. It’s nothing for him to pick you up but it had you squeaking in surprise, flinging your arms around his neck and pulling yourself tighter against him. Lucifer can’t help laugh softly, assuring you that he was stronger than he looked and that he wouldn’t drop you. You don’t seem to buy it though, your hold around his neck tightening as you hide your head against his shoulder. He can’t blame you for being scared, Licifer looks like a strong breeze would send him stumbling but he supposes that’s one of the perks of being an angel, he’s stronger than he looks.

It’s only when he turns around that Lucifer realises the rooms completely empty except for the two of you. He doesn’t know when everyone else disappeared but he’s grateful for it, not sure how you would have reacted to a room full of weird looking people staring at you. He talks to you the whole time up to your room, telling you where he was taking you and a little about the hotel and it’s residents, though he mostly tell you about Charlie and Vaggie, the only other people he trusts to look after you correctly if he wasn’t around. Lucifer picks a room for you on the same floor as him though a couple of doors down in an attempt to keep you close and also give you some probably much needed distance. He sets you down on the bed, tells you where everything is including his room, just in case you need him before he comes back to check the bandages in a few hours. He does conjure you some sleep clothes though, making sure they were the softest and most comfortable thing you have ever worn. He wants you to be comfortable, to actually feel safe after what you have been through and though he knows the simple kindness he has showing you will not erase that it will hopefully show you that despite what you may have heard Lucifer isn’t all that bad.

Lucifer hates himself just a little bit more after what he does next, crouching down to look you in the eye and telling you that you can’t leave the hotel room unless he comes to get you or you are going to his room and nowhere else. Normally it would just be words but you are bound to Lucifer now and even you don’t want to you will have no choice but to obey him. You stiffen, nodding your head slightly but still you don’t say a word, not even when he bids you good night. He doesn’t even get the door half way closed before he hears you start to cry. He wants to go back, to take you in his arms and apologise for what has been done to you whilst reassuring you that life here will not be as bad as you think. He doesn’t though, wanting to give you time to greave and mourn the loss of your life.

He doesn’t even make it two steps down the corridor before it all really hits him and Lucifer crumbles, sinking to the floor and pressing his hand against his mouth in an attempt to muffle his own sobs. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, or how he’s even meant to care for you correctly. Animals were easy, simple to please, humans not so much. Plus Lucifer owned you, he would have to be extremely carful of what he said because even an offhanded comment would be taken as a command and you could end up getting seriously hurt.

It’s too much, Lucifer not equipped to deal with such responsibility but he has no choice, he has to. This is all his fault after all and he couldn’t abandon you in your hour of need. No he would figure this all out, tend to your wounds and help you adjust to life here in hell. He would help you find a place to call home, maybe at the hotel helping with the sinners or maybe something down in one of the other rings. Just somewhere you could feel truly safe and at ease. Whatever you wanted Lucifer would make it yours, giving you as much a slice of paradise as he can. How else would he atone for his mistake?

[johnwickb1tsch]

andar conmigo ~ part 8

A Walk in the Clouds/Don John crossover outline/fic- Paul Sutton x fem!Reader x Don John triangle ~ You grow up at Las Nubes vineyard, and have to go home to your dying father. You take your fake new husband, Sgt Paul Sutton, with you...Your old flame don John does not like this at all. Warnings: don John being himself an asshole chapter map

You watch with fond eyes as Paul puts on his brown suit for dinner. His every movement fascinates you, and you know…you are worse than smitten.

Maybe you’d intended to break this thing between you– but now you feel closer than ever, and you know he feels it too by the warm way he smiles at you. 

You hold hands in the hall, on the way to the dining room. And then, under the table, once you are seated at the grand carved walnut behemoth set with white linen napkins and a glittering silver flatware service. 

Don Juan presides over all of you from the head of the table, the king in his castle, looking handsome as the devil in a red brocade waistcoat and snow white shirtsleeves. His mother and grandmother sit across from you wearing lace and pearls, polite but obviously perplexed by your presence. No one from your family has ever dined in the hacienda with the Aragóns before. Everything at Las Nubes has its place– and this is definitely not yours. 

You’d wondered what Juan was about, inviting you to dinner, and as the courses of the meal go on you think you begin to understand his purpose. 

He’s showing off. 

The fine silver goblets from which you drink, the heavy silver spoons and the towering sterling candelabra with its tapered beeswax candles lending their soft light to this impending fiasco… It is all very fine, but it does not lure you the way he undoubtedly hoped. Wealth for the mere sake of opulence is not the come-up you seek in your life. For the umpteenth time, you look at Paul’s handsome profile out the corner of your eye, and feel as though you are richer than any of the Aragóns could possibly dream, with this man at your side. 

You are coming to accept that you are as equally blessed as you are doomed. 

Under the guise of making polite conversation, don Juan asks how you and Paul met, hoping to catch you out in a lie, no doubt. You let Paul answer, and he makes up a good story about meeting at a USO dance, and the rest was history.

“How romantic,” answers Juan through his teeth, barely disguising a sneer. “A good thing your father is insensible. It would break his heart, thinking of his youngest daughter spending time unaccompanied with all those men…” 

Rather than get angry at Juan’s callous observation or his thinly veiled insinuation, the way you might have risen to the bait when you were younger, you have to suppress the urge to laugh in his face. These are the structures of the Old World this place clings to, which you so seek to leave behind. Maybe they’re far from perfect in San Francisco, but you couldn’t be more certain than in that moment, that there is nothing for you here. 

“I was with my friends,” you defend your actions at this imaginary dance, demurely for the sake of not making a scene in front of doña Maria and doña Guadalupe. “And besides, I met the love of my life there. It’s almost as though sometimes Fate leads you by a thread…” 

There is a fire in Juan’s eyes as you defy him so politely at his own table, having the nerve to take Paul’s hand in front of him. Your faux husband squeezes your fingers in his, looking over at you with a longing in his eyes that only the two of you understand the true meaning of. In that moment…it doesn’t feel like you're telling a lie at all. 

You should let go of his hand. It isn’t seemly to show affection so openly in front of the elders, your betters…but you can’t. You’re done with your course anyway, and so you continue to hold on to Paul, and he to you, and Juan smolders all the while with his sharp knife in his fist, glaring.

Maybe his mother doesn’t have all the details, but she knows her son’s moods. Ever since his father died when he was a teenager, he’s been nearly impossible to control. Recognizing his look, she changes the subject, asking politely, “So where is your family from, Señor Sutton?”

Paul looks down at his soup at this inquiry. “I grew up in Chicago,” he answers. “In a home. I never really knew my folks.”

Doña Maria blinks, her scandalized pity plain to see. Don Juan looks at Paul as though to say you poor bastard, and your grip tightens on Paul’s hand. Suddenly, you’re ready to fight them all.

“It’s a shame, when a man doesn’t know where he comes from,” Juan muses. “We can trace our family line all the way back to the King of Aragón.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at that. The fact of the matter is, all the families who came with the de Anza Expedition, yours included, had come with nothing but some dray animals and the strength in their backs, hoping to carve out a life for themselves. You know all too well that all it takes to separate the haves and the have nots in this rugged land is one unfortunate fire. 

“The King of Aragón’s bastard,” you correct, not caring in that moment if it gets you kicked out of the house. 

“Blood is blood,” answers Juan with a smirk, even as his female relatives gasp, scandalized that you would voice this open secret aloud.

Maybe you were feeling charitable earlier towards Juan, but in that moment you hate him for trying to make Paul feel small–and yourself, for leading him into this lion's den. You should have known from the start.

Desperate to change the subject again, Maria asks, “How is your father doing in his illness?”

 “He is hanging on,” you answer, which is true. He seemed to have improved slightly, when you came back to Las Nubes, a thing of which your older sister Josefa has tried to guilt you for, claiming you broke his heart when you left so abruptly, his little girl out in the world without a husband to look after her… You’d just rolled your eyes and went about what chore you were doing, even if deep down you secretly feared Josefa was right, and carried the guilt like a stone in the pit of your belly.

“We were sorry to hear of it. He’s such a good man. You all are in our prayers.”

“Thank you, señora.” You know she means what she said, but at the same time you cannot help but think of the way your father has broken his body his entire life to work this land and serve this family, so that the Aragóns can live like kings in this grand hacienda, while the rest of you scratch by, unable to save, unable to leave. You are not so willing to simply accept that it is all God’s will. 

When there is a lull in the conversation, the class divide between you sprawling wide as a canyon, you ask about the thing that you think is sure to get Juan talking without malice, no matter his mood. “Will you be bringing any horses to show at the festival this year?” 

Don Juan’s eyes suddenly take on the shine of freshly polished onyx as he warms to the subject at hand, telling you all at length about the fine horseflesh in his stables, and the magnificent young Andalusian mare he hopes to have broken enough to ride at the fiesta. 

“Have you ever worked with horses, Paul?”

Trying his damndest to keep up his polite front, Paul adjusts his napkin on his lap, shaking his head. “Can’t say I have.”

“It is a thing that takes patience, breaking a horse.” You sense that perhaps you misstepped with this line of inquiry, as his burning-dark gaze fixes on you once more. “You must be firm, but not cruel, or she will never trust you. The key is to tire her out, and sweeten her mouth with the occasional treat. Once she realizes her life is much better once she takes your saddle and lets you ride her…she’ll do anything you ask.”

You cannot meet Juan’s eyes as he says all this, glaring at the flowers in the center of the table, grateful for the low light in the room because you know your face is hot with rage. You don’t need to look at him, to see his self-satisfied smirk. You can feel it in his words. 

“Will she?” asks Paul, taking your hand under the table again as though he senses your frustration. “I hear horses throw people all the time, even experienced riders.” 

It was the very way Juan’s father died, when don Alberto’s prized mare shied at a rattlesnake and went wild, throwing him into a rock and breaking his neck. You don’t think Paul knows this, but Juan’s expression darkens into a thunderhead once more.  

“It is true, that accidents happen,” Juan acknowledges begrudgingly. 

Paul nods, taking a bite from his plate. “I guess you could call it an accident. Or maybe…you didn’t truly break her, and the poor girl has just had enough of you.” 

Juan smirks at this, settling back in his carved throne of a chair, toying with his knife. “You may be right about that, señor Sutton. A man must always be on his guard…” 

Your grip tightens on Paul involuntarily. Maybe outwardly it seems Juan is just waxing philosophical…but deep down you know he means it as a threat. 

[tellmeallaboutit]

knock knock (Raphael x F!Player)

Chapter 4, In Which You Attend A Very Special Event (Part 1)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

(you'll see full art when I finish because it's spoilery as fuck I realized (too late))

SUMMARY: You accidentally the whole Coca-Cola bottle summoned Raphael (or so you'd think) to Earth.

TAGS: meta romance, psychological horror, smut, the character is the player, Raphael is after you, you wanted him, you invited him to our world, he accepted your invitation

RATING: explicit

AO3

Chapter 4

“Buonasera”, Raphael leaned against the doorframe, taking in your appearance. "You look ravishing," he said before giving you a brief kiss on the cheek. 

You could feel his light stubble grazing against your skin. Notes of cherries and leather wafted off of him. No sulphur.

Ravishing was perhaps too grand a term, but you put in your best effort. You wore a black dress. While choosing, you went through wanting to be extravagant, then classic, then unconventional, then elegant again, and landed on a little black dress because you thought the devil in a suit would like it.

He, for his part, looked immaculate (of course). His crisp white shirt was expertly pressed, a sleek black waistcoat around his torso. His trench coat hung open, and he played with his car keys.

That surprised you. You had imagined he’d have a chauffeur in a black peak cap, driving a long black limousine. Could Raphael even drive a car? Did he learn to drive for you? Is it difficult to learn to drive a car? You had no driving licence and no idea.

"Thank you, come on in," you invited, breathing in and out low and steady. Did this invitation hold any significance, like with vampires? "I'll just grab my bag and I am ready to go. Do I need to take anything? My wallet?"

You were slowly getting used to the thought of Raphael being real, you mused to yourself. Well, real. At least a constant hallucination in your life.

"Only if you are planning to offend me," he replied with a laugh. “And I hope you are not”.

Raphael followed you into your flat, taking in the surroundings with a half-pitiful, half-amused expression that said “I'm not saying anything because I am well-mannered, but I'm thinking a lot to myself." Well, yes. Not the House of Hope, not even an upper scale apartment, just a run-down studio, forty-six square metres, overdue for some renovation. What more could a young professional afford in today's economy?

Raphael briefly glanced at your open laptop with disinterest, then his eyes lingered on your neatly made bed with its white, slightly faded linen. A small smile formed on his lips as if he entertained a certain thought.

You had entertained quite some thoughts about him while lying on that very bed. 

Snatching your phone, keys, and card holder, you cleared your throat and put on an "I'm prepared for whatever comes next" expression as Raphael's eyes moved from the bed to settle between your breasts.

Not in a suggestive way.

"Oh...you are Catholic?" His tone suddenly shifted - was it cautious, repulsed, or bewildered? 

"No, I am not religious," you responded, shaking your head and taking a step towards the exit. Raphael didn't budge. The raised eyebrow at the cross around your neck hinted that he wasn't entirely convinced. "You mean the cross? My mother gave it to me for protection and… ugh, protection," you added.

“The age gap between us was not lost on me, but I never imagined you were still young enough to seek fashion advice from your mother," he remarked with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

It was clear what he wanted - the cross had to go. You recalled the black screen in the video and your own possessed, sickly face.

The cross stays on. 

You didn’t believe in God (well, you did believe a bit more now), but the cross stays on. Even during sex. Especially during sex.

“Does the cross bother you?”, you asked.

"Why would it bother me?", he questioned. "Because I am the devil?"

Oh, there you go. Is it confession time already? 

You remained silent, refusing to fall into a trap again. Let him say what he wanted.

He did not say anything, but he extended his hand and gently grasped the cross. Shit. Shit. Raphael traced his thumb along the edges almost as if he was trying to decipher its meaning.

There was no recoil, no burning, no hissing. Part of you hoped there would be. Part of you thought there should be. Then again, there is no Christ in Toril. 

"Ah, the agony! It burns, the Holy Symbol, it burns!" Raphael made a half-hearted attempt at a pained grimace before letting go of your cross. "Yes, after you referred to me as Raphael twice, I did some investigating. A computer game devil, is he not?”

Referring to a video game as "a computer game" was a very authentic boomer move, you had to admit. 

Two can play this game, Raphael.

"Well, I wouldn't say Raphael is THE devil," you said casually. "He's just A devil."

Raphael tilted his head in amusement. 

There was something oppressive about his presence, the way he stood taller than you, the way he took up more space than he should have, making your apartment look tiny.

“To be fair”, you continued. ”He’s not even that. He’s a cambion, half human, one of the lowest beings in the levels of hells. He likes calling himself a devil for effect though; probably gets a kick out of scaring people.”

Definitely gets a kick out of scaring people. There, you said it. Now let's see if Raphael would drop the act.

You held your breath as silence stretched between you - five seconds...four...three...two...one...

Would your screams reach the neighbours?

Would they call the police?

And if they did, would the police even help? What happens if they shoot him? Will he bleed black blood? Why were you even thinking about that right now?

"Well," Raphael finally broke the silence and placed a gentle hand on your waist, guiding you towards the door. "Judging by his many admirers, it seems some people quite enjoy being scared. Shall we depart?"

God damn it.

You gave a quick nod, trying to subtly adjust your right stocking which felt slightly loose. You had bought them on Sunday but hadn't tried them on yet (which you should have done). Raphael noticed but pretended not to, his hand on your back guiding you downstairs.

The door closed and you wished it farewell. 

Who knows if you'll ever see it again.

****

Raphael's car was exactly what one would expect from him if he did drive one - flashy, shiny, predatory; a sleek beast painted in blood red. The kind of car that turned heads and started conversations among curious onlookers. 

The kind of car that made teenage boys gather around in awe, wondering how he could afford it and why he was driving it in this neighbourhood. 

And so they did, and so you stumbled upon it, surrounded by admirers.

"Nice car, sir!" exclaimed one of them. "Is it a Maserati? A Gran Turismo, right? How fast can it go from zero to sixty?"

"In less than four seconds. Work hard and you might own one someday too, boy," Raphael replied. “More than one if you are any good”.

"Uh-huh," the teenager said, not entirely convinced. You couldn't blame him; you were not entirely convinced either.

You considered yourself a socialist and always voted left (well, you voiced your opinions more often than you voted, but still), but a socialist getting into a Maserati was a bit of an oxymoron, so you decided to put politics aside for tonight. Besides, you weren't sure you wanted to hear Raphael's political opinions on... well, anything at all.

"Or you could always sell your soul to me. Is that not right, Anya?", Raphael turned to you with a playful wink. Now it was your turn to say "uh-huh" and adjust your stocking again. 

The gaggle of boys took their cue and dispersed as Raphael stepped forward to open the passenger door for you. You tried to sit down as gracefully as you could, but the leather creaked against your skin and your dress rose to obscene heights. 

Quickly, you tugged it back down.

Without a word, Raphael started the car and pulled away from the curb. He was no stranger to this routine - following traffic laws, navigating through the city streets. He felt at ease behind the wheel, it’s not the first time he has driven a sports car.

