#that waistcoat was holding on for its LIFE

[aintnoloveintheheatofthesun]

Upon reflection

This movie is so subtle and so brilliant. Because of their interactions, lyrics and clothing I am convinced that Sammie and Pearline are married

Sinners blends several genres. Namely coming-of-age, period drama and musicals. All of these genres feature prominent love stories. This film is no different.

The Juke Joint is a place of fellowship and community. It is packed with Sinners who need reprieve and comfort. In this place, we reckon with death, resurrection and baptism.

On the way to Clarksdale Station, the best man (Stack) has already given Sammie some brothely advice on how to please a woman. Once they get there, Stack introduces Preacher Boy to a man who would be willing to officiate the ceremony.

Delta Slim is an elder that they all respect, he is the officiant. He has to be the one that weds them because Sammie's dad would be repulsed by the venue, the relationship and their love of secular music.

When Pearline and Sammie first speak, she doesn't tell him her last name (because it's about to change). She also gives him her hand (in marriage!!!), letting him know that she is interested

Later on, in this scene where its just Slim and Sammie on stage, he is teaching Sammie about the power and responsibility that comes with this choice. He addresses the congregation before welcoming the groom to the front.

'I Lied to You' is a proposal. Preacher Boy is at his most vulnerable, baring his soul, hoping the love of his life will know what she means to him.

The resonator guitar is the ring. It is the only thing Sammie is holding as he proposes to her.

Pearline spends most of this song dancing for Sammie and Sammie spends a good couple of verses, just singing to the love of his life (as we see in the End Credit Scene flashback)

"Somebody take me in your arms" is not just asking for companionship, but acceptance. Kind of like "take me as your lawfully wedded husband" without the legal bits cause you know Pearline already has a man

In the back room, Pearline tears off her scarf (her veil) and kisses Sammie

Sammie goes down on to his knees as a declaration of his feelings and a testament to his loyalty. Pearline accepts the gesture (the I do moment)

Of course, Pearline is nervous on their wedding night (the 'hold on, Preacher Boy' 'let me wash up first') but Sammie is a man in love so naturally, he reassures her.

The ceremony is a small, private affair. With only a few witnesses (Stack's nosy ass for Sammie and Grace for Pearline)

Moments later, we see them both looking proud and joyful with Pale, Pale Moon

This is their reception. Everyone is thriving, celebrating love and new opportunities. It is a joyful, vibrant affirmation of their love. In a cut scene, Sammie is admiring his woman as she shines on stage. There is nothing but adoration in his eyes. He found a wife, and a good thing (Proverbs 18:22)

From some angles Pearline even looks like she is wearing a whitish/silver dress. Just like a bride

Sammie is dressed like a groom with a smart shirt and a waistcoat (in contrast to the overalls Cornbread wears).

The father-son conflict comes back into play with the wedding metaphor. Jedediah doesn't approve of the Blues, let alone Pearline so when Preacher Boy walks back into the church Sunday morning - his father's first priority is getting him to renounce his vows.

Once again going back to resonator guitar = Sammie's wedding ring, because Sammie refuses to leave it behind despite his father's pleas.

In the space of two days, we see these two meet, flirt, get engaged, have their first kiss, get married and enjoy their reception.

Sammie sees Pearline when Jedediah mentions his heart because in this life and the next, that's his baby. He refuses to swear off the blues because that is what bonds them. .

These vows are yet another reason why Sammie isn't interested in Stack's offer. Why would he want to walk the earth as a vampire when the love of his life is already gone?

Get into it:

The Juke Joint is the church

In that scene, their ancestors and descendants are present for this milestone

Delta Slim is the officiant

In the back room, Sammie gets down on his knees. Pearline tears the scarf off (her veil). This is their wedding ceremony. They kiss and walk away forever changed.

Stack and Grace are the witnesses (voyeurs, really)

Pale, Pale Moon is their reception.

The lyrics show that they are equally yoked.

Sammie's dad disapproves of this marriage, which is why he is so desperate for Sammie to repent the next day.

Putting down the guitar would be like taking off his ring. Swearing off the blues would be like renouncing his vows

Jedediah doesn't see that this is a married man standing before him. One who plans to honour his late wife for the rest of his days.

TLDR - We watch Sammie and Pearline fall for eachother, say their vows and kiss. Their loved ones are present for the proposal, ceremony and reception. They are married.

[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!

[hivemuthur]

A Deer and a Man - Ch.2.

viktorxfemale!reader mature (overall explicit)

Ch.1. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6.

word count: 5,9K

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family’s wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author’s note: This fic has some special hold on me, it made me sit down by the piano this week. Also, I've committed a playlist, you can check it out on Spotify. Super thanks as usual to @mithrava for consulting on regency historical accuracy and to @rennethen who beta reads!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You hate to admit it, but you do anticipate. The last time you had awaited something with such feeling was when your mother departed to tend to your ailing aunt—or rather, to command her staff when she could no longer do so—and you and your sisters had run barefoot through the house, singing The Unfortunate Rake at the top of your lungs, much to your father’s amusement.

Now, dressed and polished from head to toe by your ever-diligent Peggy—though not without a spirited debate regarding the appropriate amount of rouge upon your cheeks—you allow yourself to drift into thought, chin propped upon your hand as you gaze wistfully at the passing landscape through the carriage window.

"Why do you look as though you are being led to the gallows?" comes the voice of your sister—the middle one. You glance up to find her brows lifted almost to her hairline and your mother wearing a look of mild reproach. "Should you not be overjoyed?"

"I am quite overjoyed, Kitty, but I thank you for your concern," you reply flatly, rolling your eyes.

Kitty is, in every way, the daughter your mother wishes you to be. Her sole ambition in life is to marry well and raise a brood of children. You find it all terribly dull, though you suspect something within her will change when she encounters her first true disappointment.

Tess, the youngest, is far more like you. She has never betrayed your confidences to Mother. She sneaks you sweetmeats from the kitchen at bedtime, insists you look lovelier with your hair unpinned, and entrusts you with her dearest secrets, knowing they are safe in your keeping. It is for this very reason that she remained behind today, occupied with the practice of her calligraphy under her lady’s maid’s supervision.

"It would not pain you to smile, my dear," your mother remarks, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. A deception, you suspect.

Nevertheless, you indulge her. You summon your most winsome smile and compose yourself in your seat, all the while wondering—anticipating—what it is that Viktor wishes to say to you in private.

When the carriage draws to a halt, he is already there. Viktor stands waiting with his weight shifted to one side, the tip of his cane pressed lightly against the ground. The early afternoon light casts a warm glow over him, accentuating the deep brown of his coat—a fine, if somewhat modest piece, its cut more practical than fashionable. A dark waistcoat lies beneath, fitted neatly over his frame, with a cravat tied in a manner that suggests efficiency rather than vanity. His hair resists perfect order, a few loose strands falling across his forehead despite his apparent effort to tame them.

There is something almost careless about his appearance, yet not in a way that suggests a lack of pride. Rather, it is as if he simply does not concern himself with the rigid expectations of refinement. His gloves are well-worn, the leather of his cane handle bears the mark of frequent use, and yet—despite all this—he cuts a striking figure. Perhaps it is the way he carries himself, or the sharp focus of his gaze as he watches your approach. Handsome, undeniably so, but with a presence that unsettles as much as it intrigues.

And you find yourself grateful for the abhorrent amount of blush Peggy has pressed into your cheeks—at least you can blame the warmth rising there on that. Even more so when he grants you a fleeting glance and smiles to himself before turning to your mother.

“My Lady, it is a pleasure to see you again,” he says, bowing his head with practiced grace.

She responds with a measured nod, her expression unreadable. “Mister Viktor.”

Next, he turns to Kitty, who is already smiling prettily, her hands clasped before her. “Miss Catherine,” he greets, offering a slight bow.

Kitty dips into a shallow curtsey, her tone light. “Mister Viktor, I trust you are well?”

“As well as one can be, Miss,” he replies smoothly before his gaze finally lands on you. It is fleeting—just a moment longer than propriety demands—yet enough to send a thrill through you.

“Miss,” he murmurs at last, bowing once more.

You respond with a curtsy, keeping your chin high despite the quickened beat of your pulse. Acutely aware of how desperately the two halves of you claw at each other within your chest you clench your jaw and force yourself to blink.

Your mother clears her throat. “Shall we proceed?”

Viktor is silent for a moment, his gaze flickers between you and the path ahead, considering something. Then, with measured care, he speaks. “Ladies, might I request a moment alone with my future wife? I should like the opportunity to better acquaint myself with her.”

Your mother’s expression does not shift at once. Instead, she regards him with a pensive air, weighing the request. Then, just as swiftly, her features settle into the familiar, practiced smile of social grace.

“I see no objection, sir.” She turns to you, levelling you with an unreadable look. “I trust you will conduct yourself with decorum.”

You incline your head. “Of course, Maman.”

Viktor nods in gratitude before turning his attention back to you. With an ease that seems entirely natural to him—but utterly foreign to you—he extends his arm. You hesitate only for a heartbeat before slipping your hand through, the warmth of his sleeve pressing against your palm.

At once, your mind replays the moment in the music room—the ghost of his touch at your forearms as he steadied you when you stumbled. The surprise of it. The quiet strength in his grasp. The way you had looked at one another for a long time before pulling away.

