#then learn to book bind and stain leather and

[hyperfixation-stationn]

I can’t find any scans of the special edition Journal 3 with a high definition look at what’s under the pictures…

What if I… what if I scanned my journal and edited them…. Hahaha…..

Oh

(The editing process)

[writingjourney]

Unprecedented | Secondo x gn!Reader

Or: The four times you almost get Secondo to admit his feelings for you and the one time you succeed.

Summary: Working with Secondo is only half as bad as people make it seem – at least until you fall in love with each other.

Content: 12.7k words, gn!reader, pining, sexual tension/suggestive language, food mention, blood/minor injury, forced proximity, soft secondo, terzo being a menace, smut-ish in part four but definite smut in part five (thigh riding, unprotected sex, penetration, dom/sub dynamics), 18+ MDNI

thank you for being patient with me, this is my first time writing Secondo, so pls go easy on me ♡

Masterlist – Ao3 link

1 Voluntary Abstinence

The air gets colder by a few degrees as you take the last few narrow steps down the winding staircase into the basement. Burnt-down candles are illuminating the hallway from small alcoves, wax dripping down the weathered stone, their light flickering off the dark brick walls. Amongst these dancing shadows you make your way to the door at the other end of the hall. It’s made of iron, heavy and airtight, the rooms beyond kept on very specific temperature and humidity levels to preserve the precious items they’re protecting.

You push it open and find yourself in a small antechamber that leads into three different rooms – a tiny office, the restoration workshop and a small storage room. Entering this area always feels like stepping foot inside a secret laboratory, though it looks far less sterile with all the shelves of old tomes, paintings and other cursed as well as non-cursed artefacts.

“Papa?” you whisper upon closing the door.

“Office,” a steady voice calls back.

You find Papa Emeritus II bent over the desk, sorting through papers. He’s wearing his narrow reading glasses, the paint by his ears slightly smudged while his outfit remains pristine. Black slacks, a black button down shirt, sleeves rolled up casually, his usual black leather gloves switched for white cotton ones to avoid fingerprints and sweat stains.

He’s hard at work, has been for most of the morning, trying to save a rare first edition of Nietzsche’s Der Antichrist. He lets you observe him from time to time, ever since you expressed your genuine interest in his restoration work. His book-binding fascinates you the most so whenever an interesting project emerges, he lets you know and you get as much time off from your regular clergy duties as possible in order to learn from him. Lucky for you, Sister has no issue excusing you from time to time to help Papa down here. Not many Siblings have the patience or steady hands to work on these intricate projects and even less want to work with Secondo at all, if only for his understandably high standards when it comes to handling fragile artefacts.

“How is it going, Papa?” you ask casually.

“I am taking some time to document the process and sort through these,” he says. “My hands are a little too shaky for bookbinding right now.”

When you don’t reply, he finally looks up at you. His eyes appear bigger behind the glasses but he quickly takes them off, the marks now imprinted on his nose making you smile. Only the smile quickly vanishes when you take in his tired eyes. Even under the black make-up he looks exhausted, sleep-deprived and almost hungover, though you know he wouldn’t drink in the middle of a project like this. So there has to be a different cause.

Secondo, meanwhile, takes you in as well. You’re wearing the tight habit that hugs your body in all the right places today and he’s very pleased with that. Perhaps by now you’re aware it’s his favorite, he knows you’re observant like that, such a smart, sharp-witted thing you are. He’s trying very hard not to stare but you’re too busy worrying to notice.

“Are you feeling alright, Papa? You look… ugh.” You’re clearly trying to find a polite way to put it and it amuses him greatly. Even now you hesitate to speak your mind around him. “I mean, you seem like you’re in need of some rest.”

“Yes, sleep was not a priority last night.” He smirks to himself at the memory, he can still feel it in his sore muscles as well. “So you will have to excuse me looking a bit tired today, Sibling.”

Your lips press together into a thin line. “Oh. Of course.”

Secondo does not miss the hurt that’s flickering over your face. Once, he might have, but by now he’s seen this look so many times that he can catch it in milliseconds. The guilt he feels upon glimpsing it is the main reason he established certain rules in the first place. As a man with many lovers, Secondo had to find ways to stop anyone from developing any actual feelings for him that he cannot reciprocate. Most of the time, this isn’t a real issue, the intentions are clear, people seek adventures, a like-minded lover who can satisfy them in ways that others can’t. But from time to time expectations change, feelings get in the way and it’s so very human but very bothersome at the same time. Secondo has no desire to toy with anyone, so at the first hint of anything that goes beyond lust, he usually calls it quits to avoid inflicting any more pain than necessary.