Something didn't feel right. It all seemed like too much effort; the complicated act, blending into society, creating a false background. Raphael knew who he was, and so did you. So why did he insist on pretending to be someone else? Not even someone entirely different, someone so clearly inspired by himself.

He must be testing you, but for what reason, to what end, for what? Loyalty? Endurance? Ability to take psychic damage?

There is always another truth: there is no bloody devil (of course there isn’t). There is a young woman going through acute psychosis in isolation. You might be now banging your head in a room with very soft carpets on the walls, imagining yourself to be driving in a fancy car with a man you fancied-oh-so-much. 

You need proof. You need solid proof. For your own sanity. The thing is, when you need to prove that you are sane, you are half-insane already. 

"I must say, this is not the safest neighbourhood for a young woman living alone," Raphael said, scanning the area with a wary eye.

Oh, the neighbourhood was fine, he was the most dangerous thing around these parts by far. At times, you would encounter a few junkies asking for spare change or hear about your neighbour getting mugged. 

“I am afraid that’s all I can afford. Have you seen the rent prices nowadays?”, you chuckled. “Well, you probably haven’t.”

“On the contrary,” Raphael shook his head. “I am well aware. I have several investment properties inside and outside the city.”

“Well, that is exactly why I cannot afford anything nicer.”

"That can change at a moment's notice," he said and gave you a sly smile. "Quicker than you might think."

You couldn't suppress your coquettish grin; his words reminded you of his generous gift from earlier - a cool grand handed over just like that. Not that you were mercantile (not that you ever had much of a chance to be, either); but if you were living in an imaginary world, might as well imagine yourself wealthy too.  Socialism is…

Well, for real life.

"Where are we headed?" you asked as he merged onto a busy street. “Is there an address?”

"Why? Do you want to send it to your mother?" Raphael's eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead. “For protection?”

Still cannot let go of you wearing the cross?

"Yes, I do. Just in case you decide to keep me locked up in chains in your basement," you joked. 

Sort of joked.

He glanced at you, and you couldn't help but wonder if you had finally hit a nerve.

"On our first date? I am a gentleman, an old-fashioned one at that," he retorted, feigning insult. "I'll ensure you reach home safely, plant a goodnight kiss and wish you sweet dreams."

Not exactly how you envisioned the night ending, but you chose not to argue.

“The address is Grand Rue 3, the old theatre,” Raphael said. “If you do not make it home tonight, tell your mother to check the basement.”

It’s the centre, the very centre. Nobody gets killed in the centre of the city. In the bushes, in the slums, in the outskirts, but not in the centre. It’s too much hassle.

Right?

“The one at the street corner? I didn’t think it was open.”

“For the general public, it is not”, Raphael said. “For the few who are invited, it is.”

You drove in silence for some time, and then you spoke up:

“So, is there a play there or…”

Hopefully there was also a dinner, you thought as you nervously adjusted your stocking, because you were so bloody hungry.

“You will find out enough”, Raphael said. “Anya, dear, I have seen the lace on your stockings in every little detail already, so do not bother pulling them up.”

You hastily pulled up your stockings.

“They’re new...I think I took the wrong size. Too large.”

"Well then, take them off. There is no use trying to keep them from slipping down, and it is quite a distracting sight."

You gave him an incredulous look; unsure if he was serious.

He seemed pretty serious about it. That’s some old-fashioned gentleman.

"Take them off?", you repeated.

As the car slowed down to halt near a corner street, you contemplated checking if the doors were locked but decided against it - no subtle way to do that.

"You heard me correctly," Raphael confirmed, leaning back and taking his time to examine you. 

Yeah, okay. Okay. That’s a perfectly normal and a justified request, or at least you would act as if it were.

With some hesitation, you removed your shoes first and then gradually rolled down your stockings to reveal your freshly waxed legs. You tried to make it look sensual but ended up feeling more like a rookie stripper or a soldier executing orders.

His eyes were glued to you as you undressed. It was the sort of stare that makes skin tingle.

It felt pretty good.

By the time you pulled your stockings off, your panties were much wetter than when you got into the car. Raphael knew it, and you knew that he knew it. He had access to every dirty little fantasy in your browser history. 

On the other hand, you were completely oblivious to his kinks; the only hints you got were Haarlep and the debtors in the House of Hope. It's hard to say which of those is the most disturbing.

"Such exquisite feet," he complimented. "Lovely nail polish. I do adore crimson red."

What was it about the way he said it that felt so... dirty?

Raphael then glanced at the scar on your knee and asked, "Now, is there anything else you bought just for me that keeps slipping?"

Everything you wore you bought new for him, panties to bra, except for the cross.

"I am just teasing," he chuckled, cutting you off just as your lips parted to retort. "We have arrived."

Raphael signalled someone outside. A uniformed valet appeared at your side of the door, reaching for the handle with his gloved hand. The door swung open with a soft click.

A cool gust of wind brushed against your bare legs as you stepped out into one of the quieter corners in the city centre. You couldn't exactly recall when this quaint theatre was built but if asked, you'd guess it was a relic from early 20th century opulence. Red bricks and stone columns stood tall amidst modern buildings like a stubborn old man refusing to budge.

Raphael casually tossed the keys into the air with a quick flick of his wrist. 

The valet caught them mid-flight.

***

You were not sure what you had expected.

A password in Latin to enter, people in mysterious white masks, cultists chanting in circles around Raphael, hailing him as their new god, something out of Eyes Wide Shut. The reality was much more mundane. Still high-end, but lacking the unhinged allure you might have imagined. Just the private turf of the rich, the only odd thing being the electric entrance sign that read:

"MAGIC THEATER. ENTRANCE NOT FOR EVERYBODY. FOR MADMEN ONLY!"

Since you could pass the threshold, you assumed you were mad enough to pass the bar.

As you stepped inside, your eyes met those of an older man with a rugged face and a thin scar under his eye in the cloakroom. Raphael handed him his pair of identical black iPhones and AirPods, and then it was your turn to do the same.

It took you a moment to process the fact that Raphael had gotten himself not one but two iPhones just to pass himself off as a human, high-profile lawyer. You followed suit, handing over your electronic devices after one last long look. The last hour was the longest you'd gone without looking at your phone.

queen-of-the-bored: look we are all freaking out after what happened to your twitch

queen-of-the-bored: that’s some creepy pasta shit PLEASE write something PLEASE

“E’ un piacere rivederla capo! Che bella ragazza che ha rimediato!”, the man's words were directed at Raphael as he helped you out of your jacket.

“Vero, vero”, Raphael nodded in agreement. “E’ stupenda e non sa nemmeno di esserlo”.

What were they saying? They were talking about you, you could feel it.

“Non c'è niente di meglio!”, the man continued with a sycophantic grin on his face as he took Raphael's trench coat. He had a rose and a skull tattoo on his wrist.

“Beh, è completamente fuori di testa. Pensa che io sia il diavolo, in senso letterale”. 

“Le più sexy sono quelle pazze, capo!”

Your knowledge of Italian was minimal at best. The only words you understood were "devil" and "sexy." Neither of which gave any insight into the situation, and that these words fit perfectly together you had known before. 

The theatre was converted into a private club and restaurant, keeping the stage, but adding the chairs and the table and the sofas, the leather-bound books on the walls, the mahogany tables, the smell of cigars and whisky in the air. The only infernal or infernal-looking symbol you could spot was a square and a compass sigil on red velvet curtains. 

Everyone knew Raphael. 

A crowd of well-dressed men and women reached out to greet him; they exchanged words, smiles, kisses on the cheek (was that an Italian thing?), pats on the back. They looked at you as if you were beautiful or interesting. 

Was it because you were supposed to be beautiful, accompanied by such a man?

Raphael’s hand never left your back as he exchanged pleasantries. He seldom spoke English to them. French, Italian, German, Russian, Turkish. The sound of a foreign language can be pretty, but it can also be eerie, discerning, the us-versus-them thing. Hearing them speak was rather the latter.

You couldn't guess who these people were. There is very little difference between how a businessman, a politician or a criminal look; besides, these three professions were perfectly compatible. 

The debtors, probably; not literally in chains yet, but certainly owing something and in some kind of servitude.

The prime spot in the room was yours—or rather, it was Raphael's. The table had been marked, a lone initial "R" carved into its surface.

When the waiter suggested an aperitif, you selected a Negroni Sbagliato, because you thought it sounded sophisticated (and so did Olivia Cooke), Raphael ordered "bourbon and blood" because of course he would. You didn't even question if he meant actual blood.

As you chewed on your lip, your eyes darting around the room, Raphael reached across the table. His fingers brushed against yours before he lifted your hand to his lips. “Anya, may I make a small confession?"

"Yes?"

A soft kiss was pressed into your knuckles as he murmured, "I am delighted to have you here with me tonight. Believe it or not, I am but a lonely tired man in a dire need of pleasant company."

His genuine sincerity, the lines around his eyes and the hint of sadness in them disarmed you for a moment. 

Who the fuck was this man?

Before you could answer, the curtain opened to reveal a small figure behind it.

It was a dwarf. Not the fantasy dwarf, an actual dwarf - you struggled to recall the politically correct term for them - was it "little person?". He was like something from a lucid dream: crimson suit-clad, slick-backed hair on pale skin, moving with an almost rhythmic grace.

Right. Twin Peaks. Could Raphael read your thoughts? Did he know you were thinking about Laura Palmer?

Or perhaps he too was a David Lynch fan?

"Welcome, dear ones," the little man said, his voice surprisingly deep. "I am grateful for your presence tonight. Some of you I have known since the millennia, while others are new to my realm."

He was looking at you. He meant you.

Raphael squeezed your hand tighter, fingers intertwined, an oddly intimate gesture, as if you’d been dating for a long time. You squeezed back, feeling comforted and sheltered in his touch.

“There are rules that govern this place”, the little man continued. “Rules, as well all know, are under no circumstances not to be broken, or there would be consequences. Same rules apply to everyone”.

“What are the rules?”, you whispered.

Raphael flashed you a wide smile, wrinkles in the corner of his eyes.

“Patience, he will tell us”, he whispered back. “They are never the same. If they were, would that be interesting?”

Consistency would be nice, you thought.

“You, little miss!”, the little man pointed his finger at you. “Yes, you, you specifically, little miss, little-miss-with-the-cross. Tell me, how well can you distinguish reality from fantasy?”

Oh, how you despise being the centre of attention. All eyes on you. All of them. These rich, strange, scary people looking at you and your naked legs and your weird knees and your…

“Not very well”, you said. “Not very well at all, I am afraid”.

The dwarf cackled, Raphael followed suit, everybody laughed, and you were not joking at all. 

“Yes, she is remarkably honest”, Raphael praised, giving you an adoring kiss on the cheek. “A wonderful quality, is it not?”

“Shall we give it a little try, little miss?”, the dwarf asked.

Why you? Out of all people, why did it have to be you? Because you were with him?

"Come now, don't be shy”, Raphael chimed in. “There is nothing to fear in this place."

(Except me).

"Would you lend a hand, R?" The dwarf turned his attention to Raphael.

“It would be my absolute pleasure," he replied and positioned himself behind your chair. "Eyes forward," he instructed as you attempted to swivel towards him.

Raphael’s fingers gently grazed your cheek before sliding behind your head. 

You felt the soft fabric of a blindfold being secured over your eyes and instinctively clutched the armrests of your chair tighter. The room was plunged into darkness, every sound amplified; the rustling of his clothes, the creaking of the chairs beneath you, the whispering and giggling of others in the room, and your own heartbeat thumping loudly in your ears. 

Raphael's hands rested on your shoulders.

"I want you to try this and tell me what it tastes like", came the dwarf’s voice from somewhere ahead, as the waiter (you presumed) set the table before you. “Let imagination be your guide.”

Taste? Taste without looking? You heard the sound of Raphael picking up a fork and piercing something in front of you. 

“Open wide”, Raphael said. 

If you could say no when he would make such a request, you wouldn’t be here in the first place.

So open wide is what you did and let Raphael push something between your lips and onto your tongue. You sucked and then bit down. 

The texture was unlike anything you had ever tasted before - bubbly, tenderly sweet with a savoury undertone, slightly slick and a bit challenging to chew. 

You didn’t have the faintest clue what it could be.

“It’s an…”, you took a wild guess. “it’s a.. it’s a piece of lamb in some sugar sauce, I think?”

There were a lot of excited laughs and giggles at your response. 

What did you try? 

What the fuck did you try? Your hands darted to your eyes to remove the blindfold, but were halted mid-way by a soft but very insistent touch.

“Keep the blindfold on until instructed otherwise,” Raphael warned before removing it himself.

You looked down at your plate and let out a loud exhale. Tiny glazed apple pieces, arranged in this typical Michelin restaurant artsy fashion, sat innocently on the large round dish. Why did the thought of meat cross your mind? What triggered that thought?

"Did your imagination run a little too wild there, little miss?" the dwarf laughed. “Seeing things that are not there?”

I know what you are all playing at, you thought bitterly. And I know who the fuck you all are, Raphael from Baldur’s Gate and the little man from Twin Peaks and I am not fucking crazy despite all your insinuations. 

“Dear ones, tonight we will serve five courses in complete darkness. Under no circumstance should you remove your blindfold; if needed, our waitstaff will guide you to restrooms. Guess what we serve tonight - at evening's end, we reveal the truth of it all”.

You said nothing while looking at the glistening apple. You never thought so much of an apple before; of how structure and taste and smell should be, of how it would (should) feel against your gums and teeth.

You kept staring at the glazed apples and thought of all the disgusting things it might have been instead. Brains? Tongues? Worms? A roasted dwarf leg?

“Rapha..”, you began and quickly corrected yourself. “Raul, just one thing, I… I do not eat human flesh”.

His response came after two slow blinks.

“Thank you for that wonderful piece of information. What am I supposed to do with it?”.

Not serving human meat would be a good start.

"Oh my little girl," Raphael cooed as he tenderly stroked your cheek. 

(why do you allow him to call you his little girl why this is disgusting this is so hot)

"You don’t seriously think…”, he continued. “Even if I had such inclinations - which I don't - cannibalism is illegal in this country.”

Oh yes, of course, he was a very lawful, very rule-abiding devil.

“And if it was legal?”, you asked.

"Anya," Raphael sighed heavily, "Your questions intrigue and frighten me in equal measures. Now, put on your blindfold." He added when he saw your hesitation: "Of course I will do the same - same rules apply”.

You trusted him to do as he said, since you put on your blindfold first. 

"As a warm-up, we have something that may bring back memories of your childhood," the waiter announced as he set down a dish in front of you. Your fingers searched and found the accompanying spoon. 

You breathed in the scent, which was so mild it told you nothing. Even if it turned out to be terrible or disgusting, you still wanted to taste it; you still wanted to do rather than not do; after a lifetime of not doing rather than doing.

The first spoonful exploded with nostalgia – kindergarten, afternoon naps, finger paints. The creamy texture and subtle sweetness with a touch of honey. 

Quite lovely, actually.

On the other side of the table, you heard a strangled gasp as if someone had just been forced to eat live worms.

"You don't like it?" you asked.

"I do not," Raphael responded gruffly. "But I am well aware that was the intention, so my compliments to the chef."

You wondered that a lot about him. The motherless childhood, growing up in hells, an evil bastard for a father. A chanceless, bleak fate, to be born evil, among evil, for evil, all privilege and no hope. If only Raphael would answer truthfully about that instead of spinning tales about some Italian village.

"I remember when we first met when you mistook me for an actor," Raphael mused out of nowhere. "That's when I first thought we had a certain… connection."

“I thought it happened way earlier”, you said, because it happened way earlier for you.

"Ha! True, I thought you were an exquisitely stunning woman the moment I walked into this cafe, if a little... skittish... which, I must say, adds to your allure. But then again, I've had my fair share of beauties... No matter. You see, I do have an affinity for the theatre".

“Oh really? How surprising”, you laughed pretty humorlessly. The ongoing joke about "I am not who you think I am" was getting rather stale for your taste.

"Indeed," came Raphael's self-assured response. "This place owes much to... ever heard of Antonin Artaud and his Theatre of Cruelty?"

"No, but it sounds like something you would love," you said.

"You hardly know me well enough to make such judgements," he said. "And if you're implying that I'm cruel, rest assured that I am not; merely just." He paused before asking nonchalantly, "Do you mind if I light up?"

You shook your head, though he couldn't see it through his blindfold. He proceeded to light his cigarette regardless. You noticed a dance of light behind the fabric covering your eyes as Raphael took an indulgent, addicted inhale.

A twinge of regret stirred you; witnessing Raphael taking a drag would have been a sight. You’d bet that looked very old school and very villainous. Your Negroni was long gone, replaced by overly potent wine which you sipped on nonetheless.

“The problem with art, Arnaud thought, was the distance between the audience and the artist. The safe space. The little cosy chair you sit in, detached, protected, at a comfortable distance; never truly allowing art to flow through you”. 

"I thought the purpose of art was to explore dangerous themes in a safe space," you said.