Now, as your fingers rest against his sleeve, you are keenly aware of the space between you, and the fact that—however slight—he has just closed it once more.

You march forward leisurely and even though you can’t see your mother and sister trotting behind you, you wait for a long moment before coming up with something to say. You wait for so long, in fact, that Viktor beats you to it.

“How have you been?” he asks softly, your name following the question with an intimacy that startles you.

Your fingers twitch against the fabric of your glove, and you glance at him sidelong. “Well enough,” you reply, though your voice is not as steady as you wish it to be.

“Any new rebellious music you have come across?”

“Ah, that,” you chuckle, though you scowl inwardly at how flustered the sound is. “Sadly, I have had no opportunity to evade my mother’s hound-like hearing abilities. So, only little dancing tunes for my sisters—nothing of true note.”

“A pity,” he muses. “I quite enjoyed the Sonata.” His tone is contemplative, but there is in intention hidden not that too well underneath it. “And yet,” he continues after a beat, “it is for that very reason I asked to meet you.”

You arch a brow, affecting nonchalance despite the way your heartbeat betrays you. “Oh? Are you also a great admirer of music deemed unsuitable for proper ladies?”

“Absolutely,” he answers, the humour in his tone fleeting. “But I do have another, more pressing motive—if you do not mind me speaking plainly.”

“By all means,” you say, tilting your head towards him. “Do tell, Viktor.”

He gestures with his cane, the subtle drawing your attention to the promenade before you. Couples walk in neat little pairs, each shadowed by their requisite chaperone, the ritual of courtship unfolding before you like a well-rehearsed performance.

“The endless hunt,” he murmurs. “Men trailing after their prey under the pretence of romance.”

You huff a small laugh. “Why do you presume it is only men who do the hunting? Perhaps you are the deer, and simply unaware of it.”

Viktor glances at you then, his lips curving in an intrigued smile. “An interesting proposition.” His gaze lingers, thoughtful, before flickering back ahead. “I am, however, quite aware that this—” he inclines his head towards the scene before you—“is not the future I would have chosen for myself.”

His fingers tighten briefly on the handle of his cane. “Which is why I come to you with an offer of compromise.”

Your brows lift. “A compromise?”

“A contract,” he corrects. “Between us, and no one else.”

Your stomach tightens, though with what, you are uncertain. “And what, pray, would this contract entail?”

“Freedom,” he answers simply. “As much as may be found within the gilded cage we are about to share—for better or for worse.”

You glance up at him, studying the sharp lines of his profile, but say nothing.

Viktor exhales through his nose, as if steeling himself. “I would not ask you to be anything other than what you are. You may conduct yourself as you wish—the clothes you wear, the music you play, the company you keep…” He pauses, and you feel, rather than see, his eyes on you. “So long as I am afforded the same courtesy.”

A curious sensation unfurls within you, slow and uncertain. A flutter—a fervour, almost—on one hand. Yet on the other, something sinks deep and remains suspended in an inertia for which you cannot place the cause.

Your fingers, still lightly curled around his arm, shift almost imperceptibly, your gloved fingertips brushing against the bare skin of his wrist where his cuff has shifted ever so slightly.

Viktor stills.

His step does not falter, nor does he pull away, but for the smallest fraction of a moment, you feel it—a sharp, fleeting pause, as though you have startled him.

You tilt your chin slightly, affecting an air of curiosity. “And why,” you murmur, voice quieter now, “would you offer such a thing to me?”

He hums, the sound low. “You play your part very well,” he admits. “Colour me impressed. But I see that you are not wholly content, and I do not wish to make you miserable.”

His eyes flick once more to the couples ahead, his expression unreadable. “This,” he says, his voice measured, “has never been my desire. And I suspect it has never been yours.”

“You did not jest about speaking plainly,” you remark, though there is a note of something in your voice—something faintly wistful coming from an unknown place you are not certain you wish to explore.

You suppose you ought to be offended—particularly by such a frank allowance for debauchery (and the expectation of reciprocation on his part). Yet what strikes you most is not the proposition itself, but rather his own unwillingness to partake in this experiment, despite claiming the title of a man of science.

He turns to you at once, his brow drawing together. “Forgive me. Have I offended? That was not my intent.”

You shake your head, exhaling softly before tilting your gaze up at him. Unable to give him the answer just yet. Unable to lock that part away. “Which one are you?” you ask, fixing your gaze on promenading couples.

Viktor only looks at you, his head tilts slightly in your direction and you can feel his breath ghosting around your temple.

“A deer,” you continue, “or a man?”

His lips curve, though his expression remains thoughtful. “A man, undoubtedly,” he says. “But my deer is not a woman to be conquered, nor wealth to be obtained. Progress only—science.”

You consider that for a moment before asking, “And which one do you think I am?”

Viktor studies you then, a searching sort of scrutiny in his gaze. “I think,” he begins, then pauses, as if weighing his words. “A man, as well. You simply do not yet know what it is you are hunting.”

You swallow and let your face display honesty for a flicker of a second. A tremendous feeling of being watched and seen by someone who barely knows you makes you both grow and shrink—one part of you laps at it, eager and hungry, the other, shy and defeated, steps back cradling her heart in her hands.

A pause, then—

“I accept your offer, Viktor.”

***

Days pass as you mull over the new terms of your arrangement, the weight of it settling upon you like an ill-fitted gown. The household is abuzz with the nonsensical pressures of wedding preparations—your mother and sisters significantly more enthused than you.

You find yourself torn between the promise of freedom and the threat of imprisonment, for what Viktor has proposed holds both in equal measure—a double-edged sword poised to cut you both.

Each of his conditions is something you never dared to dream of, having long resigned yourself to the certainty that you would never marry, certainly not for love. That naïve conviction held firm until your mother—ever pragmatic—brought you back to earth. In time, you had learned to accept your fate, to dream, however cautiously, of a husband who might tolerate your eccentricities, just as your father does. And perhaps, if fortune were kind, one who might even grow to love you, as your father so clearly loves your mother.

But with Viktor’s proposition, such hopes dwindle by the day. The reality that awaits you is one in which you must learn to be content with the love you can provide for yourself.

He comes and goes, paying you little visits, bringing flowers for your mother and, on occasion, Jayce for your father. And once, Jayce brings his mother, and the meeting nearly rends you in two—to witness what mothers can be. How gentle they can be, how kind. Even to a child not their own. Ximena Talis holds only love for Viktor in her heart; it seeps through her eyes, through the tenderness of her hands when she pats his back and smooths his cheek, telling him how proud she is.

A fraction of this kindness reaches you when she takes your hand and tells you what a good boy he is. How sensitive and clever. And it wounds you deeply to see how enraptured she is by the idea of Viktor finding someone who will love him as she and Jayce do—blissfully unaware of the pusillanimous little mercy he has devised to ensure the success of your sham.

Yet you do find excitement, somewhere within you. At the thought of the music you will play freely, at the great fire you will make to burn the tighter half of your short stays (you must keep some for when your mother visits), at the hairpins that will go conveniently missing on the way to your new house, and the books you will read lying in the grass. It is not all so miserable.

It comes and fades, just as Viktor drifts in and out of your thoughts, lingering in the late evening hours when your night-bound self cannot cease conjuring visions of what your life will be in mere days. After many nights spent ruminating, you resolve at last that such sentiments are not worth troubling your heart over. You must stand by your acceptance of Viktor’s offer.

So you endure the dress fittings, the flower selections, and the cake tastings that your mother drags you to, a sad smile fixed upon your face, telling yourself it will all be over soon. And indeed, when the day of your imprisonment— which is also the day of your release—arrives, you find the skin of your face intolerably tight with powder and a smile affixed there, despite the wetness lingering beneath your eyelids.

You regard yourself in the mirror, refusing to let nerves take hold of you. It is only last-minute jitters, you tell yourself, even as the ultimate version of your daylight self stares back—her hands clasped into fists, her hair arranged into the most meticulous bun you have ever seen, her breasts bound by the most vile short stay you have ever had the misfortune to wear. All of it wrapped in a blue dress, a fabric of your choosing—the only compromise your mother allowed in the preparations.

Your mother has left the room to inform your father that you will soon depart for the church, while your sisters flit about you, giggling and teasing about how you will step before the altar a child and leave a woman grown. The words tighten your chest, and you wave them off with a sharp breath.

"Please, it is hard enough to breathe without all of you crowding me."

"Are you going to bring shame upon Maman now? See, Tess? We should have placed our wager while there was still time," Kitty jests, but you find no laughter within you. Tess only frowns, visibly troubled, as a child might be when confronted with emotions beyond her understanding—or perhaps because she understands them all too well.

"I will fetch Maman," she says, watching the colour drain from your face despite the rouge upon your cheeks.

"No—" you snap, grasping her shoulder firmly. "I need Peggy. Tess, I beg of you."

Tess nods solemnly, throwing Kitty a warning look as severe as a seven-year-old can muster. Kitty huffs but follows her out, leaving you alone with your trembling hands and a heart that pounds so furiously it makes your chest feel even tighter. Before you can give in to the swooning sensation creeping up your spine, the door creaks open once more, and Peggy peeks inside, brow furrowed in concern.

"Everything all right, Miss?"