But there is a key difference here: You’re not his lover.

“Well, I won’t keep you, Papa, I just wanted to see the progress and check in on you. I have to help out with lunch preparations now, but perhaps I can come back later,” you say without meeting his eyes again. “I wish you a productive day nonetheless.”

He wants to stop you and say something, only he’s not sure what there is to say at all. Please, do come back? Don’t leave yet? 

It’s only when you’re out the door that he realizes he could have just thanked you.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Despite what occurred in his office before lunch, you’re back in the early afternoon hours, presenting him with some painkillers and a cup of black coffee. He can tell by the smell alone that this hasn’t been brewed in the kitchens; you clearly begged Terzo to let you use the fancy coffee machine in his office. It’s always worth it, even if Terzo teases him mercilessly when it comes to you by now, his little assistente, as he calls you.

You don’t comment on your hasty exit from earlier as you set down your cargo on his desk and take a seat on the wooden chair opposite from him. You’re staying for a while, it seems, that’s good. He can use your company after working alone in the basement all day.

Not used to someone taking care of him, Secondo tries not to show how your simple gesture affects him. “Thank you, my dove. This is just what I needed.”

You smile with genuine kindness, the sort of smile that always makes him pause as he feels its paralysing effect on him. “You’re welcome, Papa. Are you feeling any better?”

He smiles and takes a much needed sip of coffee. “Yes, but I think I should take a bit of a break from…” He stops, trying to word it carefully. “… the nightly activities.”

“Oh, really?”

Your eyes bore into his and it’s like you’re begging for the honest answer he simply cannot give you. Secondo knows – he knows of your feelings for him, he knows of your desires, your wishes, your hopes. And he’d be a liar if he claimed not to return them. But right now being a liar seems easier to him than admitting to any of this.

“I am not getting any younger and I can’t have it impacting my work too much,” he states instead, a lame excuse for certain. His stamina is impressive even now and his reputation precedes him. It’s the lack of sleep that’s affecting him more and more, some joint pains maybe, but even that is barely worth mentioning – he can focus when he has to. Satan knows he could have a Sibling or even a ghoul over every single night if he really wanted to.

There is only one reason he doesn’t find proper fulfilment in most of these nightly encounters anymore. And that reason is looking at him with wide and far too hopeful eyes right now.

“I’m sure some people will be very sad to hear that,” you finally say, glancing away.

Not you, no, he thinks.

You shift in your seat, then, and he can’t tell why exactly you’re so nervous all of a sudden. It could be the subject matter. He doesn’t take you for being shy, so maybe it’s because of your very obvious attraction to him, the mere idea that anything could happen between you, implied by the fact he’s telling you about his sex life right now when you’ve been lingering on a safe professional level for months.

Secondo is not in the habit of discussing his private matters with people who aren’t involved, as much as Terzo tries to coax the details out of him over drinks sometimes. He is a private person, discreet, not necessarily secretive but certainly disinterested in any sort of unqualified opinions. But with you he feels safe enough to at least hint at them, if only to see that delicious blush spread across your gentle face.

“Well, I’m not saying that I’ll stay abstinent forever,” he finally says, aware that he’s sending out very mixed signals. “But I think I will be more selective from now on.”

You look at him again and your eyes still shimmer with expectation. He almost hates himself for giving you false hopes. But he can’t help it, you just look so stunning when you’re flustered for him, when your eyes circle in on his bare forearms, his gloves, his lips, your breathing becoming heavier by the second. Arousal suits you, he decides. It takes a lot of restraint to withstand the urge to show you what he could do to you if he just gave in. And this is certainly not the first time the image of fucking you on this very desk pops into his head.

In the end, you don’t comment. It’s something he appreciates a lot about you, the fact that you know when to shut up. And for the rest of the afternoon, while you watch him work on the Nietzsche, standing idly by the side with your eyes glued to his hands, you barely say another word. But you don’t have to – the very telling smile that never leaves your face speaks for itself.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

2 Papa’s Personal Pasta Day

Wednesday is Pasta Day.

Three different types of pasta, three different types of sauce you get to choose from. It’s the best day of the week, everyone agrees – even Secondo.

And yet your Papa is nowhere to be found today.

It’s not rare for him to skip lunch or avoid the bustle of the dining hall, but you always, without a doubt, catch him here on Wednesdays. As you eat the remainders of your own meal, staring at the empty spot next to his brothers where he usually sits, you wonder what keeps him occupied. You know he finished the Nietzsche but you also know that he recently got another box filled with rare books. So the only real explanation is that he’s even busier with those now.