"That's not exploration then; it's voyeuristic entertainment, nothing more," Raphael countered. “Art and safe space should not coexist in the same sentence.”

His cigarette smoke wafted towards you - sharp, biting, pungent with a metallic undertone not unlike rotten eggs left under the scorching sun for too long.

"Does it smell somewhat... off?" You blinked rapidly, trying to clear your stinging eyes.

You never smelled sulphur before, but you knew what it was the moment you smelled it.

“I beg your pardon?”, Raphael asked.

“The main course shall make you think of something - or someone - you crave for”, the waiter’s voice went straight into your ear, and you didn’t even hear him coming.

"I know exactly who it will make me think of," Raphael said slyly.

You took your first bite as if trying to drown out the scent. Spice, cherries, and raw beef so tender it practically melted on your tongue. Delicious. Sinfully delicious.

Just as you were about to enjoy your third bite, something warm and sinuous wrapped itself around your bare ankle and began to crawl upwards. Your meal lodged in your throat causing a coughing fit that rocked your body.

"Is the flavour too intense for your palate, my dear?", you could hear Raphael grinning. 

His tail, you realised as it ventured further up. The nerve of that fucking devil! Groping you with his tail and STILL pretending he was fucking Raul from a fucking Italian village!

"So, as I was saying," Raphael continued, his fork scraping against the plate as if nothing unusual was happening under the table. "Artaud wanted to eliminate aesthetic distance."

You reached down for his tail underneath the table. The thing had a mind of its own though; it slithered away swiftly before you could touch it. You tried to grab for it again, but the sneaky little bastard darted away, causing you to stumble under the table and end up between Raphael's legs in your blind chase.

"By transforming the theatre into a place where the spectator is exposed rather than pro..." You felt his hand rest gently on your head, "Anya, may I inquire what you are doing under the table?"

You froze. His hand gave you a light caress. 

"You know exactly what I am doing under the table," you managed to say through gritted teeth. "Looking for your goddamn tail."

Raphael's hand stopped in a half-stroke. For a fleeting moment, you imagined him pulling you closer by your hair until you were right up against his crotch.

"A tail?" He seemed genuinely perplexed at this point. "We may be lost in translation(*) here, but I assume what you're looking for is somewhat more... up."

Your mind conjured up an image of him showing you exactly where it was; unzipping his trousers and placing his cock between your lips.

Would you then open wide and give him a head right there, blindfolded, no questions asked, in a room full of strangers (and a weird dwarf) watching?

You would, wouldn't you? 

You wanted to touch him so badly, just one touch to see how hard he was for you; just one fleeting touch, maybe he wouldn't even notice?

"I am delighted that theatre talk has put you in such a playful mood," Raphael purred. "I did presume we would at least make it to dessert before…”

A wave of embarrassment washed over you at his words. You tumbled backwards onto the floor, right on your bum; bumped your head, too, pretty badly and pretty awkwardly.. 

"I wasn't... Damn, that's not what I..."

Raphael chuckled (you hated him in that moment) and your cheeks turned red. How dare he think you'd suck him off like that, in front of everyone?

Your heart pounded against your ribs as you tried to escape the four-legged table trap, bumping into everything you could bump into. The world turned on its axis for a moment as you finally crawled out from under the table, your legs shaking beneath you.

The smell of sulphur again. You lunged for where your glass should be, found it, almost knocked it over, caught it in time and drank the wine. You thought it would make you feel better, but it made you feel worse.

The tail decided to make a comeback and patted your thigh affectionately.

"I...excuse me," you stammered out, pressing a hand to your mouth. "I need to use the bathroom."

“I’ll escort you, ma’m”, the voice next to you said, and you jumped in surprise. Was the waiter here the entire time? Did he watch you stumble underneath the table?

What else was here the entire time? Who else?

Christ.

Well, fuck, no, not him. Anybody but him.

****

"R's new little pet, aren't you?" the words echoed off the marble walls of the bathroom as you entered. You saw a woman in the mirror, tracing her lips with a ruby red lipstick that matched her hair, and she said: "Careful."

She was older than you, but not old, mid-thirties maybe, but she looked like a woman who was thoroughly done with her life. A stale kind of beauty.

"Why?" you asked, your eyes never leaving hers in the reflection.

She laughed, as if you were asking something utterly ridiculous. Without ever giving you an answer, she gestured to four meticulously arranged lines on the marble countertop. "Want some? It's primo stuff. You won’t get any better"

You've never tried cocaine, nobody's ever offered you cocaine, you wouldn't know how to order it and you certainly wouldn't have the money for it. 

It's something that other people have done in the movies. The villains, the debauched, the corrupt elite.

"No thanks," you replied, "I'm already unhinged enough, I think."

Her high-pitched laughter filled the bathroom again. "Oh darling, we're all mad here. Absolutely fucking mad. Even me... Especially me."

"Who 'we'? What is this place?"

"The lodge? Why, a private playground." She gestured vaguely with her lipstick tube, as if to encompass everything around you. "His rules. His people. His theatre."

"And by 'him' you mean..."

Theoretically she could also mean the dwarf…

She laughed again, and you wished she'd just stop. "Oh, how sweet! You know exactly who 'he' is. The man who is going to fuck you tonight."

Okay, you hope it’s Raphael.

"I know who he is," you said, maintaining eye contact in the mirror. "But I thought Raphael had just arrived on Earth... I thought I was the one who summoned him here..."

"Summoned him? Like a demon or something?" She put another layer of lipstick on her lips, now facing forward. "'Raul likes them crazy,' they say, and boy they don't lie." 

She had just called him Raul.

What the fuck was going on?

"The one to summon him, ha," she sneered, spinning around to face you directly, her face inches away from yours. “We all think we're so special”.

"No, I don't," you said. "I never thought that. Never. Because I never was any special".

"Well that definitely makes you the special one. How about a kiss, special one?" 

How about what?

She leaned in closer still; her breath smelled of champagne and burnt caramel. You took a cautious step back.

"Oh-oh, look at her, such a tease. I can see why Raul brought you here."

That name again.

“Tell me about him”, you asked. “Tell me about that Raul”.

"Nah. No kiss, no tell", she replied nonchalantly while returning her gaze to the mirror. “Enjoy your evening.”

Next: Chapter 4, In Which You Attend A Very Special Event (Part 2).

(*) In some European languages, tail = cock (e.g. “Schwanz” in German).

[hurthermore]

Haaiii i wanted to come here to express how much i love A Misconduct of Love, bbygrl had me reading until 2am when i had work at 10 today 😭😭😭 i work at a library and im pretty much in the computer lab the entire day (which is exactly where i want to be because i have sweet F-A to do in here, so you're fic has taken me🩷🩷🩷) literally sitting at my little desk, kicking my feet and twirling my hair reading Alastor fawn over Reader even if his intentions are slightly ill-intended AKSHSODJWI only slightly, but I support Alastor's wrongs 🩷🩷🩷 i dont know if you listen to Will Wood at all, but I was listening to his song Vampire Reference in A Minor Key, all the while conducting my own little delusion of your Alastor having this push-pull relationship with Reader. Where its already established how crazy they are for each other, but Reader has yet to leave her vile husband (its the roaring 20's, so it's not like she's really in a place to divorce him anyway, unforch, but that does make their affair all the more enticing) (also im totally and entirely disregarding NY in this scenario btw, lemme be delusional xoxo) and I can see Reader like. Drugging her husband every night to make him drowsy and crash before he can force her into anything. Then she sneaks off into the night where she finds herself at Alastor's doorstep, and he welcomes her with open arms. Being the gentleman he is, he'll encourage her to share her feelings, how her day has been, what that disgusting husband of hers has been up to and more importantly, did he hurt her today? Is she okay? If shes harmed, he'll do his best to take care of her, console her before leading her into a soft and slow, passionate kiss. One that Reader's been desperately craving and she reaches out to hold his face. He's pulling her in and leaning her back into the couch until he's hovering over her. They're groping each other and Reader, desperate to be loved in a way thats meaningful, reaches for Alastor's collar first. Her fingers are clumsy but determined as shes releasing the buttons on his waistcoat. This certainly isnt the first time this has happened, but Alastor remains pleasantly surprised everytime she initiates first, but that doesnt mean he'll giving her the satisfaction of pleasuring him first. No matter what, its always his utmost duty to treat her until shes had her fill - until shes begging for him to finally be inside her, and god knows he could never deny her. With Alastor, she wants it all. She wants his everything and anything he is willing to provide her. Dare she say, she wouldnt even mind if she ended up pregnant with Alastor's child (i have a breeding kink IRL, and I strongly believe, after falling into bed with Alastor so many times, she'd develop her own breeding kink with him as well) 🩷 they'd become addicted to each other, and it'd be even sexier if she did end up pregnant by Alastor, falsely allowing her husband to believe its his child until both Reader and Alastor reel up and incenerate his ass together 🩷 (burn his ass alive in that horrible, awful house shes been forced to live in for the last year. And listen tearfully as Alastor begs her, genuinely and tearfully begs her to come live with him. Be his wife and let him love her the way she deserves to be loved. And they can be happy together, they can build a beautiful life together with their little one. He genuinely cannot live another day without her, and she feels the same🩷)

.....sorry for writing essentially my own fanfic of *your* fanfic in your inbox, you can delete this if you want!! You have me romanticising at my job today, trust that I will be thinking about Alastor and Reader for the rest of my afternoon xoxoxo ilu 🩷✨️

AHHH TYSM FOR ENJOYING MISCONDUCT!! I also LOVE this so much, unfortunately it’s not where I plan to take misconduct sorry.

But don’t apologise for writing this! I loved it and I kinda wished more people would write things like this for misconduct it makes me so happy sksks

Ty for taking your time to not only read misconduct but write all of this! I’m working hard to try to finish the next chapter!! 👉👈

[natsuki208]

The Wolf and the Bunny 🐺🐰

Sebastian tells his son Ciel a new bedtime story about an orphaned bunny and a lone wolf.

Here’s something for the Dadbastian fandom as the BB series is now on hiatus!

-

It’s around 7:15pm in England now; a certain little blue-haired noble boy should be going to sleep now.

“Come along now, Ciel. It’s pass your bedtime.” His father Sebastian gently picks him up from the floor where his child was playing and carries him to the bed in the middle of the nursery.

However, Ciel pouts in disagreement. “Bud I’m nod sweepy, Papa.”

“Hm, I know you by now that you are.” Sebastian chuckles.

The boy then squirms in his father’s arms as he’s placed down. “No I’m nod.”

Usually Ciel would only say those things in denial like any human child would, but he sounds like he means it this time. He surely does sound more lively and not drowsy, eyes are both wide, not droopy, so it’s clear to the demon he’s telling the truth.

Sebastian notes to himself not to give into pressure and allow Ciel sweeties before bedtime.

“Well, we can’t have you be cranky the next morning because you couldn’t get enough sleep.” He ponders aloud. “There has to be something to help you go to sleep.”

Ciel ponders too, imitating his father, and then an idea springs. His tiny hand grabs onto Sebastian’s waistcoat and tugs softly.

“Can you wead me a beddime sdowy, pwease?”

Sebastian looks down at those pleading blue eyes, so bright that it’s even hard for him to resist sometimes. Such things a human child does to him these days. He sits down on the bed next to him and reaches for the book on the bed side table.

“Alright. I think I know which story you’re talking about.” Sebastian smiles smartly.

Ciel tugs him again. “I wand a new sdowy.”

There’s a pause. Sebastian looks again down at his son’s pleading face. Usually he’d ask for him to continue to read ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’ since that’s his favourite, but now he wants a new one. On the contrary, the demon’s aware that children change their minds frequently, so he shouldn’t expect Ciel to be an exception.

The book returns to its place on the table and Sebastian moves over to be closer to his son. That soft smile never fades whilst petting Ciel’s blue hair.

“I think I might have one short story in mind.” He notes softly. “But you will promise to go to sleep after the story is finished, okay?”

Ciel nods with a little ‘Mmm hmm’ as a response and grabs hold of his white bunny plushie and makes himself more comfortable by lying onto his bed pillow. And so Sebastian thinks for a moment; what can possibly be a good story to tell for a young boy at this age? He notices the toy in Ciel’s arms and it clicks.

“Okay, I think you might like this one.” Taking his seat closer to his curious son, he begins his tale.

~

“In an old forest, somewhere far from here, lived an old grey wolf. His life in his wolf pack was the same as any ordinary predator living there: to hunt for their prey. They traveled around the forest looking for any small, weak little animals to feast on, and they all enjoyed it very much… all except him.”

“I don’d like dhis sdowy, Papa.” Ciel interrupted, hiding his face under the bed sheet.

“Oh don’t worry, it will get better.” His father assures him pleasingly. “Now if I can continue…”

“Sowwy.”

“One day, on a spring morning, the wolf pack came across a rabbit burrow. Desperate for a meal, they worked together to force the rabbit out of her hole and the pack chased after her. The grey wolf stayed behind, as he picked up the sound of high squeaking coming from inside the burrow. Out of curiosity, he checked inside only to find a baby rabbit left alone. The poor thing didn’t even looked scared when the wolf approached it, it got closer instead, rubbing against its natural predator.

The grey wolf couldn’t think of how to react, so he lifted his head out of the burrow and before he knew it, the baby rabbit followed. It kept cuddling onto the wolf like he was its parent, and he didn’t know how to respond, but he didn’t throw away the baby either. The poor thing obviously didn’t understand that the mother is presumably gone and his pack would be after it next, so what can he do?

He couldn’t bring himself to harm a precious little bunny being so sweet and innocent, so he picked it up and carried it on his back. He’s thinking of taking the baby away somewhere safe before his pack showed up again - and that’s what he did.

The wolf spend the rest of the day looking out for the now orphaned bunny. Practically doing anything to keep it safe: bringing it food, water and even played with it. The bunny itself was growing very attached to the wolf more than ever, for when it felt sleepy, it cuddled up into his fur again. The wolf didn’t mind and fell asleep with it.

Why was he spending time with the little bunny instead of preying on it? He didn’t know why. All he did know was that the baby adored him and he shouldn’t take it for granted.

Suddenly, the wolf’s pack caught up to him, for they scented the bunny’s whereabouts. They demanded for him to share the rabbit with them as their meal but the wolf refused. He mentioned he didn’t want to harm an innocent baby animal and that got his pack mad at him. They chased him and the bunny all throughout the forest with no end in sight, that is, until the wolf reached the edge of a rapid, cold river.

This gave him an idea. As his pack hurried towards him in an angry state, the wolf just stood there with the bunny on his back. He waited…. and he waited… until the pack got closer with their teeth wide open. They pounced as he jumped out of the way, with one splash at a time, each wolf was swept away in the tides of the river. Who knows if they’ll make it out alive.

And so, the wolf and the bunny made it back into the forest alone. He may never see his old pack again, but he had something better with him. The innocent baby really brought out his soft spot he had a feeling was there, but not until they met was when he opened up about it. Every day they traveled through the forest to find a safe den to live together, so no other predator can bother them ever again.”

~

*snore*

Sebastian’s last sentence of his story was interrupted by the quiet, breathy noises coming from Ciel - whom is sleeping away peacefully. The image brings a soft smile to his face and carefully stands up to not make the bed creak; he doesn’t take his eyes of the sleeping child when doing do.

“Sorry, bluebird.” Sebastian whispers gently. “I think I got a bit carried away with that one.”

Pulling up the sheets, fixing the position of the pillow, and kissing Ciel’s forehead sweetly ware all what’s left to do before wrapping up for the night. Once it’s all done, he picks up the candle and whispers one final goodnight to his little bunny.

Looks like the wolf is finally content in his new den after all.

[strugglingwriterwattpad]

chocolate flowers sneak peek

Chapter one – a hatful of dreams

As the sun struggled to break through the fog, a chilly morning greeted the passengers of a 1940s trawler boat. The rhythmic sound of ocean waves and the distant tolling of a ship's bell filled the air. Emerging from the thick mist, the boat approached the new city's dock, its passengers eagerly awaiting their arrival. Amidst the scene, a peculiar figure stood out - donning a vibrant green waistcoat and a scarf bursting with colours. With curly brown hair and eyes that matched the waistcoat’s hues, this enigmatic individual climbed the mast, their presence illuminated by the sun's rays piercing through the fog and ship smoke.

“After seven years of life upon the ocean, It is time to bid the seven seas farewell. And the city I’ve pinned seven years of hopes on Lies just over the horizon. I can hear the harbour bell!” Emerging from the icy mist, a magnificent ancient metropolis caught his eye. A grin spread across his face, for he knew that his days as a sailor were numbered and his new life as a proud shopkeeper was about to begin. “Land ahoy!!”

With a firm grip on the rope, Willy descended to the icy deck, while his fellow sailors readied the boat for docking. Navigating through the bustling engine room, he collected his worn-out plum-coloured tailcoat and weathered wooden suitcase. “Got a tattered overcoat and battered suitcase! Got a pair of leaky boots upon my feet. Got to drag myself up by my one good bootlace! Gotta work my rotten socks off if I wanna make ends meet!” With a daring leap, he landed on a supply crate just as it was lifted from the ship's hold. The crate soared high above the dock, swaying gracefully in the air. “I've poured everything I've got into my chocolate. Now it's time to show the world my recipes.” The brunette received a small bag of coins from the captain, the metal creating a clanging sound as it landed in his icy, pale hand. “good luck Willy!” he hollered waving off Willy with a supportive grin. “I’ve got twelve silver sovereigns in my pocket. And a hatful of dreams!”