"No. Peggy, no," you cry, barely managing to keep your voice from breaking. Your eyes burn, but you force them wide, desperate to keep the tears from spilling and ruining the painstaking work of rouge and powder. "Why do I feel so wretched? It is as though something inside me has died."

Peggy steps further in, hands hovering uncertainly at her sides. "Oh, Miss, whatever has happened?"

You shake your head, pressing your fingers to your temples as if you might will away the frantic mess of thoughts swarming inside it. "I am such a fool. I was so certain I could go through with this, and I know there is no undoing it, but—" A shuddering breath, a helpless glance at your reflection. "I was ready to simply be a wife, to accept my place, but then he came along, and I, like a simpleton, began to hope. I let myself want."

Peggy's face softens, though hesitation lingers in her posture. "Oh, my dear child… but you shall be a wife, and I daresay you shall be happy."

You let out a brittle laugh, one that holds no mirth. "I shall not. I shall not be loved, nor truly known. I shall live in a grand house beside a husband who has no wish to understand me. I shall grow old in loneliness, without affection, without companionship."

Peggy presses her lips together, as if choosing her words with great care. "And how, pray, can you be so certain?"

You inhale sharply, fingers curling into the folds of your skirts. "Because he told me so. He offered me terms, a bargain. I—foolishly proud—accepted." The confession tumbles from your lips in a rush, bitter and breathless. "A life in which I may do as I please, so long as he is granted the same. No expectations, no obligations. Not in our conduct, nor our company, nor even the way we dress. And you—" Your voice falters, the words lodging in your throat. "You will not even be there to comfort me."

For a moment, Peggy says nothing, only watching you with an unreadable expression. Then, gently, she reaches for your hands, pressing them between her own. When she speaks again, it is not with formality, but with quiet insistence. She speaks your name.

"He would be a fool not to see you for what you are. And trust me when I say this—" She squeezes your hands, warmth and certainty in her grasp. "To fall in love with you takes mere seconds."

"It has already been seconds since we met," you mutter helplessly, sniffing as your brows furrow.

"People make strange decisions when they are afraid," she says with a soft, knowing smile. "And in my experience, men are the easiest creatures to spook."

A tear escapes the prison of your lashes, and before Peggy can react, you startle her with an embrace. She hesitates for only a moment before wrapping her arms around you, and you cannot remember the last time you were held with such tenderness.

Then, with gentle hands, she tilts your chin up and says, "Come now, let us put you back to rights before your lady mother starts to sulk, hmm?"

Peggy sets to work with quiet efficiency, dabbing away stray tears with the gentlest touch, mindful not to smudge the careful artistry upon your face. She smooths her thumbs over your cheeks, fixing the powdered rouge, then reaches for a fresh handkerchief to blot any lingering dampness. With delicate hands, she adjusts the loosened strands of your hair, tucking them back into place with a precision that belies her station. The soft murmurs of reassurance she offers are meant to soothe, yet they do little to quell the tight knot in your chest. You watch her through the mirror, unblinking, as she works—fast, methodical—restoring you to the poised young lady your mother expects to see walk down the aisle. When she finally steps back, her eyes sweep over you with a quiet sort of pride, as if she has mended something far greater than a few ruined curls and a streak of moisture on your cheek.

The remainder of the time slips past in a haze, your body moving through each step as though it belongs to someone else. Your sisters return, chattering brightly, their excitement so stark against the hush in your own mind that it feels almost deafening. Your mother arrives moments later, beaming, and claps her hands together at the sight of you, exclaiming over your appearance without noticing the effort it took to make you look so flawless. You offer her a small, obedient smile, a perfect replica of the one you have worn for weeks now and allow yourself to be ushered out the door. The carriage ride is a blur of voices and silk rustling around you, the weight of expectation pressing against your skin like the stay laced too tightly around your ribs. By the time you arrive at the church, you are exactly as you ought to be—composed, lovely, and utterly unreadable.

The heavy church doors are pulled open before you, and a hush falls over the gathered assembly. The murmur of conversation, the rustle of clothing, even the faintest shifting of feet upon stone—everything stills as you step into the dim, vaulted space. The scent of aged wood and melting wax mingles with the perfume of fresh flowers lining the pews, a sickly-sweet contrast to the sharp awareness tightening your chest.

Light filters through the tall, stained-glass windows, dappling the aisle in shifting colours as you take your first step forward. Your father’s arm is steady beneath your fingertips, a firm anchor, but it does little to ease the weight pressing against your ribs. Your gaze lifts, drawn forward, past the unfamiliar sea of faces, past the faint blur of expectation, to the one person who matters in this moment.

Viktor stands at the altar, rigid as a statue, his hands clasped before him. He is dressed finely—your mother’s doing, no doubt—but the cut of his coat, the carefully pressed folds of his cravat, feel like a costume rather than something truly belonging to him. His face is unreadable at first, his expression schooled into an impassive mask, but then—then his eyes meet yours.

Something flickers there. A hesitation, barely perceptible. The faintest parting of his lips, as if he might speak if the weight of the room did not demand silence. His gaze drags over you, slow and searching, taking in the meticulous artistry of your appearance, the delicate lace framing your face, the blue silk wrapped about you like a second skin. You expect nothing from him, and yet—his fingers twitch at his side, as if resisting some impulse even he does not understand.

And then, just as quickly, it is gone. He schools his features once more, his posture remains stiff, and whatever moment had passed between you vanishes into the hush of the church.

The priest turns to Viktor first.

“Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

A silence, brief yet all-encompassing, stretches across the nave. Viktor’s gaze remains steady, locked upon yours as he answers, his voice even, assured and the words strike you with reverence you did not suspect him to have.

“I will.”

A breath catches in your throat.

“Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?” The priest turns to you.

You part your lips, but for a moment, no sound emerges. It is not hesitation, not truly—it is the finality of it, the weight of a thousand expectations pressing down upon your ribcage. You feel Viktor’s gaze on you, unwavering and waiting.

Your fingers tighten at your sides, nails digging into your palm.

“I will.”

The words leave you quieter than intended, but they are spoken. A shift of movement behind you—a sigh, perhaps your mother’s—reaches your ears, but it is distant, inconsequential now.

The priest nods, satisfied, and gestures for your hand.

Viktor steps forward, extending his hand to you, palm open. Your fingers feel unsteady as you place them in his, the warmth of his skin seeping through your glove into the coldness of your skin. He holds your hand with gentle firmness, neither possessive nor hesitant—simply assured.

He speaks first, his voice steady, the words carried by the hush of the chapel.

“I, Viktor, take thee to my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a fleeting motion, barely noticeable.

It is your turn. You inhale, the breath unsteady, and repeat the vow, your voice carrying a note of quiet conviction.

“I,” you start, then speak your name quietly, “take thee, Viktor, to my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

As the final words leave your lips, Viktor’s grip remains unwavering and warm. The rector nods and Jayce steps forward, placing a golden band into Viktor’s open palm, while his eyes remain fixed strictly on yours.

He slides it onto your finger slowly, its weight featherlight and yet impossibly heavy. There is finality in it, a truth that cannot be undone, and when you lift your gaze, Viktor is still watching you, his lids hooded. His mouth parts, and he speaks the finals words softly, almost intimately and for a moment you feel like it’s only you and him, holding hands in this vast, echoing space.

“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship,” he recites between breaths, the honesty beneath it rips through your chest. You wonder if it’s at all possible for this man to be so rehearsed that he can proclaim his worship to you in such a tone, while feeling none of it. “And with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Before you can breathe, the priest proclaims, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

And so it is, final and done, when your heart hammers in your ears as you sign yet another contract—the Register—to bind you not only in the holy matrimony, but also in the legal one. The rest is a blur, as people outside the church whistle and clap upon your emergence and the carriage takes you all back to your house for the reception.

And you brace through it as your day self—bright, charming, and polite. Thanking your guests and being the picture-perfect bride, making your mother and father proud. You smile until your cheeks ache, laugh when it is expected, and accept well-wishes with a gracious nod.

Ximena Talis is among the many to take your hands in hers, her warmth enveloping you like the motherly embrace you once yearned for. “My dear, you are radiant,” she says, pressing your fingers gently. “Viktor is fortunate beyond measure. I have always known he would find someone exceptional.”

The words settle in your chest like lead. You murmur a soft “Thank you, my lady,” but the sentiment stings. Fortunate? Perhaps, but not in the way she imagines. You wish you could believe in the same happiness she does.

Across the room, Viktor lingers at the edge of the gathering, ever the observer. His gaze flickers towards you, assessing. He sees the perfect illusion—the grace, the charm—but does he notice the way your hands tighten in your lap when no one is watching? The way your laughter sounds hollow?

At last, he steps close enough that only you can hear him. “You do not seem out of place,” he remarks idly, reaching for a cup of tea.

You do not look at him as you reply. “Neither do you.”

He hums, tilting cup as if he were looking for an answer within it. “I expected you to be more resistant.”

“I have learnt when resistance is futile,” you answer smoothly, placing your empty cup on a passing tray. “And you?”

He glances at you, just once, before bringing his glass to his lips. “I have always known how to adapt.”

A small smile curls at the edge of your mouth, just enough to be seen by those watching, just enough to be mistaken for joy. “Then we are well-matched indeed.”