Which means he’s skipping lunch altogether.

A sudden movement in your peripheral vision. Terzo stands up with his tray, though you can already see two Siblings scurrying towards him, ready to do the job for him. Without thinking too much you gulp down your last bite and hurry after him, asking a friend to dispose of your empty plate, an idea forming in your mind.

You catch him in the hallway as he’s sauntering back to his office, humming a merry tune.

“Papa!” you call out to avoid running after him for another five minutes.

“Hm?” Terzo spins around, smiling in recognition. “Oh. Buongiorno, Sibling. Don’t you look so well today?”

“Thank you, Papa. I was wondering if you can you spare me a moment?”

“Ahh, for you always!” The corners of his mouth curl up into smirk. “I hope you don’t come to complain about my fratello? Because that list is already very long.”

You assure him it’s not a complaint and follow him to his office. Once inside, he casually leans against his desk, folding his hands neatly in front of him as he awaits your plea. A few dots of red pasta sauce stain his right glove but you’re too nervous to point them out to him.

“I have a… a request,” you start, fidgeting under his intense gaze. “It’s unusual and I totally understand if you won’t allow me such a thing. But…  can I use your kitchen?”

“My kitchen?” he asks, brows shooting up in surprise. “Whatever would you use my kitchen for?”

You blush profusely as you start to explain. “It’s just… your brother skipped lunch today and you know he’s working so hard on these books right now. He probably forgot to eat again and it will give him another headache in approximately two hours. I would ask to use his kitchen, of course, but then it wouldn’t be a surprise anymore and you know I can’t use the Ministry kitchens because they’re busy in there now cleaning up. And I really don’t want to bring him reheated leftovers.”

Terzo considers this, considers you. “Oh Sibling, you really do like him, eh? What is it that you see in him? He’s a grumpy old man with no sense of humour.”

“He’s not so grumpy when we’re alone,” you offer, even more heat creeping up your neck. “And he can be funny, in a kind of dry, unintentional way.”

“Hmmmm. My coffee machine, my kitchen…” Terzo furrows his brow, the skull paint on his face giving him a slightly menacing look. “What is next? My bedroom?”

Your eyes widen. “Oh no! No, it’s not that kind of… not that kind of thing.”

Terzo chuckles and his features relax, making way for genuine amusement. “No? You want to tell me you don’t fuck down there?”

“N-no…”

“Ah, well, so it is on me to give it a little nudge?” His hand moves up to his chin in mock contemplation as he smiles at you. “Va bene, you can use my kitchen but I have one condition.”

You give him a pleading look, folding your hands in front of your chest. “Whatever you want, Papa, I will gladly do it.”

He smirks again, fishing for his keys before throwing them at you. “I expect some leftovers in the fridge tonight. And they better be good.”

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Carrying a tray down the narrow steps into the basement is not an easy feat, especially because your mind constantly tries to tell you that this is a bad idea and you forget to watch your steps. In the humidity underground the stone gets especially slippery, just like your situation with Secondo. You’re not quite sure how he’s going to take this. You shouldn’t have made such an effort. This whole idea was born from mere intuition, from that pathetic need to impress him that you always carry around with you.

But you just can’t control that tiny part of you that wants to prove just how perfect you are for him, how well you’d take care of him if he just allowed you to be in his life – no matter how unlikely that is.

You just hope it’s not awful, especially since Terzo is going to eat that big bowl of pasta you left in his fridge. To be fair, his kitchen looked like it had never been used before, so at least you don’t have to worry that you messed up his routine.

You sigh in relief when you see that the lights are on in the workshop. You can hear Secondo in the main room, so you set the tray down in his office, the only area down here where eating is actually allowed, and then knock very carefully to avoid startling him.

“Oh.” His eyes land on you and sets down the book in his hand that already looks mostly finished. “Good morning, Sibling.”

You lift your eyebrows with a smile. “Hello, Papa. Though I’m afraid I have to tell you that it is not quite morning anymore.”

He eyes the clock on the wall above him, exhaling in defeat. “I forgot the time, to be honest. I missed lunch, no?”

You linger near the door, ready to take the plunge. “Well, you did, but… are you hungry by any chance?”

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Secondo is not quite sure what to expect when you lead him into the office. What he certainly didn’t expect was a tray that resembles the ones used for room-service in the upscale hotels he loves to frequent, cloche and napkin included. He knows you have good taste by being around you so often, but that it is this excellent is news to him. The thought of you choosing this fancy dishware for him is almost enough to make him smile.