Willy gracefully leapt off the crate and onto the back of a truck as it passed by, embarking on his exciting journey into the city of his dreams. The landscape he passed was blanketed in a thick layer of ice and slush, a messy combination of cobblestone debris and melting snow. With a burst of energy, the ghostly boy jumped down from the vehicle, his hands gripping a frozen lamp post adorned with tattered flyers and posters. With a graceful twirl, Willy descended the gleaming metal pole and found himself in the awe-inspiring town square. “There’s a famous restaurant on every street here. There's Brandino's and the Bar Parisienne”

The bustling square was adorned with a majestic cathedral, its towering presence casting a shadow over the surrounding area. The harmonious melodies of the choir echoed through the air, filling the square with a symphony of enchanting notes, reminiscent of the sweet songs of songbirds. In the centre of the square, a frozen fountain stood still, its waters suspended in time, a testament to the frigid weather that had gripped the city. On the opposite side, a grand dome building beckoned him with its grandeur, a destination he knew he would eventually reach. However, he couldn't resist the allure of exploration that lingered in the air, enticing him to wander through the square a little longer before embarking on his intended journey.

“Restaurant map, sir?” A cheerful attendant at a cosy booth offered a map of restaurants to the gentleman in a brown top hat, who graciously thanked him with a silver coin. “thank you!”

“Got a little map to tell me where to eat here...” As Willy unravelled his map, he suddenly spotted someone right by his side. To his surprise, it was a shoeshine boy, and the brunette had unknowingly placed his foot on the boy's box. The boy, with a mischievous grin, demanded a sovereign while wiggling his fingers, as if he had just completed a remarkable shine on the chocolate maker’s boot.

“Had a dozen silver sovereigns, now I'm somehow down to ten!”

With excitement in his eyes, Willy made his way towards a vibrant produce stall. As he reached out, his hands embraced an astonishingly enormous pumpkin, bursting with both delectable taste and vibrant hues. “Want the finest produce? This is where they stock it!” Willy narrowly avoided being hit by a streetcar that honked loudly, causing him to drop the pumpkin in shock. “That's three sovereigns, mate” The pumpkin splattered all over his boots, undoing all the work the boy had just completed moments before. “Though the prices are suspiciously extreme!”

“You break my pumpkin; you pay for it.”

“I've got five, six, seven-“

The dreamer strolled past the shops on the street, but his attention was immediately drawn to a charming green cottage-style shop. His eyes widened as he watched a woman inside, working cheerfully in her colourful attire, leaving Willy breathless with admiration. The vibrant hues of her clothing perfectly complemented the lush greenery that adorned her store, resembling ornaments on a festive Christmas tree. She was wearing an off-white blouse with puff sleeves that peeked through her green corduroy pinafore. The seams of the dress were decorated with different flower embroidery similar to his own waistcoat patterns. Her hands, covered in gardening gloves instead of winter ones, bore the marks of soil on each finger, a testament to her love for nurturing plants. The woman appeared to be around his age, her skin plump and her eyes sparkling like shiny coins. She captivated the poor adventurer with her beauty, snapping him out of his trance as she waved goodbye to a customer and the shop door chimed closed.

As he counted his coins, the chocolatier spotted the Shoeshine Boy cleaning his boots once again and reluctantly handed over yet another sovereign. At least the pumpkin was off his boot this time. “...six silver sovereigns in my pocket And a hatful of dreams”

[lardguz]

so happy to see you writing again, your wg fics are some of the best! are you still in the Ace Attorney fandom? i’d love to see a short wg story about one of Sholmes’ inventions malfunctioning or one of Larry’s laziness catching up to him

*points* YOU. ANON. I like you. You're a genius. I'm going to be going with the Sholmes prompt for this one, because even though I haven't finished the second game yet, I do know I ADORE that strange man. He's so babygirl 🥰

It was a cold, dreary day in London, a thick fog blanketing the city in the early hours. The great detective Herlock Sholmes sat in his flat, sipping a hot cup of tea while poring over one of his many inventions. The lanky man was wearing his home attire of a tailored waistcoat and dress shirt with a pair of long trousers. He grabbed a screwdriver, tightening some parts of the strange little machine in front of him, sticking his tongue out of the side of his mouth in concentration. Finally, Sholmes got the last screw in place, and he leapt out of his chair in celebration. "At last, my invention is complete!" he cried out happily.

Sholmes lifted the little machine from his workbench, cradling it to his chest like a newborn child. The sound of creaking footsteps came from the stairs behind him, as a voice called out to him. "Mr. Sholmes, is everything all right?" The detective turned around, still holding his invention close, and spotted the source of the voice: Ryunosuke Naruhodo, his friend who lived upstairs in his flat. The Japanese lawyer looked like he was still waking up, his hair sticking up in more places than usual and his eyes half-lidded from sleepiness.

Detective Sholmes held his creation out to the tired lawyer. "Ah, Mr. Naruhodo, sorry for waking you! You see, I just finished building my latest invention, and might have gotten a tad carried away in my celebration. Here, look at this!"

Ryunosuke leaned in close, inspecting the contraption. It appeared to be some sort of metal cube with gears on some of the surfaces, and with beautifully engraved images of fruits, vegetables, and bread on the brass edges. "Well, it looks quite pretty, Mr. Sholmes, but... What function does it serve?" The lawyer questioned as he straightened back up.

Sholmes laughed heartily at his companion's understandable confusion. "Oho, my dear Mr. Naruhodo, surely it is obvious? Did you not notice the switch on the top face of my genius machine, and deduce its function for yourself?" Ryunosuke shook his head, expression as bemused as it was before. "My, my, you're slacking then, my dear boy! This mere brass cube will make it so I never have to waste time eating or drinking for the rest of my life!"

The young lawyer gasped in surprise. "Really, Mr. Sholmes? But... How would that work?"

Detective Sholmes laughed, grasping the little cube in both of his hands. "Allow me to demonstrate for you, my friend!" He flicked the switch on top of his creation, which began to hum ominously. The cube shook and vibrated, emitting steam which scalded Sholmes's hands. "Ouch! Blasted contraption!" He yelped, dropping it hastily. As it clattered to the ground, a loud whistling noise pierced the air, and both the cube and Herlock Sholmes started glowing with a mysterious light.

Ryunosuke watched in disbelief as Sholmes's body underwent a rapid transformation. The scrawny detective's gut started growing, starting as just a little protruding pudge before becoming a pot belly, then a proper fat stomach that began drooping over his belt. His pecs began softening, plumping up like a pair of women's breasts and straining the buttons of his waistcoat. A pair of love handles bloomed over his trousers as his thighs and ass thickened as well, the fine leather of his belt beginning to creak ominously. At the exact moment his belt buckle gave way to the building pressure, so did his vest's buttons, causing Ryunosuke to duck to avoid the shrapnel firing off of the growing detective's body. His gut surged forth, free from the restraining waistcoat and sagging to cover the broken belt buckle. His fattening biceps tore at the fabric of his dress shirt, bubbles of pale flab bulging through the tears. The seams of his trousers swiftly followed the same fate, his burgeoning thighs and calves reducing the tailored pants to tatters. Ryunosuke looked on in horror, expecting the growth to half now that his friend was nearly naked, but it continued.

Herlock's gut continued expanding, creeping further and further down the front of his legs until it touched the floor and then continuing on past that. The enormous slab of fat was now a three-tiered cascade of rolls, jiggling and wobbling with the slightest movement. His tits and side rolls swelled and merged into a mass of stacked flab, forcing his fattening arms higher and higher in their resting position. His neck disappeared under his shoulder and face fat, his bulging cheeks and numerous chins covering any of his distinguishable features rendering him unrecognizable. His biceps grew even bigger than his body had been mere moments ago, rendering his arms immovable by weight alone. Even his hands fattened up, his fingers almost spherical and barely able to bend but still somehow mobile.

The only thing bigger than Sholmes's floor-covering gut was his ass, each cheek growing at an astonishing rate and pinning his body to the floor. The shapeless, dimpled boulders of adipose pooled under his bulk, forcing him to the ground before his legs were made unusably fat too. As his growth finally slowed, it was clear that his mountainous ass and gut had anchored him to the ground permanently, but even if they hadn't he wouldn't be able to walk again: his flabby thighs and calves had completely absorbed his feet and ankles, the doughy barrels of flab sticking out at an uncomfortable spread angle from his bulging body between his stomach rolls and ass cheeks. The detective's body finally stopped growing, leaving the immobile man wheezing and sweaty from the ordeal.

Ryunosuke waited a few moments to see if any more growth happened before hesitantly approaching his friend. He prodded at Sholmes's sweaty, heaving gut to see if it was real, his finger sinking into the flab all the way up to his knuckles easily. Sholmes grunted between gasping breaths, and Ryunosuke leapt back. "I-I'm sorry, Mr. Sholmes, that was rude of me! Are you okay?"

"Ah-ah'm... haaahh... fhine.... chum.... huff." He wheezed, words slurred by the fat weighing down his face. His cheeks were red and shiny from the sweat pouring off of his body from the effort of merely saying a few words.

Ryunosuke looked concerned for his friend. "I'm sorry your invention backfired like that. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Sholmes chuckled, his laughter sending shockwaves rippling through his entire corpulent form. "Bhack....fhired? wheeze Yhuu... mish...unner....shtand... Mishtah.... Nahru... huff... Hodo!" Taking a couple of minutes to catch his breath, he continued. "Naow... Ah c'n.... feed... muhshelf.... wih' dish.... thing.... fuhrevuh!"

Ryunosuke took a moment to mentally translate the detective's muffled words, before groaning. "Is that so... Well, I guess I have a new job along with my defense attorney position." He immediately set about clearing furniture and various failed inventions out of the growth radius of Sholmes's mass. This was going to be a loooooong week.

[letsdeerintheheadlightsuniverse]

<<Previous Chapter <<

**Masterlist**

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Pairing: Izzy Hands x gn!reader

Synopsis: And there was only one bed...

A/N: It's me, hi. You know, this chapter was both interesting and difficult to write. I found myself doubting my storytelling abilities, so I genuinely hope that it lives up to the standard of the previous instalments. Please, when you're liking and reblogging these chapters, feel free to comment. It's nice to see people interacting and reacting to my work. It also helps me to know what people are enjoying, so I can tailor my writing, if necessary. Okay, bye now.

Content Warning: Knives, mention of injuries, trauma, hallucinations, mention of drowning and death. I think that's everything. This series is 18+, so minors dni. Go away (politely).

DISCLAIMER: PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, REPUBLISH, OR TRANSLATE MY WORK ANYWHERE WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT PERMISSION. I DO NOT OWN OFMD OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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Sleep was for the weak, and let's just say, you were indeed weak, but as luck may have it, good fortune was not on your side. Despite yours and Izzy's argument about who would take up residence in his bed for the night, the conversation had been for nought, as the suggestion to just share the damn space died upon your tongue, when the first call to attention echoed down the timber halls of the Revenge.

"We're taking water!" you heard Fang's distinctive cry.

"Shit." the silver-haired pirate hissed in annoyance beside you, already making a move to grab his discarded waistcoat and boot.

"That's bad, right?" you asked, nerves rising. You had not experienced a storm of this severity whilst at sea. You certainly had not been on a ship that was taking water. The prospect of the Revenge sinking, twisted your gut into anxious knots. Sure, you could swim but for how long? Even if you did manage to keep a float until the storm passed, how long could you keep your head above water before another ship passed and picked you up? No, correction, if they picked you up.

"'Bad' is a fucking understatement." Izzy all but laughed humourlessly. Not meaning to sound so mocking. Of course you were scared, what normal person would not be fearful of their poor odds of survival? After living a majority of his life at sea, Izzy had grown numb to the liklihood of drowning. He accepted that as a pirate, your days were numbered. Lower even than those who dwelled on land but that was the profession fate had chosen for him. Why fight the inevitable? Despite his grim acceptance, he wanted to pause and comfort you.  To lie and say it would be okay. Maybe even pull you into a fleeting kiss, since it seemed unlikely you would all live to see another sunrise. He would have nothing to lose, with the only gain being finally learning just how sweet you tasted.

"Told you Poseiden hates us." your attempt at humour was admirable but the evident shake in your voice caused the delivery to fall flat.

Gods, he adored you. Even when terrified, there was something so disarmingly charming about your personality. "Stay here." Izzy commanded, knowing you were likely to follow him to the deck. As much as your skills would undoubtedly be an asset to the team members already battling against the elements, the mere thought that something horrendous could happen to you, had the First Mate devising a plan to keep you in the hold.

"What, no!" you protested, confused as to why the pirate would want you to stay away from the main deck. Sure, you might not have been as seasoned a pirate as Ed or Fang but you still knew enough to be of use. "You're going to need all competent hands on deck. You said so yourself earlier."

"That's why I need you down here." that's why I need you out of harms way, he thought internally. "Edward's gonna be out on the deck with Bonnet."

"Yeah, so?" you frowned, not quite understanding the trajectory of his point. Where else were the captains going to be, sequestered away in their cabin while everyone risked their life to keep the Revenge sailing? A unlikely story.

"Some of the crew aren't going handle that too well." hell, he was not handling it well but someone had to take charge and consider the wellbeing of the misfit crew. While he himself could not provide them with any actual support, you- oh goodness- you could tame ever the wildest of beasts into submission with your freely given smiles and affections. You had unlocked something long dormant within the silver-haired pirate. Something he assumed he had lost forever in exchange for his reputation and legend.

"Why wouldn't..." then it clicked. You faltered in your questioning, as your mind connected the sickening dots. "Shit, the storm."

"And with Edward at the wheel, it'll be too much for them." For them, he thought bitterly, as if his own mind was not trying to coax him into a state of remembrance. Fuck it, any unwanted flashbacks to that tragic night, all those many moons ago, would just have to haunt him in whatever realm lay beyond this mortal life. Izzy did not have time to focus on his own pain. When did he ever? That being said, each boom of thunder was starting to sound eerily like the shot of a gun.

"What about you?" you implored, knowing that Izzy rarely focused on his own thoughts and feelings. While such a practice made him a ruthless pirate, there was no denying that such strength took a heavy toll on his mental and physical wellbeing.

At the sound of your question and the saddened look upon your features, the First Mate yearned to lie in your arms and have you comfort him in that tender way of yours, that made his knees weak. He had observed time and time again, you whispering sweet nothing to a trembling Frenchie or carefully hold Archie's hand when things got a little too overwhelming. Izzy knew what you were capable of and he wanted to experience it too.

"Fuck off worrying about me. I'm First Mate, my feelings come second to the survival of everyone on this fucking ship, got that?" and there it was, the titular reason you had fallen completely head over heels for one Israel Hands. Too stubborn for his own good. Despite his 'I don't give a fuck' attitude, it was painfully obvious that he did care. He cared so fucking much, to the point it hurt. Figuratively and literally. Whether it was taking a blade on someone's behalf or protecting the crew in the middle of a storm- Izzy's would do anything to keep the crew safe.

Upon recognising this, you realised you would do anything for that man. If he asked you to jump, you would say, 'how high?' His loyalty to others ran deep but yours for him, well, it burned brighter than the hottested of fires. Once a spark, was now a full on flame- all consuming and enveloping every fibre of your very being. You were not just devoted to Izzy, you were a fucking acolyte, ready to fall to your knees and give him whatever he wished to take. "What do you need from me?"

"To stay down here." where I know you'll be safe. Safer. He corrected himself. There was no real 'safe' when it came to a storm of this severity. "Help anyone who needs it. Keep 'em calm and keep 'em below deck. Understood?"

With a nod, you agreed. A small smile played on your lips, as you responded with a familiar, "Yes, boss."

"Can you get to the rec room?"

"I'll manage."

And with a solemn nod, he moved to make his way down the hallway, proceeding as quickly as he could, given the violent swaying of the ship. The unmistakable lump in his throat made it difficult to breathe. Whatever conflicting emotions he was feeling, Izzy needed to push them down- deep down- into the recesses of his very being and focus on the predicament in hand. Though he was pessimistic about the outcome of the night, if there was even a sliver of hope that the crew would all live to witness another day, then he would do everything in his power to ensure you felt the sun grace you skin once more.

Hey, Izzy!" you call made him freeze in place. He had only moved a few few feet away. Had something awful already befelled you in the soace of 20 seconds? He turned with a frown painted on his face. There was still so much left unsaid between you both, that you wished to confess in that moment. Three little words dancing upon your tongue, as they clawed passed the barrier of your lips, demanding the silver-haired pirate's attention. "Please be careful."

"I promise." his vow still echoed in your thoughts for tens of minutes later, when you were finally alone.