His lips quirk, as if in amusement. But he says nothing more. Instead, he lingers close enough so that the heat of his body transmits to yours, and unlike you, Viktor cannot blame his reddened cheeks on powder blush.

You try to read anything within his expression, but the only thing that gives him away is the almost imperceptible tightness of his jaw.

Before you decide what to make of it, you are pulled back to your bridal duties—an obligatory dance with your father comes first.

He observes you all the way through it, as if trying to decipher how unhappy you are. “Know, that I have never been more proud of you,” he says, holding your hands firmly.

“And why is that? I have achieved nothing today, Papa, I merely got married,” you jest, but your father sees right through you. He breaks the rhythm of the dance to pull you into an embrace and whispers into your ear, “It’s not that you got married. It’s how you’ve done it. Of that I am proud.”

You gasp quietly and let yourself be held. It helps you to get through the rest of the rituals—dancing with uncles and other relatives, until a brief reprieve comes in a shape of Jayce. He grins down at you with a lopsided ease. “Look at you,” he teases, his voice light despite the tension that flickers beneath. “The perfect bride, the perfect wedding. You’ve even got the perfect brother-in-law.”

You let out a quiet huff, only half amused. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Jayce?”

“Wouldn’t need to if you’d just admit I’m your favourite already.”

You move through the dance with ease, though his hand tightens slightly on yours as he lowers his voice. “You’re all right?”

A pause. You should lie, as you have been all morning, but Jayce is not so easily fooled. “I will be,” you answer, quiet but honest. It is the best you can offer.

He nods once, accepting that for what it is. “If he ever gives you trouble, you know where to find me.”

It is an unnecessary promise—Viktor is not cruel—but you do not dismiss it.

As the dance concludes, you step away, your role in the festivities almost complete. Before the hour grows too late, you press a ribbon into Kitty’s palm, her eyes lighting with delight as she fastens it to her wrist. Tess is more reserved when you pull her aside, brows knit in deep thought before you even place the pearl in her hand.

“You’ll be back soon, won’t you?” she asks. Her fingers curl around the gift, her frown pressing deeper.

You smooth back a stray lock of her hair, forcing a smile. “Of course.” Even you are not certain how much truth sits in those words.

At last, it is time to take your leave. The final goodbyes begin, your family gathering around, and just as you think the moment has passed without incident, your uncle—already too deep in his indulgences—lifts his glass with a booming voice.

“Well then! Since they will not dance together, they must at least seal the night with a kiss!”

Laughter ripples through the guests, some echoing their agreement, others clapping their hands in delight. A glance at your mother tells you she will not intervene—this is not so improper a request that it can be denied. Your father only sighs, while Jayce grins at Viktor, clearly entertained.

There is no way out of this. You glance at Viktor, only to find him already watching you.

He does not speak, but his gaze is searching, flicking over your expression with unreadable intent. A flicker of hesitation—barely a breath—before he shifts closer.

The moment stretches unbearably thin.

Then, Viktor leans in.

The kiss is light, brief, barely more than the press of his lips against yours. It is proper in every sense, exactly what is expected. And yet—something in it snags deep within you. The warmth of him, the feather-light brush, the way his breath lingers against your skin a second too long.

Then, so soft only you can hear, Viktor murmurs against your lips—

"It’s all right."

You do not know why the words unsettle you so.

By the time you pull apart, the guests are clapping, laughing, toasting the moment as if it were nothing at all. You school your expression back into place, accept the briefest of bows from Viktor before he steps aside, and let yourself be guided forward, toward the carriage that will take you away.

[cutelittlechiroptera]

yandere Reiji Sakamaki x reader please! 💙💙

Beneath the Vessel

Yandere Sakamaki Reiji x reader

This is definitely one of my favourite works I’ve ever written. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did!🤍

Synopsis: Obsession is brimming underneath the perfectly polished surface of the spectacled vampire.

Masterlist

Warnings: yandere, obsession

The table was set with the finest silverware and with elegant plates with dark blue flowers painted on with perfect precision. Lit candles were thoughtfully placed across the table. The room was dimly lit, with only the lamps that hung on the walls. The large curtains were open, giving the outside world a clear look inside the carefully crafted façade. The sky was moonless and the stars seemed dull, even so you couldn’t help but long for them in a way child would long for their mother.

At the head of the table sat the dark haired vampire. His attire was elegant and without even the tiniest specks of dust. His white dress shirt was almost fully buttoned up, save for the two upper buttons. His dark red waistcoat had an old watch hung from its pocket in an old fashioned way. Silver glasses were resting on his nose as his deep magenta eyes bored into your doe-like eyes.

Yet again he was able to read you like an open book. He pried you open and peered inside you as much as he liked, because there was nothing you could keep a secret from him. You were a vulnerable thing and he cherished that dearly.

Reiji lifted his wineglass without leaving your eyes and took a sip. The bloody colour of the wine a reminder of who was sitting to your left. He swirled the wine and let the liquid swish like the unruly tides of the Japanese coast. You could picture yourself onboard a boat inside the red ocean. Struggling against the waves, trying to hold onto your life lest it would fall out of your control.

Your fingers found the stem of your wineglass and you clutched it. Your eyes didn’t leave his and you imagined what would happen if you broke the fragile glass. He would be sure to make your life hell on earth.

“Did you seriously think I wouldn’t find out?” his dark voice oozing of authority. It was like lightning, crashing down into a fragile dying tree. Its branches breaking as a result of its strength and brutality. “Do you take me for a fool? Is that it? Have I not been perfectly clear?”

You swallowed and looked down, because you did not dare to face the wrath lurking within his beautiful magenta eyes that glared at you through silver spectacles. Your chest heaved irregularly as the sound of his cutlery stilled.

A storm was brewing, and you were in the midst of it with no escape.

“I told you specifically to not converse with a man without my presence. What if-” Reiji cut himself off, but his words hung in the air. What if the man had hurt you? Was the words the vampire had been meaning to say.

His anger was visible as you finally found the courage to look at him. Veins were popping out of his forehead and his neck. A furious redness had overtaken his usually pale skin and his eyes were small and laced with fear and fury.

You watched silently as he struggled with his conflicted emotions. He was a very, afraid and ashamed. He had no control over his feelings and that scared him. Greatly. You carefully reached out and touched his hand that was buried in his dark locks. You stroke his skin with a soothing circular motion. You watched as he gasped for air. It was the first time you had touched him gently willingly.

His eyes shot to yours as he gaped at you like a fish washed up ashore. Finally you had found foothold in the storm.

You leaned forward and whispered with a hushed tone “I’m alright, Reiji. It was just a polite conversation. You have nothing to worry about”.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed harshly. His breathing was quick as he started at you. His mouth opened and closed as if he was unsure of what to say. Soft fingers brushed over his cheekbone.

You had finally gotten hold of the helm. The waves calmed, but the waters were still not clear of any dangers. Beneath your feet stirred a dark monster. It’s tentacles wrapped around the vessel, but still letting it sail. At least for now.

[lavandulawrites]

Beneath the Vessel

Yandere Sakamaki Reiji x reader

This was a request: “yandere Reiji Sakamaki x reader please! 💙💙”. This is definitely one of my favourite works I’ve ever written. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did!🤍 Reposted from my other blog: @cutelittlechiroptera

Synopsis: Obsession is brimming underneath the perfectly polished surface of the spectacled vampire.

Masterlist

Warnings: yandere, obsession

The table was set with the finest silverware and with elegant plates with dark blue flowers painted on with perfect precision. Lit candles were thoughtfully placed across the table. The room was dimly lit, with only lighting from the lamps that hung on the walls. The large curtains were open, giving the outside world a clear look inside the carefully crafted façade. The sky was moonless and the stars seemed dull, even so you couldn’t help but long for them in a way child would long for their mother.

At the head of the table sat the dark haired vampire. His attire was elegant and without even the tiniest specks of dust. His white dress shirt was almost fully buttoned up, save for the two upper buttons. His dark red waistcoat had an old watch hung from its pocket in an old fashioned way. Silver glasses were resting on his nose as his deep magenta eyes bored into your doe-like eyes.

Yet again he was able to read you like an open book. He pried you open and peered inside you as much as he liked, because there was nothing you could keep secret from him. You were a vulnerable thing and he cherished that dearly.

Reiji lifted his wineglass without leaving your eyes and took a sip. The bloody colour of the wine a reminder of who was sitting to your left. He swirled the wine and let the liquid swish like the unruly tides of the Japanese coast. You could picture yourself onboard a boat inside the red ocean. Struggling against the waves, trying to hold onto your life lest it would fall out of your control.

Your fingers found the stem of your wineglass and you clutched it. Your eyes didn’t leave his and you imagined what would happen if you broke the fragile glass. He would be sure to make your life hell on earth.

“Did you seriously think I wouldn’t find out?” his dark voice oozing of authority. It was like lightning, crashing down into a fragile dying tree. Its branches breaking as a result of its strength and brutality. “Do you take me for a fool? Is that it? Have I not been perfectly clear?”

You swallowed and looked down, because you did not dare to face the wrath lurking within his beautiful magenta eyes that glared at you through silver spectacles. Your chest heaved irregularly as the sound of his cutlery stilled.

A storm was brewing, and you were in the midst of it with no escape.

“I told you specifically to not converse with a man without my presence. What if-” Reiji cut himself off, but his words hung in the air. What if the man had hurt you? Was the words the vampire had been meaning to say.

His anger was visible as you finally found the courage to look at him. Veins were popping out of his forehead and his neck. A furious redness had overtaken his usually pale skin and his eyes were small and laced with fear and fury.

You watched silently as he struggled with his conflicted emotions. He was furious, afraid and ashamed. He had no control over his feelings and that scared him. Greatly. You carefully reached out and touched his hand that was buried in his dark locks. You stroked his skin with a soothing circular motion. You watched as he gasped for air. It was the first time you had touched him gently willingly.

His eyes shot to yours as he gaped at you like a fish washed up ashore. Finally you had found foothold in the storm.

You leaned forward and whispered with a hushed tone “I’m alright, Reiji. It was just a polite conversation. You have nothing to worry about”.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed harshly. His breathing was quick as he started at you. His mouth opened and closed as if he was unsure of what to say. Soft fingers brushed over his cheekbone.

You had finally gotten hold of the helm. The waves calmed, but the waters were still not clear of any dangers. Beneath your feet stirred a dark monster. It’s tentacles wrapped around the vessel, but still letting it sail. At least for now.

[jamdoughnutmagician]

The Ocean's Mystique

Pirate!Eddie Munson x Siren!Reader

Here it is, as promised. I started this with the best of intentions, I really did, but I hate it. Still posting it because I spent way too long on this not to share it.

Word Count:1,273

Warnings:Fanstasy/Mystical beings, Major Character Death (by drowning), angst? does this constitute as angst idk??

Eddie Munson Masterlist // Masterlist

Eddie Munson was the most feared pirate Captain on all of the seven seas, wherever he sailed to there was no escaping the hushed gossip of his escapades as he pulled into the docks. Tales of running his enemies to ribbons with a swish of his silver sword, and coming away rich with pilfered treasures.

No crewmate ever dared to cross, nor question the authority of the Captain of the Hellfire Demon.  

The Hellfire Demon was a beauty to behold. Dark wood structures, powerfully sailing behind imposing midnight black sails. A master of the seas, captained by a thief and a dreamer. 

With a dark smudge of black kohl rimming his intensely dark brown eyes, and the sea-salted wind blowing through his tangled curls as he stood on the bow of his ship, Eddie looked out towards the swirling stormy sea with a sense of adventure thrumming in his heart.

The silvery, sonorous call of the sea’s sweet melody called out to its Captain with a harmonious wash of song.

These depths of the sea had been braved by many a sailor before him, and yet nobody had ever come back to tell the tale. Uncharted waters marked on maps by sailors who swore by the legends of the mysterious sirens that were rumoured to slink around these parts. Stories of unimaginably beautiful, and deadly sea-witches luring men to their deaths under the inky blue waves.

As he steered deeper into the water, where the waves were swirling to a dangerous whirl he couldn’t help but leave his place from behind the ship’s helm. His fierce brown eyes are entranced by the shimmering sparkle under the water’s surface. A gleaming glow that beckons him closer. As he gets closer and closer the floating music coming from the water’s depths gets louder and louder.

A gleaming vision emerges from the water, breaking the surface to see its next victim. Iridescent blue scales down the length of her arms, paper-thin webbing between each delicate, bony finger, tapering into devilishly sharp claws. Monstrous webbed spines crowning from her back in a fin and even more scales crawling down into a dark and powerful tail.

And as monstrous your siren form appeared, all Eddie could see was the beauty of this goddess of the oceans laid before him. Full of light, life and gleaming mystery, as beautiful as the sea and twice as dangerous. A mistress of the waters that an adventurer like Eddie couldn’t help but want to explore. 

Eddie climbed down the sides of his ship, using the ropes to hold his weight to get a better look at your wondrous beauty.

But before he could say anything, you stopped him in his tracks.

“Most men that have tried to brave these waters very seldom return,  what makes you so confident that you won’t end up the same way as those who have gone before you?”

“I’m not most men. ” Eddie replied all too confidently.

“And tell me sea-faring traveller, are you always this charming.” you smiled sweetly, keeping your sharp teeth concealed behind pursed lips.

“Only to fair maidens who are as beautiful as yourself.” he replies, and a pink flush dances across his fair skin, heat blooming underneath freckles.

“You think I’m beautiful? Say, why don’t you come a little closer? The water’s plenty warm enough. I won’t bite, I promise.”  you grinned, slinking closer to the ship.

Sure enough Eddie quickly slipped off his leather waistcoat, sword belt, throwing to the deck, before taking the plunge and diving off the edge of his ship into the water below.

The water greets him like a familiar friend, surrounding him with warmth.

And as he comes up, breaking the surface with a gasping breath and a sweep of his hand to brush the saturated hair from his eyes he comes face to face with you.

You circle him where he is in the water, the waves rippling around your bodies as you slink closer to him.

“Did they give you a name along with those gleamingly rich and beautiful brown eyes?” you ask, trailing a hand to his shoulder, feeling how he tenses under your touch. 

This was always your favourite part of the chase. The back and forth, the cat-and-mouse game between poor and unsuspecting travellers who had previously only ever considered your mere existence as nothing more than a fantasy.

He chuckles to himself before he speaks, his pink lips pulling into a charming smile.

“Edward, but you can call me Eddie.” he smirks, obviously thinking that his charming good looks have had an effect on you. And whilst yes, you can admit to yourself there was something different about this sailor, something different to all of the other chancing sea travellers who you had torn asunder. He was devastatingly beautiful, but that just made the thrill of pulling him down to the depths of your world all that much sweeter.

“And  tell me, Eddie..” you purr. “Are you aware that it is said to be good luck when a sailor encounters a siren?”

“I’m well aware of the stories, but I’m no sailor.” he smirks once again, pulling his plump pink lip between his teeth. “Just a man with adventure in his heart and thieving tendencies.”

“A pirate!” you gasp.

“Guilty as charged, m’lady” he smiles. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“It matters to me not one bit what you do on these tides.” you say as you lay your lips close to his ear “And since you are so well-versed in the stories of my kind then you will be very familiar with the rules I am bound by.”

A siren’s kiss was said to be a powerful thing, and should she ever be discovered by a passing traveller, she owed him one kiss as a token of good luck.

“Well, I didn’t want to be the one to bring it up..” he trailed off, with a faint pinkish blush scattering across his cheeks.

As you make your way to him, face to face with the handsome stranger you lay a hand to his cheek. Your hands are cold to the touch of the flush of his face as you bring your lips to his.

Starting out as nothing more than a gentle press. A sweet kiss that felt full of magic, just enough to pull Eddie into a false sense of security as he sinks into the kiss, before he falls into the trap as so many men before him had done. Slyly he tries to slip his tongue between your lips and you let him for a brief moment, before sinking your sharpened fangs into his plump lip with a piercing bite. 

He pulls away from you to touch a finger to his lips where, sure enough, there is a crimson stain on his skin.

“You bit me.” he questions, but as he looks at you he realises his mistake. Your eyes are black and you’re staring at him menacingly, and then in a motion that was quicker than a flash your nails are clawing into his vulnerable skin, and dragging him down to the deepest and darkest depths of your seas.

His body thrashed against you as you overpowered him. Every garbled gasp for breath threatened to be his last, and then, like falling asleep, his body fell limp as his life slipped away from him.

Nobody was to ever find out the existence of your kind, and it was your job to continue that. 

“It’s a shame it had to be this way, Eddie, it really is, but it’s a risk I can’t take.”

@ali-r3n @seatnights @penguinsandpotterheads @abitchyouhate @mrsjellymunson @songbirdmunson

[djpepitaqueenforpresident]

𐦍༘⋆ Mnemonics - B.Barnes

‘The air could not be filled with Winters vocals, but his ears worked better than fine, and instead of hearing someone he could not remember the name of beg in his skull, he listened to you.’

Summary: In which Bucky walks the path of regaining his memories, and he has to figure out wether you are real or just an apparition of hope his own mind conjured up to help him push through the hard ways of Winter.

Warnings: Ptsd, blood, violence, guns, swearing, murder, sad Bucky

A/N: first time posting my writing in tumblr kinda nervous.

English is not my first language!:)

This’ll be a short fic because I honestly started this without even really thinking every thing through. I only really wrote it for real to satisfy my own melancholia. As its stated in the summary, this story mainly revolves around the time Bucky was still the Winter Soldier and how he found a sliver of peace inside your presence.

Teehee

“…when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so very remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so very much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!” (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural) ; but when the Rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curioity, she ran across the field after it, and was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge.

“In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again…”

Prologue

As far as he could remember, the Winter Soldier had always been alone.

Lonely, with the blood covered fists of pain and hunger to keep him company.

Bucky still heard the screams - his screams - in the back of his mind, a shadow always looming over his shoulder, reminding him of the coldness of his past. His mind was a never ending rabbit hole, filled with trinkets of James Barnes, having no idea how they got in there, and every twist and turn holding unreachable memories.

The only way he could get a glimpse of those memorabilia was in his sleep. But he had no choice in directing his unconscious brain, and was more often than not left screaming himself awake out of yet another murder. Murder done at his hands.

Therapy helped only to a small extend, purposefully opening only one door of choice for Raynor to peek through, while keeping all the other, more hidden and more gruesome doors closed.