It was now your turn to make yourself useful. With Izzy busy helping his captains, you needed to make sure you remained true to your word. Half the crew were still traumatised by their time sailing with the Kraken. Izzy was right about one thing, your friends were going to need all the compassion and support you had to offer, in order to survive this storm. Although an buoyant and intact ship would probably help matters greatly too.

You had often boasted that, you knew the Revenge like the back of your own hand. Even blindfolded, you were sure you could navigate the halls with ease and still find yourself exactly were you needed to be. But during a storm as unforgiving as this one? You were having difficulties staying upright, let alone actually arriving at your chosen destination. With no Izzy to hold on to, you were on your own and praying you did not accidentally smack your head against any of the available surfaces.

So, when you caught sight of your fellow crewmate, Frenchie, exiting one room and disappearing into the storage hold, you were quick- well, as quick as you could manage- to follow him into a slightly cramped space. "Frenchie!" you greeted him, thankful to be out of the hallway. At least in here, there were crates you could grab onto to keep your balance. "Hey, Frenchie. What are you...doing..." whatever you had planned to say next, died upon your lips, as you caught sight of the serrated silver blade he gripped tightly in his first. "Frenchie, what...what's going on?"

You were regarded with wild eyes, as the man before you, saw ghosts of trauma past flicker in and out of existence. "H-He's gonna kill us."

The world around him was not his own. He was reliving the events of a time gone by and all you could do, was try and coax him back to the present. "Who, French? Hey, hey!" you gently turned his head, so that he faced you once more. Tears of frustration spilled down his cheeks in a steady cascade, which you were quick to wipe away. "Look at me." only when he finally met your gaze, did your offer him a sympathetic smile. Your heart ached to see your friend so distraught. So lost. Goodness knows he deserved better. "Hey, what's going on, love?"

"Blackbeard. He's planning to sink the ship with all of us on it." Frenchie murmured, almost allowing himself to lean into your touch.

It was moments like these that got him through each day. Rare instances where he could show vulnerability, without the fearsome gaze of his Captain watching his every move, threatening punishment to any outward display of softness. Izzy had dared to call the environment 'poisoned'. Izzy had paid with his leg. Maybe eventually, his life. Or had he already died? It was so difficult to think straight and remember, there were too many conflicting thoughts spinning around in Frenchie's head. His whole world felt as if it were off kilter or perhaps that was just the storm rocking the ship?

"French-"

"I saw him, he's at the wheel right now!"

"Sweetheart, that's not what's-"

In an instant, his hand reached out to hold onto you, to keep you in place. To keep you near. Safe. Yes, safe, that was it. He...he was going to keep you out of harm's way. Out of the reach of Blackbeard's wrath. Ivan was dead. Izzy, too. Out of everyone else on the ship, you were the softest by far. Too soft for your own good. You needed protecting. "I'm gonna...I'm gonna stop him. You don't have to worry, (y/n)."

"French, Frenchie. Hey," "Hey, listen to me. I know w-what it might look like but it's different this time. Ed's not trying to hurt us. He's steering the ship away from the storm. Stede's up there helping him right now." "Hey French, sweetheart. Why...why don't you give me the knife."

You were losing him or maybe he was already lost. It was too difficult to tell if any of your reassurances would actually reach your crewmate in his time of anguish. You felt like a failure, having promised Izzy to make sure everyone was okay and yet, in Frenchie's time of need, you were clueless on how to bring him back from the brink of insanity. "Frenchie, it's not safe for you to be walking around with a knife. You could slip and hurt yourself." the silver shone in the low light- dangerous and ready to inflict pain. You held no fear for yourself, knowing Frenchie would never dream of hurting you. Hell, he was so hellbent on ensuring your safety, he was willing to kill Ed. "Please, love. Please, give me the-"

The rest of the sentence never fell from your lips, as the remaining lights flickered out in an instant and you felt yourself careen forwards, as the boat threatened to tip onto it's side. Sending you, Frenchie and the knife, tumbling into the surrounding darkness. I'm sorry, Iz. You thought with finality, as your consciousness was snuffed out like the flame of a candle.

"PEEEEEETE!" it was unclear who the scream came from but the sentiment was all shared amongst the crew.

It was not just 'bad', Izzy thought bitterly, as any shred of hope within him withered and died, it was downright fucked. This was it, this must have been how it ended.

"Oh god, oh god. Man overboard! Man overboard!" Stede cried out, alerting all those top deck of the situation. Much to the man's credit, though he could be a bit of a shit Captain, in that moment he at least called everyone to act. Shouting instructions left, right and centre. If there was one Stede Bonnet succeeded in, it was caring about the life and safety of his crew. Of course, he knew what to do if one of them fell over the side of the ship. "Fang, Roach, get the rescue boat ready! We need to get someone in the water to fetch him." upon noticing some of the other pirates still too close to edge for his liking, the blonde was quick to reprimand  them. "Everyone else, stay away from the railings! I can't risk having more men in the water."

Whilst Stede was one to preserve life, Ed was a little more reckless in his approach. Not one to sit around and wait for a rescue plan, he was already tying his hair from out of his face and unloading the knives and gun from upon his person. There was a chance he was going to need to swim and the extra weight of weapons would only cause him to sink. "I'm getting in the fishing boat."

"Like hell you are!" his partner reacted indignantly and with good reason. Moments like these called for strategy, not some whim-prone decision, made based purely on emotion rather than logic.

"Shockingly, I agree with Bonnet. Don't be a fucking hero, Edward!" Izzy could not tell if the nausea he was desperately trying to ignore was from the rocking of the ship or the fact he had a actually concured with Stede fucking Bonnet. Ed's reaction did not surprise the First Hand, he had played witness to his Captain's saviour complex on more than one occasion. Hell, him saving Bonnet after the twat had been stabbed, was definitely motivated by the same instinct, that drove him towards making such a rash decision now.

Of course, the two mens' protests fell upon deaf ears. Ed had made up his mind. This was not his first man overboard- probably would not be the last either- and he was co-captain, after all. Why should he not sacrifice himself for the life of his crew? "Buttons, take over from me!" he instructed, leaving his place at the wheel.

"Aye, aye, Captain, sir!"

Oh no, you don't, Stede cursed, refusing to let the great love of his life be so reckless. He could sense the guilt radiating off of Ed from a mile off. "Buttons, stay at your station." he barked, leaving no room for arguments from the mystic shipmate.

"Yes, Captain."

But why could Stede not see that he needed to do this? Ed thought, immediately picturing Lucius's face, when they told him the news that Pete was dead, that he had drowned because there were not enough hands on deck. The next question would be, where was everyone? And then, all eyes would immediately be directed towards Ed. It was his fault. It was always his fucking fault! If half the crew weren't so traumatised by his previous behaviour, then Pete..."No, Buttons-"

"I'll go."

And just like that, the bickering between the two lovers ceased in an instant. Thise two words echoed louder than any resounding crash of thunder. In that moment, Ed thought he felt his entire world shift off of it's axis. "Iz-"

While it was true that the two men had once shared a conplicated relationship that could not be conventionally defined, there was no denying that either had love for the other. It might not have been the same kind that Ed shared with Stede but it was present all the same. It was this exact love that fuelled Izzy's decision to go in place of his Captain. "Crew needs you, Edward. It's too risky."

Without Ed aboard the ship, the responsibility would fall upon Stede and Izzy's shoulders. With those kinds of odds, the crew of the Revenge would definitely be fucked. No one knew how to navigate a storm quite like Blackbeard and live to tell the tale.

Plus, as much as he hated to admit it, should anything happen to Ed, fucking Bonnet would be inconsolable. The twat had already experienced the stages of grief when Ed went to the gravy basket the first time around. No man should not have to go through that again so soon, even if it was the so called Gentleman Pirate.

Not that Izzy was doing this just for the benefit of his useless co-captain. With Ed still manning the ship, the crew would have a slightly higher chance of survival. You woukd have a chance of survival. If Izzy could not give you the kind of love and adoration you so deserved, then he would give you the opportunity to live and find that kind of companionship with someone worthy of your affections.

"Hello, is someone getting in the fecking boat or not, you've got a man drowning here, for fucks sake!" Wee John yelled, as the heaven's poured down upon them in a fit of unrestrained fury. It was getting increasingly more and more difficult to see the tumultuous waves below through the onslaught of rain.

"I am!" the First Mate returned the call, hellbent on remaining defiant until the end. "Say the order, Edward. Please. Don't fight me on this." he all but begged.

Oh, how Ed wanted to tell Izzy to 'fuck off', to curse the silver-haired pirate until his voice ran hoarse and even after that, curse him some more. How dare the First Mate be the voice of reason! How dare he...how dare he be right. "Go. Get on that fucking boat but you listen to me, First Mate Israel fucking Hands," if Izzy did not know better, he would have assumed Ed grabbing him by the lapels of his waistcoat, was a genuine threatening act but, that was just it, he did know better. He could see the fear reflected back at him in those terrified brown eyes. "I want you back on this boat in one piece, understood?" he hissed but there was no venom in his demands.

"Understood, Captain." he nodded before he was roughly pushed away.

The thudding sound of the door to the hold opening was completely lost amongst the cacophony of the surrounding chaos. It was only when Lucius called out to his Captain, that Stede noticed in horror, that the Scribe had abandoned his post. "Captain Bonnet!"

No, no, no! The blonde thought, abandoning Ed and Izzy's side, in favour of meeting the crewmate half way across the decking. The Scribe could not be up here! Not now! What if he were to notice Pete's missing presence or hear news about a man overboard, then what? Hysterics would ensue and that was the last thing the already struggling crew needed. Bless the young man's heart, he would be justified in his reaction but there was already so much going on, that needed everyone's full, uninterrupted attention. "Lucius, get back inside, now! It's too dangerous out here!"

"We need Roach, Captain! It's-"

With Stede dealing with the Scribe, the rest of the crew quickly got the fishing boat ready for it's latest voyage it the treacherous unknown. "Lower him down, lads!" the descent had begun. With one final nod of acknowledgement to his captain, Izzy readied himself of the recovery mission ahead. "Easy now!"

"Lucius, please. I need you to go back to the rec room. I can't risk..." but the unexpected sight of crimson perturbed the conscientious pirate, who was only wanting to protect Lucius's mental state in that moment. All thoughts of Pete beliw the waves, Izzy in that fragile fishing boat upon the turbulent waters, even the image of Ed willing to sacrifice his safety only moments ago, completely faded when Stede finally took in the Scribe's dishevelled state. The meaning behind the words finally fell into place. One of his crew was hurt. Badly enough that they needed the assistance of the cook/medic. "Who's blood is that?" the Captain's mind was already mentally ticking off names of those still below deck.

Jim, Archie, Oluwande, (y/n), Frenchie...

"There's been an accident in the storage area." was all that Lucius could managed to croak out. Fuck, there was so much blood and no matter what they did, it just kept spilling upon the wooden floors. The Scribe had slipped in it twice just trying to scramble towards the nearest exit. No doubt the quantity would have doubled by the time he actually managed to retrieve help.

There was no way the deck crew could spare a man, especially not with two already in the water. They needed all the help they could get, Stede rationalised. Roach woukd have to remain where he was, which coukd only have meant..."Ed!" the blonde called to his partner, not wishing to distract him for too long. The long-haired pirate momentarily tore his gaze away from the form of his First Mate, concerned that there was more trouble afoot upon the ship. Though his worry was well-placed, Stede did not want to add any more stress to the already life or death situation. "Stay up here with Buttons! There's something I need to check!" he instructed as vaguely as possible, hoping Ed would not question him too much.

Already, Blackbeard's suspiscions were heightened, glancing between the struggle taking place in the water and...wait, was that blood? He stood up in an instant, insticts screaming at him to not abandon his post and yet, how could he not? Someone else was hurt. He was no medic by any means but...but..."What's happened?!" he called back, booming voice nearly getting lost in another flare of thunder and lightning.

Who else was downstairs? He panicked, struggling to remember everyone's names. He was so much better with faces. Right, Archie, Lucius- no, Lucius was standing next to Stede. Swede? No, he was...where was he? Right, right repairing the mast rigging. Who did that leave?

As soon as Ed took that step forward, Stede knew he had to quickly intervene and implore his partner to remain at his post. The outside crew needed an adept leader, who knew how to deal with the sea's rage. Whatever was going on below deck, Stede was more than assured that he could handle it. Yes, he was no medic but he had been run through enough times to know how to perform a basic suture. "Just trust me, please?!"

And how could Ed disrgard sych a request, especially when Stede looked at him like that? That expression that begged him to implicitly trust the man he loved and ask questions later. "Always!"

And he did. He well and truly did. Ed would always trust Stede with every fibre of his being. Now and forever.

With the situation up top now being supervised by Ed, Stede returned his attention to the terrified young man. The Captain was sure the trembling was not just due to the icy wind and sheets of cool rain that pelted them from every direction. He was scared and that told Stede everything he needed to expect from the dilemma in the storage room. "Show me." he murmured, already leading Lucius towards the stairs.

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A/N: Oh no! Someone below deck has been gravely injured, I wonder who it could be...I guess you'll just have to wait until Chapter 5 to find out. See you soon!

P.S. I know I said they were going to share a bed. I just didn't say when exactly that would happen. Maybe keep an eye out for Chapter 6.

[wh0refornikolailantsov]

Prompt: “I can’t believe you dragged me into this.”

For Jesper x Reader please!!

Shoot From The Hip - Jesper Fahey

Content Warnings: Canon Compliant Threat And Violence. Gunfire. Suggestive Dialogue And Flirting. Not Beta/ Proof Read.

The gunshot makes your ears ring out, the barrel beside the two of you exploding upon impact. "Saints," you mutter, "a little close for comfort."

“I can’t believe you dragged me into this.” Jesper is trying to play off the whole situation as a joke, but it's darker than you'd like it to be in the poorly lit streets, and your both running from being shot at, and you don't even know why.

Jesper had looked like he was up to something when he pulled you out of your game of cards by a market stall, and pushed you up against the wall outside of the tavern you were supposed to be watching for Kaz. "It's nearly dusk, you better be here for a booty call," you had joked as he leaned in far too close, body pressed against yours. He had chuckled and he was so nervous that you could feel it in the dancing of his fingers against your side. "Seriously Jesper, what is with you, you're awfully close to me right now."

"Something wrong with that?" he had smirked and then the first gunshot had sounded. "Okay, maybe I need better cover."

"Jesper Fahey, I need an explanation right-," you hadn't a chance to finish before you were being shot at and Jesper was dragging you by your wrist down a back alley.

"I dragged you into this?" you snap back. "You dragged me into this."

"Oh right," Jesper nods, "I did, didn't I? My apologies." He leans around you and takes a shot of his own, you hear someone yell out but you don't move to check. Not because you trust Jesper hit the guy, but because you don't want to place your bets you won't get shot at in the crossfire.

"You going to explain to me why we are being shot at?" you demand, pulling the gun not in Jesper's hand from its holster, and familiarising yourself with it's weight. Jesper watches you, debating on if he should say anything but another gunshot a little too close to your foot makes him decide to not pick that argument. Besides there is something about you holding his gun that makes him want to make far too many jokes and lean in just too close. But he bites back his instincts to do both.

"Not really," he says, taking another shot. You grab a handful of Jesper's moss green shirt, hand curling over the pearly buttons as you do so.

"Jesper, tell me why I am being shot at," you tell him.

"Let go of my shirt, unless you plan on taking it off me," he says, and it would be easy to think Jesper has forgotten that he is in a life endangering situation, but knowing Jesper better means knowing that only makes him more likely to flirt.

"You better shut up, or I will do it for you," you tell him, standing up and twisting to shoot one of the assailants to your left, you hit him in the knee and are quick to duck back down.

"Is that a promise gorgeous?" he asks, giving you a wide grin.

"I hate you sometimes," you tell him, but your smile gives away how much you don't mean it. Jesper mocks being wounded just in time for a bullet to skim between the two of you and make a hole in his waistcoat.

"I love this outfit," he curses. You roll your eyes.

"You've worn better," you tease, grabbing him arm to continue moving.

"Tell me which ones got your attention," he says, pushing you up against the wall again, this time to duck out of the view of some of them running in your pursuit. He is too close again, you can taste the mint on his breath, feel the heat of his face close to yours. You can hear his heartbeat louder than your own.

"Have I mentioned I hate you lately?" you ask, trying to prevent your chest from heaving as you breathe. He just smirks at you and you pinch his arm. He plays off the pain as a silent joke with an overdone expression. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" he asks, looking around to assess if the danger is gone.

"All... sexy and nonchalant," you say, trying to brush him off.

"I can't help looking sexy, sweetheart, it comes naturally," he says.

"Shut up," you warn him.

"No one tells me what to do unless we are in bed-," you place a hand over Jesper's mouth. He has only a few seconds to look at you wide eyed before he realises what you were trying to keep yourselves unseen from. He hears the rattle of the wallet chain and the familiar footsteps. You recognise it too, whoever has been on Jesper's tail, they're with The Black Tips, and you know this bruiser a little too well.