He was stubborn like that.

Steven had tried on multiple occasions for him to open up, but was always left frustratedly disappointed with his lack of results. It was something both men needed to get used to, for Bucky had always been the more pliable one out of the two in the past.

He had been without Steve longer than with, and it was like his entire being failed to comprehend the return of his childhood brother. They needed to reread each other, get to know the other through all the abuse and trauma. Like a dialect, a whole new vocabulary despite being the same language.

Looking at Steve now brought him mixed emotions. It was still, without doubt Steve, the blond kid who could not for the life of him stay out of trouble. Who had a mouth more persistent than his survival instinct and who refused to ask for help, always.

But Bucky didn’t need to crouch down to be on eye level with the blond, and his friend didn’t swim in the clothes he borrowed from Bucky. He shared his caramal candies with other people and now had the capability to fight back and actually keep standing.

It was Steve, yes, but was it his Steve?

James Barnes wasn’t even him anymore, so how could the blond still be?

Bucky used to be made from his family, Steven included, blood or no blood. It were his mother’s hands that shaped his, the scent of apple pie and carrot cake apparent in the walls of his home even after her death. It was Rebecca that molded his heart, taught him how to give it and use it. He had his father’s eyes, the man’s positive attitude shown in the permanent crow’s feet along his eyes, a frame of mind Bucky always made sure to bring along with him.

Every person who ever shaped a part of James Buchanan Barnes is now gone. Instead, the pieces were adopted by other hands, folding him so that only the worst parts remained, creating Winter. Bucky wanted nothing more than to shatter those pieces, make room for yet another pair of hands, ones that make him right again. Ones that hold his blood tainted soul but tell him that red is their favorite color.

But, how does one get rid of themselves?

[intoxicated-chan]

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐜

Summary ➳ With the old King’s death, his named heir, Princess (Y/n) has become of age to take the throne and marry. With the Templars having a hold on the royal family, the Assassins decide they are going to have a hand as well.   

(A/n) ➳ I honestly might make a Bridgerton inspired series for each of the assassins. But either way, thank you all for reading, seriously.  

Word Count ➳ 3.5k 

Content Warnings ➳ Female reader, mentions of death, arranged marriage...  

(Rough draft, details may change, along with its summary) 

Shay Patrick Cormac, like most Colonial Assassins, found rest in Davenport Homestead. He would happily admit it though, often found high on branches of trees, against stumps, or shamelessly on benches, he would sleep. He had passion for work but simply found no need as he had a crew of his own, his ship anchored on the decks of the Homestead. His eyes would return to the ship, his ship, the Morrigan. It softly swayed with the currents, his crew coming and going, his flag whipping along with the wind.  

At times, while perched on branches, he would allow his mind wonder back to home. Not of the death of his father, not the streets of which he fought, or the docks where he met his friend. Rather of his aunt, the songs she sang to him while sick in bed, the stories he told of his mother. Oh, his mother, his lovely mother. His father held no photos, nor paintings, and barely he spoke of her. It was all his aunt, she spoke of her like a story, sometimes in the songs she sang. His last night in Dublin was with his aunt, he sat on the fur carpet, clutching a glass of rum in his hand as he hummed an old song, one of hers.  

She came to him, smiling, adoring his singing. She knew what he was going to say, he was going to be on his own. It was Liam that brought his nephew back to her doorstep, alive but bruised. He was never meant to stay in one place, he could not, he had a knack for exploring, seeing the open sea, and feeling the wind and sun on his skin.  

He promised to write to her whenever he could, sending funds and such. Much to her objection. His aunt was the last family he had left, he wished for her to spend her life resting and content.  

He wouldn’t be alone after all, he’d have his friend. 

Pardon, his former friend.  

Shay stared out at the misty shoreline of Britian looming, closer and closer with each hour. The clothes they’ve given him felt constricting and unnatural. It was unbelievably elegant. A dark green coat paired with golden colored embroidery, polished leather boots, and a finely cut waistcoat.  

But the design for appearance is more than utility. The clothing felt foreign, even hostile on his skin.  

The wood of the deck creaked with every step Liam took when he approached him. He took his place by Shay’s side, staring out into the sea with him. “You’ve been quiet the entire voyage. It is unlike you.” 

And in response, Shay scoffed at his assessment. His hands reached for his collar, tugging as he frowned. “Aye, well, these bloody clothes have a way of shutting a man up.” He gestured to himself with disdain. “What am I, Liam? Some painted lord in a picture frame? I am dressed for a masquerade, and a marriage, no less.”  

A small smile tugged at Liam’s lips as he took a better look. “It suits you.” As if he spent weeks trying to convince Achilles and Liam to forget their stupid plan.  

“Suits me?” Shay countered hastily, snapping his head in Liam’s direction. “Oh, aye, like a wolf suits a collar. I am an Assassin, not some pawn or bauble to be dangled in front of the British throne.” 

“Bauble or not, it’s the only way.” Liam said. “You may even find happiness with her.” 

“Happiness?” Shay bit back a bitter laugh. “Don’t even jest, Liam. I am a pawn in some grand scheme! Some piece, or prop! An arranged marriage, of all things. I am no lord. I have no business pretending to be one.” 

“If that is true, then I supposed I should turn the ship around.” Liam said dryly. “But you are not backing out now. You do not get to walk away from this, Shay.” 

His eyes darkened in response, his shoulders tensing. “You think I cannot?” A dangerous edge creeping into his voice. Though he wasn’t armed with his hidden blades, that wouldn’t stop him from grabbing the wheel and turning the dammed ship around. The ship, his ship. 

“You think I do not know you, Shay? I do, you always think before you act and have a rather skewed view on this mission. But this... It is bigger than either of us.” Liam took a breath. “If you wish to come out alive, you will play the role.” 

A long and tense silence was thick between them. The salty winds whipped at their coats, disheveling Shay’s undone hair. His clenched hands now clutched the wood of the ship, turning away as his eyes fell back on the nearing shoreline.  

After another moment, Liam spoke again, this time, his voice was quieter. “Believe me, I tried to find another way. This was all I could do.” 

Shay remained staring on the horizon, his jaw set. He shuddered and shrugged nonchalantly, as if brushing off the apology. “I am to be a picture-perfect lord, am I not? Keep your hands off me, or you will wrinkle my fine silks.” He stated, his tone laced with biting sarcasm.  

Liam sighed, though to him, it was wonderful to hear his sarcasm once more. “Fine silks, eh? I dare say you’re already halfway there.” 

--- --- --- --- --- ---  

The palace was grander than Shay expected. While he walked with Liam and a few servants, he scanned every intricate painting he passed, their steps would’ve echoed the marble floors if it wasn’t for the carpet on top of it.  

The halls continued to stretch, adorned with towering columns and rich tapestries that bore the royal crest. Shelves containing books that most likely haven’t been touched in decades. Even the sun coming through the windows added a touch to the halls, he would say it was extraordinary.  

Even dressed as any other noble, he still felt the discomfort of the lavish surroundings. He ignored the pounding of his heart, attempting to absorb every detail, yet he felt torn. He currently was a world away from his usual life, he no longer felt the weight of his blades or pistols, no hood to cover himself with, he was exposed. Enemies all around him.  

“Keep your head high, Shay.” Liam patted his back. “You needn’t look so solemn. Every man would kill to be in your situation.” 

He elbowed Liam to keep his distance, afraid to catch wandering eyes of servants who may whisper later. “Just be agreeable, for once.” Liam added.  

Shay could feel a noose tightening around his neck.  

The heavy doors creaked open, revealing a chamber lined with high windows and a crimson drapery, along with pasty white and gold. It was a rather ornate drawing room, seated at a polished mahogany desk was a young man.  

A young man indeed, barely twenty, with sharp eyes that missed nothing. He dressed in deep navy brocade and sat poised yet stiffly.  

It was clear that this was the princess’s younger brother, the Regent, holding power until his sister took the throne. His eyes set on Shay the moment he entered, his expression was unreadable as he took Shay’s appearance.  

And he wasn’t alone. There was a line of other lords, rankings of all kinds, staring at him as well. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the servants and murmured to the Lords. 

“So, this is the man I am to entrust my sister’s future.” His voice was cool, detached, nearly taking a taste of his tea. But his nose scrunched at the smell, shaking his head as he once again waved to take the tea away.  

Shay inclined his head slightly and the prince rose, coming closer. His scrutinizing gaze dragged over Shay like merchant appraising goods. “This is him?”  

Liam inclined his head. “Yes, Your Highness. Lord Cormac of-” 

“Spare me the title.” The prince interrupted, rolling his eyes as he stood. He took a step forward. “I assume you are not deaf?”  

Shay tilted his head slightly, suppressing the urge to smirk. “Not the last time I checked, no.” 

The prince let out a sharp exhale through his nose. Was it a laugh? Disapproval? It was hard to tell. “He stands well enough. Taller than I expected. Does he speak well?” He turned to Liam. 

“He does. Educated, strong, the scars speak for themselves.” 

The prince hummed in thought, pacing a slow circle around Shay. “A man’s worth is more than his wit or stature.” He said, stopping just before him. “It is his ability to provide many heirs.” 

He stepped even closer, now mere inches from Shay, inspecting every detail of his face. Then, to Shay’s irritation, the prince snatched and gripped his jaw, tilting his face from side to side.  

His lips curled, though his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “The facial hair may stay. Sadly, my sister is fond of men with strong jaws.”  

Shay arched a brow. “Fortunate for me, then.”  

The prince released him with a dissatisfied sigh but not without tugging at his facial hair once more, plucking out a few hairs which he blew out of his hand. He turned away. “You will be measured for proper clothing immediately. This is the British court, not some backwater.”  

He motioned towards the man nearing the doorway, it was a royal attendant, one that followed them moments ago. “Brooks, see to his attire and ensure he does not look this.” He gestured at Shay’s current clothing.  

Shay exhaled slowly though his nose. “I was not aware my coat was offensive to His Highness’s delicate eyes.” 

The prince turned his sharp eyes back to him, and this time, his smile matched his eyes. “You will find that in this palace, your appearance matters more than your opinions, Lord Cormac. Best you learn that now.”  

He didn’t elaborate further. He merely held Shay’s gaze for a moment longer, then straightened his coat and turned towards the doors. “Take him. Have him measured for proper clothing. If he is to be presented before the court, he will do so dressed as befits his new station.” 

With that, he swept from the room with the lords following behind. The doors shut behind them with a resounding thud. And only when the doors closed behind him, did Shay exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an unwanted touch. 

Liam gave a quick clap. “Could have been worse.” He then pressed a small, folded note into Shay’s palm. “But do not forget why we are here.” He murmured before pulling away with a forced smile. He nodded at Brooks, a silent goodbye and left without another word.  

Shay exhaled through his nose, slipping the message into the sleeve of his coat as he turned to regard the man beside him. 

Brooks was a younger gentleman, possible younger than him. He too was well dressed, groomed, and his face was neutral. His hands remained by his side, waiting for Shay.  

He cleared his throat. “Shall we walk, Brooks?” He asked. “I could use a change of scenery.”  

Brooks inclined his head. “Of course, my lord.”  

The ceilings stretched high above them as they walked. He took the opportunity to glance around and examine portraits he passed before. Or what it seemed to Brooks. Rather, Shay took the layout, the guards’ posts, servant routes or their doors, anything that might prove useful later. 

Though it was quite annoying. The times Shay believed Brooks was gone, he was right behind, a couple paces behind.  

It made him huff and stop, which made Brooks stop. “Come along now, Brooks, no need to be a shadow. Now, walk with me.”  

“I am merely maintaining a respectful distance, my lord.” Brooks replied smoothly. “It is how it is done.”  

“I take it I will not be left to wander on my own?” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“That so? Well, then, allow me a request, since I am, after all, to be family.” 

Brooks arched a brow. “Within reason, my lord.” 

Shay gestured vaguely down the hall. “Would it be too much of a request to see the late King’s chambers, perhaps his study? I hear it held quite the collection.” 

Brooks didn’t pause but his response was immediate. “I am afraid that room is no longer in use, my lord.” 

Shay hummed, feigning curiosity. “No longer in use? A shame. Surely the books have not vanished.” 

“The late king’s private chambers are kept in honor of his memory. It is not open for visitation, per the princess’s request.” 

So, off limits.  

He clicked his tongue but let the matter drop. For now. Brooks guided him down another hallway before stopping before a set of double doors. Servants stood waiting, heads bowed when they approached.  

“The lord Cormac is to be fitted for his new attire.” Brooks announced, gesturing to the room beyond.  

The chamber was well lit, sunlight poured through the high windows. Fabrics of deep blues, silvers, and reds were laid out, and the servants wasted no time approaching him, measuring tapes in hand.  

They stripped him, bathed him, groomed him, and worked on him. Shay shifted his stance when he was pushed on a stool, nearly nude if it wasn’t for the breeches they chose upon. They draped fabrics over his shoulders, murmuring about color palettes that would suit his complexion.  

Shay silently groaned as he shifted his stance, arms half raised as a tailor adjusted his sleeve. Though... 

His curiosity got the better of him. 

“Tell me, what is she like?” 

The servants, each one of them paused. One of the tailors looked up. “My lord?”  

“The princess, future queen.” Shay gestured vaguely as a man came up to him to try another color. “I assume I should know something of the woman I am to marry.”  

There was a moment of hesitation and silence before one of the maids, a young, woman with flaxen hair, gave him a smile. “She is beloved by the people.” 

Shay lifted a brow. “That tells me what she is to the kingdom. I am asking about her.” Their awkwardness nearly made him chuckle, but instead, he grinned. “Come now, you needn’t be coy. Her appearance, her talents? What does she enjoy? How does she spend her time?” 

“Her highness is the jewel of the kingdom, my lord. You are most fortunate.” It was a polite and rehearsed answer.  

“Aye, aye, but I asked for honesty, not pleasantries. So please, tell me.” 

The servants exchanged quick looks before one of them smiled and merely said. “Congratulations on your upcoming marriage, my lord.” 

Shay stared at them.  

They wouldn’t dare to look directly at him. 

They would not answer him. 

--- --- --- --- --- --- 

The servants had finished their work, transforming him from a simple nobleman into the image of Britain’s future king. His dark hair had been combed back, his face carefully groomed, and just like the prince regent said, his facial hair remained.  

The deep navy coat he wore was embroidered with gold threading, its high collar was tight. A fine white cravat sat at his throat, and the tailored waistcoat fit him so well that it was almost suffocating.  

He turned his head slightly, taking in his reflection.  

A king? 

He felt more like a lamb being led to slaughter.  

“Are you ready, my lord?” 

Shay forced a smile. “Was I not before?” 

Though Brooks, the ever so patient remained calm, or neutral. He could no longer read the man. “Not quite like this.” 

He grumbled and continued to admire himself. Then, Shay made an odd request, a need for privacy. A ridiculous reason for preferring to see himself alone before stepping out into his new title. To his surprise, Brooks obliged, motioning for the servants to follow as they filed out of the room. Though, Brooks would remain nearby.  

The instant they were gone, Shay moved.  

He turned to the pile of discarded garments from earlier, shifting through them until his fingers found what he had hidden. The note. 

Liam had mentioned something about a manuscript. One that had been sighted in the late king’s study. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. So that was why the room had been deemed off limits, perhaps the entire royal family was working with the Templars.  

He moved swiftly, heading toward the window. Pushing it open, he looked down. The palace grounds stretched far, he could imagine how dark it would be. How haunting it would be to be lost in the gardens.  

He was satisfied that no one was watching, he hoisted himself over the ledge and began his climb. He scaled the outer wall of St. Jame’s Palace, ensuring he remained unseen by patrolling guards or passersby below. The structure was old, but its height posed no challenge to him. It was second nature to him.  

What concerned him was the number of windows he passed, each one threatening to reveal his predicament. He glanced inside whenever he could, searching for any sign of the study. 

Then, he found it.  

A large, untouched study, no light from what he could see. 

Shay pried open the tall window, or a small fraction of it. He slipped inside, his boots barely making a sound against the polished floor as he straightened.  

A grand room lined with towering bookshelves that touched the roof of the room. The fireplace was cold, but the scent of parchment and aged leather filled the air. The desk at the center was heavy with dust, papers and a ink and quill, books and books upon each other, like left in time.  

Shay wasted no time. He moved to the shelves, scanning titles, searching for anything that might resemble a hidden manuscript. His fingers traced over book spines, occasionally tugging one free to check for anything unusual.  

But before he could get far- 

“You may have called for Dante, he would have happily opened my grandfather’s study to you.” 

Shay froze. 

The voice was soft, amused, and unmistakably hers. 

Slowly, he turned. 

There, seated in the far corner of the room was her with a candle by her side.  

Princess (Y/n). Soon to be Queen.  

She had been watching him the entire time, a book resting open in her lap, her expression one of mild amusement rather than alarm.  

For a moment, Shay said nothing. Then, ever so slowly, he straightened. “And miss the thrill of climbing a palace wall?” He dusted off his sleeve. “Where would the fun be in that?”  

(Y/n) chuckled, closing her book. “You are rather bold for someone who was measured for a crown. If it were anyone else, it may have been called treason.” 

“Bold? I prefer resourceful.”  

She tilted her head, watching him carefully. “And what, pray tell, is the future king of Britain doing sneaking into my grandfather’s- no, the late king’s study.”  

Shay considered his options. He could lie, but something told him that it wouldn’t work with her. So, he chose a mix of truth and fiction.  

“There is a book. One my aunt adored when she was a child. I wished to find it.” He exhaled dramatically. “But I have found that my access to the library is... limited with Brooks breathing down my neck.” 

(Y/n) studied him for a moment before giving a small smile. “And you thought you would have a better chance here.”  

Shay gestured to the bookshelves. “I hear this study holds many things the public library does not.”  

She nodded, standing and brushing down the folds of her gown. “It does.” She admitted. “My grandfather and I used to spend hours here. He would read to me as a child.” She traced her finger along the desk’s edge. “He had a habit of keeping sentimental things.” 

Shay noted the way her voice softened at the memory. “I shall help you look.” 

“You would?” 

“I may not know you well, yet.” She confessed. “But I hope that will change. And if this book is so important to you, then perhaps it is a good place to start.” 