"Trust me?" It's half a question and half an instruction but Jesper nods to both. You pull him in, filling the space between you, by his collar. Jesper is suprised by the kiss but barely misses a beat, sinking into it, pressing you back further against the wall, hands guiding down your shoulder to your waist, keeping you close, holding you still. Jesper is spinning, it's all explosions and fire lights, all gunshots and sparks, his heart is hammering against his chest as if it's a wall that needs to be torn down yesterday. For a moment you both forget why you're here, his fingers lacing against yours, the gentle nudges in the kiss, the drum in your chest that matches his in the race of hearts.

When you pull away Jesper struggles for a second to find his balance. You look around and whoever's was lingering before has gone now, disinterested in two lovers in an alley. You let out a little pant and a sigh of relief before you finally give into the feeling of Jespers gaze hot on you. “I just — I’m breathless, okay?" You say, "It kind of happens... whenever I’m with you." But the look doesn't cease. "Jesper now are you going to tell me what that was about?"

"You kissed me for cover?"

"Yes."

"You kissed me, like that, for cover?"

"Jesper, focus."

"How am I supposed to focus when you kiss like that?" He demands, but theres enough of that joking lightness in his voice that you recognise to ignore him.

"Jesper, tell me what that was about," you insist.

"I'll tell you anything you want to hear if you'll kiss me like that again," he says grabbing you by your shirt and pulling you closer. You think about it, you really think about it, but you just give him a grin and shake free of his hold.

"Tell me what that was about, then I'll think about it."

"You'll think about it?" He asks, gently tilting your face up by your chin, pinched between a finger and a thumb.

"I'll think about it," you repeat, your heart still running away with the force of the kiss, head still spinning.

"Okay, that's good enough for me."

A/N: Mine and Jesper's Shared Braincell's During This.

[amyriadfthings]

So, this post happened, and then this, so then I thought okay why not, then I went out to vote, and then this little thing happened @brindlelogs

The candle on his desk went out unceremoniously after rousing him with its violent flickering.

Alfred Hillinghead adjusted his glasses and got up to stretch his aching joints and find another stump in Charlotte´s dwindling supply in the kitchen. He groaned from limbs that had gone stiff and realization that age was happening to him whether he agreed to it or not.

It´s not that he had dozed off exactly; his eyes had just gone unfocused after staring at latin terms and intricate illustrations for too long, and the flame not only jolted him back to reality, but also returned with it a helpful, neverending loop of „H e n r y“ riding a merry-go-round in his head.

Whenever he stopped to think at any point in the last 48 hours they were the only letters his brain seemed to want to string together, so he did what he could to populate it instead with any information he could find on South American butterflies exhibited in private or public collections in London over the last six years.

Back by his chair, he lit the new candle and shuffled the leaflets of various entomological associations that were strewn across his desk. He hoped one of them would hold a clue that could save his partner before he could get himself into a situation he could not get out of (because Alfred wasn´t there with him, and Henry was always so damn reckless).

He never knew London had so many passionate butterfly collectors.

But then again, teaming up with Henry was inevitably going to deliver surprises and revelations of all kinds. It´s what made him feel alive more than anything these days. That and Henry´s hands on his skin. (No, he chided himself. He must not think of that now. Nor his hands on Henry´s strong body willingly, eagerly arching up to him, fond eyes never leaving him, soft lips inviting him in, always ready to receive him… no.)

Alfred jumped up again this time, so vivid was the image in his mind. So warm Henry´s skin in his memory as if it were life and not mere thoughts he was conjuring up. He was suddenly enveloped by a need so mighty that it took his breath away and made him clutch at his waistcoat. His whole body seemed to miss Henry, after only two days. And no contact for another one at least.

Another issue was the steady stream of Henry´s voice that was gone from his ear, but not his mind.

He could hear Henry tease him, how unable to keep his focus Mr. Detective Inspector appeared to be. He´d probably even ruffle his hair, Alfred thought, which would earn him his best glare (his own hand going up to the side of his head without thinking, to imitate Henry´s touch), but that would only widen Henry´s grin and he might ask what could possibly be distracting him from his oh-so important work. He might even sit on Alfred´s armrest or...

Alfred´s cheeks began to burn when he looked down at his desk and thought back to how they had said a last urgent goodbye right on this very surface two and a half days ago, even though they had already done that and more extensively the night before.

A knock on the front door rushed him back to the present. It sounded hurried, but before Alfred could even leave the study, or wonder why the mysterious caller did not use the door bell, he heard the door open and close hastily, key turning, locking them in. The only one with a key besides Charlotte and Polly would be…

„Henry! What in the-,“ Alfred took two fast strides forward as a sodden Henry Ashe (his Henry) stumbled into the room (when had it started raining?), a cut along one eyebrow bleeding profusely down his face and staining his shirt (how long has he been bleeding??)

„Change of plans,“ Henry announced with a weak, self-deprecating smile, and winced as Alfred´s worried hands fluttered over him.

Finally, Alfred held Henry in place in front of him and closed his eyes for a second. „Alright. Sit down. Tell me everything. I´ll get the bandages.“

[picturesofthegoneworlds]

Preview for Intertwined, Chapter 11

Imogen is out, but not cold. In fact, she still feels notably warmer to Laudna's touch - the back of Laudna’s frigid knuckles to the swell of Imogen’s freckled cheek registering the buzzing of life radiating from underneath the surface - though the colour is drained, hates to see Imogen resemble anything close to a mirror, but her ribcage is lowering and rising steady, frequent, yellow neckerchief bobbing, like the little bird dancing along the cabin’s stone wall that first day-

Time is cruel. Time means nothing.

counting the depths of Imogen’s breaths.

Laudna could probably count how many times her own lungs had emptied and filled since they had met.

Cruel is how this rest reads calmer than what Imogen usually gets. No tossing and turning, no furrowed brow and pleads muttered, fists clenched and feet kicking.

Imogen had shared how she was always tired.

Seeing her now…

You could give her the long sleep she wants.

Delilah never gave herself such a thing. She doesn’t grace her with a retort.

Laudna changes the moss dressing for a new bunch when the green has soaked so much red into its sponge-like form that the warm liquid starts to trickle down to the floor and to the bunched and opened fabrics of her waistcoat and wrap-dress and to Imogen's hips from where it is held, moss no longer damming from its heavy saturation.

She cleans her first, water from waterskin and fabric from her temporary front door and just a little homemade (self-made, wanderer-made) salve, just in case it makes a difference (she knows the wound is certainly too deep and open).

She has the time. Cruel. Has the time to threat about her ichor contaminating the moss acting as dressing, about it seeping through and making its way into Imogen's bloodstream. Lifts the dead-weight of Imogen's own arm (at least her dead-weight is heavier, blood and marrow and muscle.) and places her own hand to hold the moss in place, undisturbed from her rest. Laudna has the time to fret. Light. Bird-boned. Withered. Dead weight. Nothing.

Under the shelter of the outcrop of dark and volcanic looking rock.

Brittle and textured and tiny holes giving pockets for tiny roots.

Moss saturated with rain (blood)

drips

puddles

she prestidigitates the red out of Imogen's clothes before it stains

again and again

until it slows, along with the residual accumulation of rain on the rock's face.

She dries Imogen off thoroughly. Shadows in the cracks and crevices easing out like a blanket being pulled across the sky to usher in the night. The blanket advances over Imogen, shrouding her in liquid shadow that lifts back to reveal fabric and skin and hair that is dry, lightened.

Imogen's curls have frizzed, her hair fluffed and in a ruffled-up mane. Laudna recalls her weekly routine, had only seen it the one time. Is sure she will get it wrong.

She takes a clay jar of coconut oil from Imogen's rucksack - melted, in this heat, of course. Sinks her talons in until they reach fingertip, gathers with prints of skin and the cups of nail and runs her fingers through Imogen's hair like a comb. Its greases up, but slickens down, colour deepened and curls controlled. Fuck. She is pretty sure Imogen puts the oil in her hair whilst it is still wet.

She shouldn’t touch her anymore, else Imogen wake up and be even more perplexed than needs be by her current condition, think that Laudna had been playing with her like a doll, like Pâté, red string around her neck and wrist and a marionette-

She can’t have her.

(you can read the first 10 chapters here)

[jade-efflorescence]

spent some time waiting for your face (all the same mistakes)

 shine on the comets, fall in my life

henry henderson/martha mariott | rated t | chapter one

martha and henry reconnect after the world around them has changed.

ao3

Martha never thought she’d see a ballet again. How strange it is that she is wrong.

Everything tonight is startlingly new—the carved, wooden doors of the theater she stands in front of, the dance performance she is here to watch. (An exchange of Ostanian and Westalian culture after a century comes alive through a spectacle of dance! declares the papers, sensationalizing a future emerging from decades of silent war.) The hundreds of people—rich and poor, old and young, West and East—all surround her in a shared, joyful frenzy. Gold and jewelry and satin dresses float across her vision, all belonging to some giddy figure’s indulgence, all chattering eagerly about a future still uncertain in her eyes. Any uncertainty in the rest of the world is hard to tell—at least for tonight.

Martha is overwhelmed, to say the least.

For the first time in a long while, she allows herself to face her emotions. She is not a wide-eyed twelve year old anymore, nor is she a graying, steel-minded woman, holding to a resigned resolve behind friendly smiles. Instead, she is Martha Marriott, facets of both and neither, the remnants of remarkable and common scars.

The opportunities are far too great to be shadowed by what I used to be, she thinks, and walks past the doors, the tulle of her navy gown brushing the red, spiraled carpet in the foyer.

Like many of the women tonight, her dress is new for the show, though not out of her own insistence. That would be the work of one Becky Blackbell, who despite Martha’s many protests, had taken her and Anya shopping a few months ago and included a piece of finery for her as a gift. ( “It’s extra thanks for handling the brat I was when you were my governess,” she claimed, waving off Martha’s protests on the price. “And you can’t fit into that old black one forever, you know!”)

The material product was never needed, of course, but Miss Blackbell’s kindness during such a tumultuous season for a young heir was admirable, and Martha figured she’d find another time to use the dress. Though she had quite a few reservations about the state of Ostania at this point, she had a feeling that future peaceful events would happen sooner rather than later.

Martha feels too old to be taking pride in her appearance—most of her appeal has faded away with time and circumstance. Yet, she finds herself smoothing down her navy-blue skirt as she weaves through the crowded halls and fixing her braided bun as she goes up staircase after staircase. Finally she enters the theater’s balcony, where she observes people picking their way across the rows of seats on the floor. Red, scalloped wall sconces burn just above her head and the stage is closed from view by a gold-fringed curtain. She finds her aisle number from the remnants of her ticket and sits down, silently pleased at how her dress settles about her ankles.

The theater itself is magnificent: a true blend of Eastern and Western architecture. Martha doesn’t know much about the fine details, and yet she can see something of both in each gilded, sculpted pillar, each curve of the painted mural on the chandeliered ceiling. It’s quite fascinating, how—

“Martha?”

Oh.

“Henry?”

She meets his eyes for the first time in decades—the same comforting, honeycomb-brown she’s remembered all her life. The man’s waist-length hair is in its signature ponytail, a bit thinner and whiter than she recalls. He responds to her voice with a polite nod, giving her a small smile. She glances at his silk waistcoat and notices they’re wearing the same shade of blue.

“What an elegant surprise,” he exclaims, as if they had been old, connected friends all this while. Though she’s entirely aware of life being the opposite, she finds herself softening under his gaze—not quite the blushing schoolgirl, but a sliver of it inside the smile lines that crease her cheeks.

Ever the gentleman, Henry hovers a hand and himself some paces away from the chair next to her. “I hope you don’t mind if I…?”

“Of course not. Sit! I was wondering if I’d recognize another face around here.” That, at least, is a response that springs out of her mind.

“Ahh. Well, then.” He gives her a quick nod and does so, propping up his cane against the right side of his theater seat. A birch one now, she notices, polished and painted to perfection. She hears him let out a deep breath and briefly wonders how close their shoulders are.

She waves the thought away. No one said this night would be easy.

“I must say,” he starts, “that gown on you is simply marvelous. Is it Miss Blackbell’s doing? I’ve been acquainted with her long enough that I recognize some choices from her favorite shop.”

Martha nods and smooths down the skirt, focusing quite heavily on the texture of the bunched-up tulle. “One of her favorites, yes. I suppose she was feeling generous that day.”

“I’m grateful for her consideration, then.”

“Thank you.” She takes a breath, avoiding his gaze. “If you don’t mind me asking, where is Anneliese? Is she feeling alright? I know that an event like this may be a significant amount to handle.”

“Anneliese?” Henry hums. “Unfortunately, my wife passed away a couple years ago. I don’t doubt that she would have enjoyed witnessing such a moment in East-West history.”

“Oh.” Something in her chest bursts like a moth flits through darkness, drawn to a pulsing light. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I appreciate your condolences, Martha. Truly.” Though he lingers over the last syllable for little more than a second, his silence over the matter is sharper than any expressed emotion.

“On that subject, how are you doing tonight?” he asks, lowering his voice and leaning towards her as if they were sharing a secret. “I know this place may not hold pleasant memories. You are free to keep whatever you wish to express to yourself, of course. I know we haven’t been the most…well, the most in touch with each other. However, I figured it would not be elegant of me to avoid asking about your condition.”

(In the midst of the flowery vocabulary and stilted speech, Martha thinks this is the least composed she’s seen him since they met once more.)

She smiles. “Thank you for your concern. It has been a little overwhelming so far. But that isn’t necessarily bad. I suppose I’m grateful that we’ve reached a point where such a thing is possible.” Her mind wanders to olive-green Ostanian glades, to gunshots more constant than changing seasons, to the clawing, desperate feeling of a continually empty stomach, to experiencing the best and worst of humanity. “If I was never allowed to dance in a ballet, or travel the world in a time of peace, or eat in Westalian and Ostanian homes without fear, at least the young people now will experience those things.”

His responding smile takes on a small, wry twist, mirroring her own thoughts in a sense. Even after years of never speaking to one another, never meeting past the occasional student-caretaker conversation or searching for another designer item Becky lost at school, it seems that he can read her well.

“I’ve also found myself thinking that way,” he admits, the wryness in his smile fading to a soft, comforting edge. “It is quite a difficult perspective to maintain, but I’d like to think that the new generations benefit from our altered lives, even if we never see any of those results ourselves.”

“Well,” she answers, “I’d like to think tonight is where those good things begin, don’t you?”

It is worryingly fascinating, how much delight Martha finds in noting the remnants of a love affair that died decades ago, of remembering the picture of a man that died decades ago. She is all too aware of the additional sun-spots on the backs of her old lover’s hands, the weaker volume of his voice, the guarded weight his eyes have yet to be rid of. And yet, she finds she is all too ready to re-discover what makes him Henry once more, if life and loss will let them this time.

She hopes she is not reflecting the folly of youth if she imagines Henry feels the same towards her. Why else would he speak with her so, if not for a yearning for what they had? If the only outcome was a friendship revisited, that would be a delight, for Henry would always remain good company to her. If anything more…well, what would that be but a miracle on earth?

The lights dim. The crowd’s chatter disperses into whispers. Somewhere near the front, the orchestra begins tuning their instruments, mingling notes through the concert hall like the feeling of a velvet curtain.

The curtain parts, and Martha is caught up in the old and the new in a sort of dizzying, fragile dance of her own.

During the intermission of a ballet performance she never thought she’d see, Henry rests his fingertips on her own, and asks her to tea at his home, as the garden they used to meet in long ago has been completely demolished. Renovations, or some such thing, he claims.

“But that shouldn’t stop an old man and woman from catching up, right?” he adds, honeycomb eyes crinkled with fondness.

(A part of Martha wishes she was more surprised.)

[sophie1973]

Bloodstream (tell me when it kicks in)- Chapter 2

Well this was a labor of love (emphasis on labor) and it took forever but on the other end it is a whopping 7k so hopefully it makes up for it.

You can also read (and subscribe!) on AO3 HERE

. Manhattan, Astor’s residence - January 1891

Alex walks into the ballroom, humming softly. The string quartet is playing a piece he always enjoyed, even if he can’t remember for the undead life of him if it’s Schubert or Mozart.

He’s stopped by his hostess, Caroline Astor, and they exchange pleasantries. Her receptions are the most sought-after events in New York, not only for the fine dining and excellent champagne but it is also where you can be seen. Business transactions or illicit affairs are often concluded during those lavish soirees. Alex sometimes took that opportunity to find new clients - the fact he’d been hired to look after the Vanderbilts and Astor’s best interests rendered him a coveted lawyer in Manhattan and its surroundings. 

He notices Benjamin Harrison, but the President is not the reason for his presence tonight. In the 87 years since he was turned, he has entertained the thought several times of dabbling in politics, but that is a subject for another day.

His interest for tonight stands on the side of the dancefloor, looking rather regal in a black tailcoat over a grey silk waistcoat and assorted cravat. He is holding a glass of champagne. The gaslit chandeliers cast a pretty, golden reflection on his blond hair.

Lord Henry Fox Mountchristen-Windsor. Slayer Extraordinaire.

The youngest Hearst daughter seems to have cornered him, and if his face is all smiles and polite nods, Alex can sense his discomfort across the opulent ballroom.

Alex smiles and makes a beeline toward his supposedly mortal enemy.

This is going to be fun.

Since they met in that dark alley, he has thought of the slayer quite a bit over the past few weeks. If Alex is fully honest with himself, he has thought of Henry Fox for an unreasonable amount of time. Especially the way his body had been pliant and willing against his for a few minutes, and Alex didn’t even have to use any kind of compulsion. The way he smelled heavenly - not only the sweet aroma of his slayer's blood but also the clean linen, citrusy fragrance of his skin. It was only when he had pulled out that little pistol of his - a nice trick, Alex had been sloppy for a second and had forgotten he was dealing with a slayer after all - and took a step back that the vampire had recognized him. A distant memory of a cherished moment in his life, a photograph in a Drury Lane dressing room.

Alex has never met a slayer before—he doesn’t seek them out, for obvious reasons—except for Beatrice Fox. They met a couple of times and exchanged a few words, but he didn’t know her much. Of course, they both know what the other is, but they don’t seek each other’s company.

He knows he’s not the kind she’s hunting and is grateful for that. Word on the street (‘the street’ being mostly Percy since the others are not there to tell the tales anymore) is that she’s highly competent in her field.

And if he has a thing for competency, he doesn’t, however, have a (terminally) death wish. He does not doubt if they met in a back alley, she would kick his ass into the afterlife - and not the fun one. The one reserved for vampires and demons, where everything is bleak and depressing, and there’s a lot of screaming. That Special Hell also reserved for child molesters and people who talk at the theater.

Alex can tell Henry sees him arrive as his eyes widen slightly, but he schools his features just as quickly. 

Alex greets Miss Hearst just before another young man comes to claim his dance, and Alex finally finds himself alone with Henry.

“Lord Mountchristen-Windsor,” he says with a pleasant smile.

“Mr Claremont Diaz.” The tone is a bit dry, but that doesn’t deter the vampire.

“You can call me Alex, you know.”

“I’m certain we’re not sufficiently acquainted for such familiarities.”

Alex grins.

Oh yes. The British accent and posh inflections are really working for him, and so is raising the younger man’s hackles.

“Nice tie. A bit boring, though. You have something against colors?”

Henry scoffs. “Grey is a color, thank you.”

“You wore a green one at the Morgan’s last Saturday.”

“How would you know? You weren’t there,” Henry replies before pinching his lips.

Alex grins. Busted. “Oh, you noticed?  Well, I must have read it in the Home Journal.”

“No, you did not.”

Beatrice arrives, all smiles and lovely, in a pale green taffeta dress complimenting her pale skin and ginger hair.

“Mr Claremont-Diaz. How nice to see you again.”

“Lady Beatrice,” he bows, “You look stunning as always. Would you do me the honor of a dance? Unless your card is already full?” He ignores Henry’s eye rolling as Bea lets out a little laugh.

Her smile turns impish. “I’m a 27-year-old spinster, Mr Claremont-Diaz. My card is never full.”

“Well, their loss is my gain then. Can I claim the next one ?”

“Of course. Excuse me, I just noticed one of our acquaintances. I will be right back.” 

Henry takes a sip of his glass. “Your eagerness to dance with my sister is quite surprising, considering how terrified you were the last time she was in your vicinity. I remember you were rather anxious to flee with your tail between your legs.”

Alex frowns. 

“First, I don’t think you and I should discuss my tail in such a public environment,” he says, his tone slightly suggestive. He feels immense satisfaction when a lovely shade of pink invades Henry’s cheeks.

“Second, your sister might be an expert in the field, but when it comes to the dance floor, I’m the Slayer.”

Henry opens his eyes wide, his eyebrows reaching his hairline.

“That was…terrible,” he says, and Alex winces.

“Admittedly, not my best work, I agree,” he concurs, and he’s pretty sure he hears a soft snort from the blond beside him. Henry’s not looking at him, his eyes are on the crowd, but Alex can see the corners of his lips lift slightly from behind his glass as he takes another sip, and there’s a twinkle in his hazel eyes that was not there a few minutes ago.

Alex takes the opportunity to observe him. His nose is finely aquiline, with a dusting of freckles on his alabaster skin. He has a strong jawbone and lips…

Lips that are made for sin.

After 115 years of existence, Alex is comfortable enough with his sexuality to admit when another man is attractive. It took him some time (and one big crisis) to recognize he was attracted to both genders. In his defense, such inclinations would likely have had him thrown in jail (or worse) for sodomy, so he had to keep that under wraps (only June and Nora knew) and had only been able to indulge a few times in closeted establishments disguised as Gentleman’s clubs. And while it had been an exciting and satisfying experience, those quick, meaningless trysts were not really his cup of tea, especially since coffee was more his drug of choice.

So yes, he finds Henry Fox Mountchristen-Windsor attractive. Pretty is actually the adjective that comes to mind.

There’s a mole on the corner of his right upper lip, and Alex fights the sudden urge to lean and put his mouth there and see for himself if these plush lips are as soft as they look. 

Henry notices his gaze and frowns. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Alex clears his throat, shaking himself out of the stupor induced by the other man’s handsome face.  

“No.”

“Then stop staring. It is annoying.”

To this day, Alex doesn’t know what prompted him to answer like this. “Your face is annoying.”

Henry throws him an incredulous look. “Oh my God. Are you five?”

Beatrice returns at that moment, saving Alex from responding and making an even bigger fool of himself. 

He came here to push Henry’s buttons, but his conversation with Henry left him the most bemused. 

He turns and smiles at Bea, so thankful for her interruption that he thinks of sending her flowers the next day. This will undoubtedly be an unprecedented event in the history of vampire/slayer relationships.

And vampires and slayers should not have any kind of relationship.

He would do well to remind himself of that.

****

As Alex and Bea make their way to the dance floor, Henry lets out a breath. Is he relieved or disappointed that the vampire put some distance between them? He’s not really sure. 

What he’s sure of is that he’s perplexed.

The man is deeply unnerving.

He’s also deeply, deeply attractive. He’s one of the most - alright, let’s be honest, the most gorgeous man Henry has ever seen. 

Which is the crux of the problem. 

When in doubt, Henry tends to turn to his best mate, who, conveniently, is also a vampire. So there is that.

He spots Percy amidst a group of young heiresses and a few gentlemen, a likely place for him to be. His buoyant mood, cheerfulness, and eccentric clothing - tonight he’s wearing a fuschia cravat which is clashing with his ruby red waistcoat, but somehow he makes it work- makes him the center of attention, and he thrives on it. The fact that he is wealthy doesn’t hurt either, obviously. And that nobody knows he is a vampire, and that one of his most significant accomplishments has been opening shelters first in London, then now in New York, which welcome newly turned vampires and werewolves and help them adjust and adapt to their new life so they don’t become soulless monsters roaming the streets at night in search of human preys. 

To his great despair, he can’t save them all, and some don’t want to be saved, so that’s where Bea and Henry come in by trying to keep the streets as safe as possible. 

Percy notices him hovering and excuses himself to his little gaggle of admirers.

“Fancy meeting you here, poppet. How are you?” 

Henry doesn’t bother with idle chat. “Can we talk?”

Percy smiles, curiosity and mirth lightening his dark eyes. “So serious. What’s going on?”

“Shall we go on the terrace?”

“Hazza, dearest, it is January in New York. Do you know what the cold does to my complexion? We are absolutely not going outside. I’m sure we can find a nice, empty room in this big-ass mansion.”

A few minutes later, they are sitting in a small drawing room with a glass of brandy.  

“So? I’m all ears. Spill.”

Henry sees no reason to beat around the bush, so he asks, “What do you know about Alexander Claremont-Diaz?”

Percy’s eyes widen in interest. “Why do you think I know anything about him?”

“Bea told me you did. And well, you’re both vampires with ties to the High Society.”

Percy rolls his eyes at that. “That doesn’t mean we gather every Monday afternoon and gossip over blood and crumpets. This reminds me, I ordered a box of Twinings Earl Grey for you. It should arrive any day now, assuming the ship hasn’t sunk.”

Henry perks up at that because he loves his cup of Earl Grey in the morning (and in the afternoon, and at night), and the concoction they sell here pretending it’s tea is simply dreadful. 

“That’s very sweet of you, Percy. Thank you. Now answer my question.”

A sigh, and then, “He’s a lawyer, but I’m sure you already know that. He was turned at the very beginning of the century. He has a sister, June, who was turned along with him. She lives in Washington with her partner. From what I heard, he’s a decent bloke. He doesn’t kill to feed.” He takes a sip of his brandy. “That is it.”

Henry has known his best friend long enough to know that Percy is not completely honest with him, but he probably has his reasons, so he doesn’t push. He also braces for the inevitable following inquiry.

A sly grin lifts the corner of Percy’s lips. “Why do you ask?” 

And the thing is, Henry doesn’t know why he asked. He doesn’t know what it is about Alex Claremont-Diaz that is so appealing - outside of the obvious- that he has been at the center of Henry’s thoughts all these weeks. He knows it’s not compulsion - slayers can’t be compelled - so his interest (for lack of a better word) in Alex is of his own volition.

It also goes against every belief his grandmother tried to ingrain in his brain. His duty was to kill every creature that was not human indiscriminately, not caring that some of them didn’t ask for their life to be turned upside down and were victims in their own rights.  

Thanks to his parents, these beliefs never took root. If they had, Alex would be dust scattered in the wind, either at his hand or Bea’s. So would Percy, for that matter.

Thankfully, Percy is still here, and so is Alex, with glossy dark curls, whisky eyes, and a wicked, gorgeous smile, and Henry doesn’t know what to do with himself.

What to do with these feelings. He’s only met the man twice, for bloody sake. Henry’s not a blushing virgin. He’s had a few discreet and short-lived relationships, although never really anything coming close to what he read in his beloved books. He knows these are not precisely reasonable, realistic expectations, but he won’t settle for anything less. By loving men, he had already restricted himself to a life of secrets and clandestine meetings, so if he had to do it, he would do it with someone he could give his whole heart and soul to. 

Until his grandmother found out one day and called him some terrible slurs he had been too ashamed to repeat to anyone. 

After that, he had not dared entertain any idea of seeing someone, either in London or since they had arrived in New York. And after everything that had happened, it was much safer for everyone if he forwent any foolish notion of romance anyway. 

He focuses back on Percy’s friendly face and answers honestly, “I’m not sure.”

“Well, let me know when you are. In the meantime, I must mingle and persuade some billionaires to divest themselves of a few dollars. Are you coming by the shelter tomorrow?” In addition to the shelters, Percy also has an orphanage and a few other charities, and he splits the generous donations he gets between those and the shelters. 

“Yes. I promised Eloise I would bring her a copy of Sense and Sensibility. And you asked me to look over that document for the notary?”  

Percy rises from his chair with a fond smile. “Dear Haz, what would I do without you? I’ll see you tomorrow then.” He presses Henry's shoulder as he walks to the door before turning around. “You know, I’m not sure what goes on exactly in your pretty head regarding Alex Claremont-Diaz, but…maybe he’s worth getting out of that solitary tower you like to lock yourself in. I know the odds are stacked against you, considering the circumstances and the whole slayer/vampire situation, but when you think about it…you two could be making History. Even if nobody ever hears about it.”

Henry rolls his eyes. If he let Percy take charge, he would plan his and Alex’s secret wedding within the next 48 hours.  “I don’t even know if he’s into men,” he points out.

Percy winks. “Only one way to find out, darling.”

*****

Manhattan, Hearst’s Residence - March 1891

“Oh, for God’s sake, Henry, go home.” 

Henry blinks at Bea, surprised at her snapping even though he knows he deserves it.

But today is the worst day of the year. So he can be in a sour mood. He’s allowed.

He’s allowed to miss his dad and feel angry about the circumstances and how they unfolded. How they had to upend their lives because of his bigoted, evil grandmother and knowing she would get away with it because they couldn’t prove anything. They had to leave Martha and Philip behind to face her wrath, and there was no straightforward way to contact them afterward. The telegraph was still unreliable for transatlantic communication, and they could not use the telephone to call England.

He should have stood his ground and stayed home tonight, but Bea had insisted, and he foolishly thought it would help, especially if it meant coming across a certain someone—who, unfortunately, was not there.

So yes, Henry has good reasons to be mopey. 

“I’m not leaving you alone. What about your reputation?” he replies, sarcasm tainting his voice.

“I don’t give a fuck about my reputation,” Bea mutters, a bit too loudly though, as it earns her a scandalized look from a matron nearby. At least it makes Henry genuinely smile for the first time that day. “Give or take a few years, we’ll move elsewhere, and nobody will remember us.”

“Or Gran will find a way to dispose of us.”

Bea let out a small chuckle. “Cynicism doesn’t become you, brother, dear.”

“Yes, because I’m generally such a ray of sunshine. Oh hello! Lovely to see you,” he greets an older couple who stays and chats with them for a few minutes. Once they are gone, Bea turns to him.

“Just go to the library; take some time.” She puts her hand on his arm, her face softening. “I thought this would be a good idea. A distraction of sorts from this dreadful day. I don’t think Dad would want us to stay sulking at home every year.” 

He kisses her forehead, uncaring if the display of affection doesn’t follow ballroom etiquette.

“You are right, and I’m the annoying git here. I’ll go to the library. Let me know when you’re ready to leave, alright?”

Bea nods. “What do you want me to tell Mr Claremont-Diaz if he arrives?”

He frowns. “Why would you tell him anything? He’s not going to ask anyway. We are mere acquaintances.”

“I saw you talk a few times over the past few weeks.”

“Small talk. We barely exchanged a few words. Mostly because he was his usual insufferable self. We’re not best mates, and we also tried to kill each other, remember?”

“Well, that was that one time, and it didn’t seem like you tried very hard, but alright. It was just a question.”

Henry shakes his head at his sister, wondering if she’s in cahoots with Percy to bring him and Alex together for frankly incomprehensible reasons.  

“He won’t ask,” he repeats, wondering if he’s trying to convince Bea or himself. 

***

Alex spots Beatrice Fox as soon as he enters the ballroom. He grabs a glass of champagne from a passing servant and gulps it. He had worked late tonight and almost didn’t come, but the vision of blond hair gleaming under crystal chandeliers and smooth pale skin made him change his mind. Nothing of this was reasonable, and he had made a list the other day about the pros and cons of Pursuing an Actual Vampire Slayer When You are a Vampire. The pros list was an ode to Henry’s physical attributes - he doesn’t know him enough to judge his character, although he seems like a kind man if a little uptight. Then again, he’s English, which probably explains it.

The cons list has, so far, remained empty. 

To his dismay, he doesn’t see anyone fitting that description. However, if Beatrice is there, Henry must be around unless she came with a chaperone.

There is only one way to find out.

It’s not like he wouldn’t have approached her anyway. He had the opportunity to talk more with her over the last few weeks, and she’s truly lovely.

Outside of his tiny family circle, he doesn’t really care for many people, especially non-vampires. It is complicated to form an attachment to people who will start to wonder after a few years why you don’t age or will die on you after a few decades, leaving you alone once again. He knows it’s not a popular opinion, but he doesn’t see the whole ‘eternal life’ thing as an upside.

But he genuinely likes Beatrice. Even though she’s one year younger than him, she gives off that big sister feeling he has missed since June moved to Washington. So out of all the young ladies in attendance, she’s the one he will always ask to dance - never more than once, though, lest people start to talk.

She welcomes him with a warm smile, and they share some idle conversation before he finally finds the courage to ask in what he hopes is a rather inconspicuous manner. 

“Is your brother in attendance tonight?”

Beatrice looks at him with a mischievous smile as if she expected the question. 

“Do we need to have a conversation about my brother, Mr Claremont-Diaz?”

And if there’s no actual warning in her voice, Alex is smart enough to know he must be careful about what he’ll say next. 

“Please call me Alex,” he drawls with his most charming smile. Of course, she doesn’t fall for it, so he continues, “Not if it involves a pointy stick of some kind.”

She laughs.” Oh, Alex,” and he can’t help but grin. “If I wanted you dead, make no mistake, you would not be here dancing with me tonight. Which would be a shame as you are quite an accomplished dancer.”

To his utter embarrassment, he feels a traitorous blush invade his cheeks at the praise.

“And yes, Henry’s here. I believe he’s in the library. Today is the anniversary of our father’s death, and I dragged him here thinking the distraction would do us some good, but I’m afraid it was a mistake.”

Alex remembers quite well the day he learned about Arthur Fox's death three years ago and the sorrow he had felt at the news, especially considering the circumstances. He could only imagine how hard it must be for his children.

“In that case, maybe I should leave him alone.”

Beatrice stays silent for a minute, a pensive look on her face.  “You know, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…You might be the distraction he needs.” 

Alex chooses not to dwell on the feelings these words elicit in his chest. “What about you?”

“I will be perfectly fine, but I appreciate your concern.”

As the dance ends, he lets go of her and wishes her a good evening, to which she replies with a knowing smile. 

Alex is left wondering what to do. Yes, he had come tonight hoping to see Henry and exchange a few words, even some teasing, because he loves nothing more than to see the other man squirm a little bit (and also the lovely pink shade tainting his cheeks.) 