He found himself momentarily at a loss for words. He expected cold formality from his betrothed, like from her younger brother, but rather, he received the opposite.  

(Y/n) walked past him, towards the door but paused before exiting. “And Lord Cormac?” With a playful glint in her eye, she glanced over her shoulder. “If you must sneak about, I suggest using the doors next time, like a civilized man. I cannot have my husband, the king might I add, be seen climbing the walls of the palace. It would cause quite the spectacle.” 

And with that, she disappeared down the hall, calling for her royal attendant, Dante.  

For the first time since stepping foot in Britain, he wasn’t sure who was outmaneuvering whom.  

© Intoxicated-Chan 2025, I do not allow my work to be copied, translated, modified, adapted, or put on any other platform without my permission.

[snzcaretaker]

𝕭𝖊𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖉

Sequel to the drawing/fic Hayfever. When Ambrose unexpectedly pays Edwin a visit, Edwin takes them out into the meadows, breaks down, and confesses his love. Ambrose writes the following letter to reassure him that his feelings are returned, unconditionally and forever. CW: lots of crying, mention of mess, mildly NSFW (they're just horny and in love)

Beloved Edwin, flower of my life, whose tender body is so dear to me, whose every trembling inflames me, and who I adore when he puffs his chest and smiles as much as when he collapses in on himself in violent paroxysms: I give this to you, to keep in your breast pocket. Remember my voice, reading it to you aloud while I write, whilst this letter flows from me as unbidden as the fountains flowing from your face. And read it again if ever you ever again doubt me.

I love you.

Read that again, Edwin. If for any reason I am not here with you now, read it again. You have no cause to cry from loneliness. Cry only happy tears, and be sure to come to me, and cry them on my shoulder. I love you.

How glad I am that I came to call on you today! I missed you, and missed tending to you. And my life has long been missing the confession you bestowed on me: that you love me! My Edwin loves me. Remember my joy at that.

Did I not take your hand unprompted as you led me out into the fields to make some "dreadful confession"? Did I not squeeze that hand in encouragement upon your every sniffle? Did I not hold you when you broke down utterly with tears you could not crush, and told me the depths of your affection? Did I not press you all the closer when your precious face made a mess of my waistcoat, and kiss the salt off your cheeks, and the mess off your nose, and tell you I felt the same? If you doubt whether I will come to you, or whether I will receive you, ask yourself these questions and then seek me, seek me at once, so that I can make you secure in my arms as I did then!

I forgive you for every doubt. You have been mistreated and lonesome in ways that I abhor to think of, and I know how long suffering turns a soul suspicious of happiness. But I come to you honestly, in such fits of passion that you cannot misread my desire. You have seen my eyes cloud over with a haze of lovesick hunger at your every triumph and your every vulnerability, and you have seen how I go still with an urgent fierceness when you speak of needing me. There is no obligation in my want. It has no limits - well or ill, I will dote on you. I will make you happier.

All know this! All my witnesses approve the union! What wild thing has not seen us make love - our secret form of love - in the meadow today, and smiled at the sweet innocence of our play? The swaying grasses saw your head in my lap and your nose buried in my handkerchief, and your cheek nuzzling into my touch. The honeyed, perennial cowslips bowed their drooping heads in honor of us, and they will bow even further down, and sleep under the snow, and witness us again next year. A decade past, when these have withered, the silver birch will still drip its long, gold tassels of pollen from every branch, shake them in the wind, and send you sneezing into my arms. You will never be any less human, or any less loved.

I thank goodness that I am young and strong and free, that I have my life to give to another. All that is in my power to give, you shall receive. Keep me, the whole of me, for the whole of my life. I will keep you, and never abandon you. I swear to you a kind of fealty, and it is this kind: I am your protector. I will guard you from every ill, great or small, from the slightest indignity of irritation, and from the most wracking deathbed fever. Loneliness, you cannot have him! Shame, you cannot have him! Misery, you cannot have him! He is mine to bless with pleasure, and with love.

I love you, Edwin. Pathetic, prideful, sickly, fretting, gallant, pining, needing, I love you. I love you. May my heart lull yours into quietude.

With a desperate conviction, Ambrose

[sondersspite]

The Strange Case of Miss Jekyll and Mr Hyde

Chapter 1

Out in the brisk London morning, two friends indulged in pleasant conversation as they walked through their local park.

One - an entomologist by the name of Gabriel Utterson - rambled incessantly about his studies, uninterrupted by his quieter counterpart. He had curly hair and a soft face, with eyes that sparkled warmly when he spoke. Though he seemed well off, his jacket and waistcoat were carefully preserved, the latter a plush emerald colour with intricate embroidered patterns.

Gabriel was fond of moths, incredibly so. He had an extensive collection that he'd curated himself, trapped by his hands, or sold for an absurd price at auction. His parents had indulged him from a young age, and his friend also.

She hadn't attended university, but encouraged him and his studies by listening attentively and offering assistance when it was needed. There was a time when the two were young in which she'd tripped on a root in the woods, attempting to reach Gabriel with moth eggs she'd found in tree bark. She'd been scolded by her parents for damaging her dress, but she didn't appear to mind.

Henrietta Jekyll didn't appear to have an opinion about anything.

She didn't have hobbies or studies, or a favourite colour. She often wore simple, plain white, accompanied with a parasol to shield her face from the sun, much as she'd been shielded from having her own interests.

Her parents had been strict folk, Gabriel knew that well, and even after their passing his friend never dared to make a life for herself other than the one they'd created. Find a suitable husband, bear children, inherit our estate. She seemed satisfied by this from an outward perspective, but her demeanor was constantly almost doll-like, as if she'd shatter like porcelain under a single touch.

The most warmth she could hold in her eyes, she cast upon Gabriel. She listened closely to him as the two continued their walk, twirling her parasol in her hands as she let a beat of silence pass. She inhaled quietly, her voice soft when she allowed herself to finally speak.

"Gabriel, have you ever considered one's own capacity to change?"

The question took the young man entirely off guard at first. He stopped a little in the path, then straightened, adjusting his glasses with a perplexed look.

"How so? In what way, exactly?"

It was such a shock to hear herself speak that she almost stopped entirely. She debated her thoughts, mulling them over before deciding to continue, humming gently.

"Just a thought I had. You spoke so avidly of moths life cycles, the transformations they endure. Its almost..."

She trailed off, her eyes fixated on the path ahead as she breathed out her last word "...admirable."

Gabriel had turned to face her at this point, his previously confident steps slowing down to a calmer pace, his head tilted in confused fascination. He hadn't heard her speak in such a way before.

"Well-" He cleared his throat slightly, "Its in their nature to adapt."

"And what of human nature?"

Her response was quick, too quick, and Gabriel feared he didn't have an answer. He chuckled lightly in an attempt to shield his inadequacy.

"That isn't exactly my field-"

"But doesn't it interest you?"

There was a sense of excitement in her voice, a breathlessness that made her seem even quieter when she spoke in strings of rambling sentences. Her hands moved quickly, twisting her parasol and making the white lace dance beneath the light. Her friend could only stare, entirely enamoured by her newfound courage.

"The human mind is far more advanced- strong enough I'm sure to enact its own changes- physical and mental. Perhaps for rehabilitation. Criminals, the criminally insane even-"

Gabriel blinked, trying to find the opportune moment in his stunned state not to cut her off. "Yes- yes, I suppose you may be right."

He fell quiet for a moment, unable to stop the intrigue from spilling into his tone.

"And..what sparked this interest? I've heard you utter so few words over the course of our friendship, why has this taken you?"

She hummed a little, her expression shifting subtly back into the calm resting position it usually held. "Inspiration, perhaps?"

Her hands slowed, her parasol going still once more as the two continued to walk. The path beneath them shifted to cobblestone as they left the park and entered the street, and the fleeting passion left Henrietta also. Her words were soft, but slightly sad.

"You do inspire me, Gabriel. Though I dont have my own scientific endeavors, I appreciate you indulging my more..absurd thoughts."

He quickly interrupted, catching up to her on the pathway as she began to drift ahead.

"Its a stroke of brilliance, Henrietta, not absurdity."

She seemed almost struck by that, hesitating in her small strides - though the sentiment quickly faded, replaced with a slightly bitter, but truthful outlook. It wasn't her place as a woman to have such 'strokes of brilliance', and she knew a mutual friend of theirs who wouldn't take it lightly.

"I'm sure our dear Hastie would disagree."

Gabriel physically wilted, falling behind her steps once more as he made a mental note to give his former classmate a strong word.

"Well, I-" He quickly hurried up to her side. "I invited you on this outing, not him. I know he has his..personal feelings in regards to women in the scientific field-"

"You must admit hes right in those feelings."

She didn't feel as though she was being defensive, only stating a fact. Her tone was dull. "It isn't befitting of my station."

"But-"

"Thank you for the company, Gabriel."

He stopped in front of the door to the Jekyll home, hardly understanding how he came to be there. Surely the two hadn't walked that far from the park - he still had so much he wanted to say to her. But instead of insisting on more time, or inviting himself in, he simply watched his friend walk up the steps, the door opened for her by the family butler, Poole. She gave him a glance and he nodded, stepping away with a short bow.

"...good day, Henrietta. Farewell."

[next chapter>>]

[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. 

[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?

[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”

[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!! 👉👈