The library door is ajar, so he pushes it lightly, finding it mostly dark except for the golden glow created by the flames dancing in the fireplace. The occasional pop and hisses of the burning wood are the only sound in the room, giving it a comfortable and intimate atmosphere. Henry is sitting in front of the fire in a wingback chair with a contemplative look.

“Good evening,” Alex says softly, trying not to startle the man as he leans against the doorframe.

Henry blinks and looks towards the door. “Claremont-Diaz. Good evening.”

“Your sister told me you’d be here. And the door wasn’t closed, so…”

“You asked her?”

“Yes? Did I overstep ?”

“Damn, I’m never going to hear the end of it,” Henry mutters, and Alex pulls himself from the doorframe. This was a mistake.

“She told me about today. So if you wish to remain alone, just say the word, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Henry looks at Alex again, really looking at him this time as a fleeting emotion Alex can’t decipher crosses his face.

“I can be alone with you here,” he answers, and Alex is not sure how to take it, but it is not a dismissal, so he walks into the room and settles himself in the chair next to the young man before standing up again and pouring two glasses of brandy. He can’t speak for Henry, but he needs something to occupy his hands.

He sits back down, handing the glass to the other man, who takes it with a small ‘thank you’ before Alex takes a sip of his own and leans back in the chair. 

“You know what I said that first night about seeing your father in London and admiring him. It was true. I met him in person once and got his signature on a photograph. It was one of the best days of my life. He was really exceptional.”

“Yes, he was,” Henry breathes out, his eyes not leaving the fireplace. Moisture lingers on the corner of his eyes, and he blinks a few times as if trying to ward off the unwanted tears. Alex doesn’t say anything more, letting him set the pace of the conversation.

Which is why he’s surprised by Henry’s following words.

“How did you become a vampire?”

“Really? You want to talk about me?”

“Was my question not clear?”

“Ok, but please remember you asked for it. I’m a lawyer, so I need to talk for a living, especially in a courtroom, but outside of it, I’m often encouraged to tone it down. I have some sort of mental instability, not exactly my fault then, and you would think that when you become a vampire, that shit would disappear, but well, it doesn’t. So here we are.”

Henry’s mask of grief is replaced with one of interest, and warmth fills Alex’s chest. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Alright then. 1803, we were living in Texas with my family. My father was a politician. Fighting for his people’s rights, especially slavery and education. That did not sit well with a lot of people. One night, we were all at home, having dinner, when people barged in and shot us all. My parents died instantly, but June - my sister- and I were shot in the shoulder for her and the arm for me, so we remained alive for a while.” He stops at the complete look of horror on Henry’s face.

“Your parents died in front of you?”

“I…I didn’t see them die because I was unconscious myself, but I saw them both being shot in the chest just before I was, so I knew that there was no chance of them surviving that. But then I was sure I would follow them anyway.”

“That is…That is terrible. I only heard about what happened to my father, and it’s been haunting me for three years, so I can only imagine…”

“It was 88 years ago. Or it will be in June. So, I had some time to grieve. I still have nightmares sometimes, though.”

Alex shivers because nightmare is putting it mildly. It has been years of waking up with his heart thundering in his chest, its erratic rhythm reverberating through his entire body, his every nerve electrified with the remnants of terror that refuse to dissipate, and trying to catch his breath, feeling like he was drowning. Sweat coating his skin, leaving it clammy against the sheets. For the longest time, June had been there, then Nora as well, to help him through the residual panic and for reality to settle around him again.

But now June was in another city, and he had to navigate the nocturnal terrors alone. He was grateful they had receded slightly over the past few years but couldn’t sleep without a light on.

The irony of being a vampire afraid of the dark was not lost on him.

“Anyway, one of my dad’s close friends was there with us that night. His name was Rafael Luna. He was a vampire. When he saw that June and I were still alive, he turned us and took care of us while we were adjusting.”

He remembers the first time he woke up, the hunger and cravings, the brutal reminder of his parent’s death but no time to dwell on it because they had to learn how to feed -on people - and control the urge just to rip the throats they were feeding on before mastering compulsion and let people go. Needless to say, if June caught on to it relatively quickly, his own experience was a bit more complicated, as his vampire-heightened senses paired with his mentally challenged brain definitely made his undead life incredibly difficult.

It took him more than a year to find his footing, but he did it, making his enhanced hyperfocused mind work to his advantage for once. Also, failing both June and Raf was not even an option.

He stops talking then, taking a sip of the glass he had forgotten in his hand. He expects Henry to look bored, disgusted, or worse, with a pitiful look on his face for the intellectually deficient vampire.

Except he’s not. He’s looking at Alex with undivided attention as if Alex had just told him the most captivating story he had ever heard, like those swashbuckling novels Alex used to read when he was younger. 

Alex’s stomach flutters in quite an unusual way.

“And you’ve been a lawyer all this time? You’ve never wanted to try something else?”

“No. I’m good at it. But I never stopped and thought of what else I could do.”

“It’s not too late. You kind of have eternity in front of you.”

“Yeah…Eternity is a fucking long time, though,” he says with a laugh tainted with some bitterness. Upon seeing Henry’s surprised look, he deflects the conversation.  “So, Henry…I assume you won’t use my vampire sob story against me ?”

Henry's lips twitch softly for the first time since Alex entered the room.

“I don’t know if you ever heard this,” the young slayer responds soothingly, “but firelight is magic. It makes time stand still. When you put out the lamps and sit by the glow of the firelight, there are no more rules. You can say what you want, do what you want, and be what you want. When the lamps are lit again, time starts again. Everything you said or did is forgotten. More than forgotten, it never happened.”

Silence falls around them comfortably, and for once, Alex doesn’t feel the need to talk to break it. That being said, he disagrees partly with Henry. He doesn’t want to pretend that their time together never happened. 

“You have a way with words, your Majesty,” he finally says, his smile half playful, half admiring.

The slight twitch of Henry's mouth melts into a full smile. “We’re not even related to the Queen, Alex.”

His breath catches in his throat as a swarm of butterflies invade his stomach, and he grins. “Wait, did you just…”

Henry rolls his eyes.“Don’t make it a thing. Claremont-Diaz is kind of a mouthful.”

“Oh, sweetheart…You have no idea.”

The ‘yet’ is left unsaid but hangs heavily between them if Henry’s pink cheeks are any indication.

There is a knock on the door, and Bea appears with two coats hanging from her arm.

“Well, you too look cozy,” she remarks as she walks toward Henry, pushing back a lock of blond hair from his forehead. “And you certainly look less mopey.”

Henry huffs but gives her a fond look. As Alex watches their interaction, he’s reminded of the vacancy in his heart.

He really misses June.

“You’re ready to go?” Henry asks his sister.

“Ready if you are,” she answers with a questioning look towards Alex, who gets up.

“I suppose it’s time for me to go home as well. Lady Beatrice, Henry.”

“Good night, Alex,” Beatrice replies.

“Thank you,” Henry adds with a genuine smile, and Alex’s heart beats a little faster as he realizes something has definitely shifted between them. 

Fuck. 

****

They wait outside the mansion for their carriage, and Henry shivers slightly in the crisp April evening. Even though he’s glad to go home, he regrets the warmth of the library fire. But most of all, he regrets the warmth of golden brown eyes and heartfelt conversation. 

Bea takes his arm. “So it wasn’t such a bad evening after all,” she says softly.

He smiles. “No, it wasn’t.”

“I miss him,” she whispers suddenly, and Henry presses a kiss on her forehead.

“I think he would be proud of us,” Bea continues, her tone wistful.

“He has always been proud of us.”

“Yes, but of what we have accomplished since we got here—with Percy, the shelters, and our life.”

The carriage arrives, and the groom hands the reins to Henry. He helps Bea climb into the vehicle. “I think he would be especially proud of you and the way you’re taking care of me.” He certainly wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Bea’s maternal ways and sisterly affection. She had always been the lighthouse driving him home, helping him navigate the pitfalls, and bringing him safe on the other side.

“Oh, that’s not exactly a chore. You’re low-maintenance.”

Henry shakes his head with a smile as he sits beside her. He clicks his tongue to get the horses walking and bumps his shoulder with hers.

“I love you, you know.”

She grins. “I love you too. It’s not that late, though. Want to go kick some vampire’s ass?”

Henry’s laugh resonates in the dark street.

****

Paris, France - Champ de Mars - April 1900

“Are you seriously telling me that you hunt vampires and other night creatures on a semi-regular basis, but you’re scared of getting into an elevator?”

The iron structure stands proudly against the Parisian sky, but Henry eyes it with a wary look. It is a construction wonder, and Henry heard that its A-shaped form was an homage to a woman named Adrienne Gustave Eiffel had been in love with. He had no idea if that rumor was true, but the fairy-tale dreamer in him liked the idea.

That doesn't mean he wants to climb on the damn thing.  

“Not scared, it’s just…It’s very high.”

Alex grins. “300 meters to be exact, but we’re only going to the second floor, which is 115 meters high.”

Henry frowns, trying to stall a bit more. Not that he has any chance of succeeding. Once Alex has set his mind on something, it is an impossible task to distract him. Henry doesn’t even try. “But isn’t it closed at this time?”

Alex smiled smugly. “I have an arrangement with Gustave.”

“Darling, I’m pretty sure you’ve never met Gustave Eiffel.”

“Ok, no. But I know the next best person - the guy in charge of the visits. With a little convincing and a good wad of French money, he was extremely cooperative. I heard the sunset is lovely from up there. You’re coming, baby?”

Henry sighs, unable to deny him anything, least of all a little elevator ride, especially if it is to watch the sunset together from the second floor of the Eiffel Tower. And the excitement on Alex’s face is impossible to deny.

His vampire is nothing if not a big romantic at heart, and Henry loves him and his sometimes crazy ideas all the more for it.

They have been visiting the Paris Universal Exhibition all day, so finishing it like this is tempting.

He follows Alex to the entrance. Right now, people are leaving, and they are the only ones going upstairs. When the doors are closed, and the elevator ascends, Alex grabs Henry by the waist and pushes him against the wall. They haven’t had the opportunity to be alone all day, and Henry misses his touch.

The vampire kisses him first before letting his mouth wander along his jaw and neck, and Henry lets out a breathy sigh when he feels Alex’s fangs grazing his neck right where it is the most sensitive. His cock twitches with interest as he brings his hand to the nape of Alex’s neck, burying his fingers in the soft curls.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, darling,” he warns, panting softly. 

The suggestive smirk on Alex’s face doesn’t help to calm him down. “Oh, but I intend to finish it, if not now, within the next two hours at least.”

Henry shivers at the delicious promise, and his other hand rests on his cheek. He softly kisses the corners of Alex’s mouth, where his canines are still apparent. Alex retracts his fangs, and they exchange another searing kiss, a prelude to more engaging activities in the sanctity of their hotel room.

When they step out on the second floor, they are alone. Henry spots a round table with a bucket holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

“What are you up to?” he asks Alex, melting at his partner’s charming antics.

Alex shrugs. “I just wanted a romantic interlude with my favorite slayer.”

Henry leans and gives him a soft kiss on the cheek before Alex pulls him to the rail, and they take in the stunning view in front of them.

It has been a sunny, cloudless day, and as dusk settles, they can still see all the way to the Sacré-Coeur, behind which the sun is slowly descending, illuminating the city in hues of reds and oranges, blending seamlessly with the fading blue of daylight. Much closer is the Orsay train station and the Seine and its tranquil waters, and it fills Henry with a plenitude he only experiences when close to the wonderful man next to him.

Henry takes Alex’s hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles and trying to convey his love and gratitude.

“So, was it worth it?” Alex asks with a knowing smile.

“Absolutely worth it, my love.”

Alex opens the bottle of champagne and pours two glasses, handing one to Henry. 

“To us,” Alex says, and they clink their glasses. He takes a deep breath and puts his glass back on the table. He bites his lower lip and straightens his waistcoat.

Henry raises his eyebrow at his apparent and sudden nervousness. “Something on your mind, dear?”

Alex chuckles and nods. “Actually, I had an ulterior motive for bringing you here.”

“Oh?” 

He takes one of Henry’s hands, and Henry looks down. He always loved the contrast of his smaller, pale hands against his companion’s larger, brown ones.

Alex clears his throat. “So. We are both men.”

Henry lets out a chuckle. Not what he was expecting. “An astute observation, darling.”

Alex scoffs. “Yes, not my best introduction.”

“But still better than ‘On the dancefloor, I’m the slayer,” Henry teases him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Hen,” he groans, even though his eyes flicker with amusement.  “That was nine years ago. You’ll never let me live this down, will you?”

“No,” Henry says, sipping his champagne, enjoying the effervescence and fruity taste on his tongue. It doesn’t provide the same euphoria as Alex’s kisses, but it is a close second.

“So, as I was trying to say before being rudely interrupted,” Alex continues, and Henry giggles, “It’s been nine years of pure, unadulterated happiness with you.”

Alex’s features become more serious, his gaze determined as his eyes cling to Henry’s, and Henry sobers up, feeling the atmosphere around them changing, a sudden apprehension and anticipation building at the bottom of his stomach.  

Alex entwines their fingers together, and the touch makes Henry’s blood thrum through his veins. Alex picks up on this as his eyes darken with both lust and hunger.

“I’m not as good with words as you are. I can tell you that I love you like I have done every single day over the past nine years, but those words don’t even begin to cover the magnitude of my feelings for you. It kills me that I can’t tell the world that you’re mine. Fuck, I can’t tell anyone,” he laughs brokenly. “But I need you to know that I’m yours. You can have it all.”

He fishes into his pocket and opens his hand, revealing two simple gold bands, and Henry gasps as a rushing noise fills his ears, and his heart jolts with elation.

“This ring,” Alex continues with a watery smile, “is a promise that you’ll always be loved and you’ll never have to face the world alone.”

He shows the ring to Henry, and through blurry tears, Henry can see the word ‘Alex’ engraved inside. The exhilarating feeling of Alex slipping the ring on his finger is unparalleled to anything he’s experienced. His heart hammers so hard in his chest that he’s afraid it is going to burst out and bleed all over the iron floor of the Eiffel Tower.

“I give you my love, I give you myself, the good, the bad, and what’s yet to come,” Alex says reverently. And if this is the closest to wedding vows they will ever get, Henry considers himself the luckiest man in the world.

With trembling fingers, he takes the other ring, engraved with ‘Henry,’ and gathers his thoughts, as Alex deserves nothing less than words as heartfelt as his own.  

“You are a menace,” he starts, and they both laugh at the familiar barb, which has become more of a term of endearment over the years.“I should have known you would pull something like this when you insisted on coming up here because your heart is so huge and giving, and I don’t know what I did to deserve a wonderful man like you. But I will do everything I can to be worthy of that love. I promise to support you during our shining moments and weakest hours. I’ll be listening to you for however long it takes for you to be heard. You are my forever.” 

He slips the band on Alex’s finger. “I give you my love, I give you myself, the good, the bad, and what’s yet to come,” his voice cracking as he echoes Alex’s vows. 

Alex takes his head between his hands, sealing their vows with a kiss as the sun disappears on the horizon, enveloping them in a comforting penumbra auspicious for exchanging tender words and promises of forever.    

Henry loves this man. He loves him with all his heart and soul, and he will fight anything and anyone to ensure this precious, priceless bond between them remains unspoiled and intact. And if he loves to use his words, he’s also eager to show Alex how deep his devotion runs.

It’s in the way his fingers map Alex’s body as they are back in their hotel room, perusing it like a familiar ground he knows by heart but never tires of exploring over and over again.

It’s in every gasp, moan, and laugh escaping Alex’s throat as Henry makes it his duty to find every sensitive spot, every nerve-ending lighting his body on fire before crashing together in mind-shattering pleasure.

It’s in the way that, once the passion slows down and the afterglow settles, Henry lingers above Alex, their hips still connected, and as Alex grabs his side softly to pull out, Henry makes a protesting noise, unwilling to let go yet. 

“No. Stay.”

He leans down to pepper kisses on Alex’s jaw and cheeks, blowing softly at his eyelashes and combing his fingers in his sweat-damp curls, eliciting an appreciative growl from a fucked-out, blissful Alex underneath him.  

“I just want to worship my big bad vampire husband,” Henry whispers in his ear and a bright smile blooms on Alex’s face. Henry chuckles softly as he feels the cock inside him stir with renewed interest at his words. He wriggles a bit, enjoying the feeling of Alex still nestled deep.

Alex’s arms wrap around his body, pressing their chest together, uncaring of the mess on their stomachs.

“I love you, baby,” he whispers against Henry’s lips, and they lose each other in another soft, slow kiss.

If it all ends tomorrow, Henry thinks dazedly, the look in Alex’s adoring eyes, when he gazes up at him will make everything he’s ever done worth it.  

Credit where credit is due :

1. I'm a Whedonverse girl through and through, so the Special Hell quote is from Firefly (You can't stop the signal)

2. The firelight quote is from the movie 'Firelight' with Sophie Marceau (which would make a great FP AU)

3. A special thanks to my beloved Robs @magentarivers whose lovely art inspire me (again!) for the very last scene of this chapter. It can be found here