“So you brought me lunch?” he asks, though he should not be surprised by your efforts. You’re always attentive, you most likely noticed him missing earlier and pieced it all together.

“I made this in your brother’s kitchen,” you warn him. “So, he might ask about it.”

As he takes a seat behind the desk, Secondo’s brow furrows. “You made it? It’s not from the kitchens?”

At this question you bite your lip. He tries not to stare at your mouth. “Uhm, I made it, yes. I didn’t want to bring you stale leftovers and besides, they didn’t have your favorite today…”

Secondo leans back in his chair. He can tell that you expect him to scold you, to tell you that he wouldn’t have minded the leftovers, that you shouldn’t waste your time on such a thing, but that’s not what’s on his mind at all. To anyone else, he might have said these things, but to you? He feels his heart swelling in his chest at the gentle care you offer him, an altogether unfamiliar feeling, so all he can really do is stare at you in wonder.

You seem uneasy under his lingering gaze, your restless hands fiddling with your habit. “Okay, well, I should leave you to it. I have other dut–”

“No, no, you stay,” he commands and there is no room to question him. He will not let you scurry off again, not this time.

He waits for you to take a seat before he removes the cloche from the plate, revealing a beautiful serving of Spaghetti Cacio e Pepe, complete with freshly ground pepper on top as well as some half-molten parmigiano. He fails to suppress a surprised exhale as he takes in the food. It’s a beautiful plate, one he may well find in one of his favorite restaurants in Rome or Milan.

“How do you know what is my favorite?” he asks, spreading the napkin out over his lap.

“Oh well, I’ve… I’ve seen you get it for lunch whenever they offer it… Maybe it’s not your favorite, I just assumed…”

“It is my favorite,” he admits. “You’re very observant, my dove. I should be more careful around you, eh?”

You smile at him and the corner of his mouth curls upwards as well before he quickly averts his gaze. Secondo grabs the fork and moves it around in the pasta, his stomach giving an urgent growl. It’s beyond him how he managed to miss lunch being this hungry, but you made sure to give him his very own Pasta Day and a much better one at that.

From your side of the table, his feelings are still veiled in shadows, hidden by the severity of his features. You can’t quite tell what he’s thinking, but you have to admit that the situation is a bit awkward because all you do is sit here and watch him eat. Secondo, completely unbothered, has quickly finished half of what you put on his plate and you feel mildly concerned that you didn’t bring enough. He moans softly every few seconds and you struggle to hide what it does to you. There is something inherently erotic about this man eating your food, the way he seems to treasure every single bite, how he licks the sauce off his painted lips before using the napkin to gently clean them, leaving a mouth-shaped black stain on the cloth. It’s not hard to imagine the same shape covering every inch of your body, an entirely unhelpful thought. Secondo can’t hear how rapidly your heart is beating in your chest, but he may well notice how you sit there with your thighs pressed together, hands covering your lap.

“It’s good?” you ask for distraction, fiddling with a loose thread on your sleeve.

“Very good,” he states. “Have you not tried it?”

“Uh… well I had to hurry down here before it got cold.”

Secondo fills another fork, expertly wrapping the spaghetti around its tines. Then he holds it out to you, his other hand kept flat underneath it, and you realise that he wants you to eat. 

That he wants to feed you.

Your chest feels like exploding as you lean over the desk to reach him. Eyes locked with his, you slowly open your mouth, pushing your tongue out just enough to give him a glimpse. His hand doesn’t move, in fact he’s completely static as his eyes move to your open mouth. They stay glued there, his own lips parting just slightly. The expression turns his features unusually soft.

“Papa?” you ask, trying to hide a grin.

Secondo looks back into your eyes, but before he can move, you wrap your lips around the fork and slowly drag the spaghetti off. He watches your every move and his reaction gives you the courage to continue. You moan softly at the taste, the intense aroma of the Pecorino still evident in the sauce and it is good, you have to give yourself credit for that.

You hum vocally, a sound that hits Secondo like a brick.

You’re so deliciously unaware of the pain he’s going through, how the sight of you licking your lips nearly drives him insane. Your tongue darts out to reach the corner of your mouth, but there is some sauce closer to your chin that you have to remove with your thumb. When you suck it off the digit, Secondo has to fight a deep groan and it comes out as a strangled cough. His cock is twitching in his pants, already half-hard, and he knows he has to get a grip. You’re eating, it shouldn’t have such an impact on him.

“I may need some more practice,” you say, sitting back in your chair. “But I would say it’s better than in the kitchens.”

“You’re modest,” Secondo states. “It was perfect, my dove, thank you. I could not have prepared this dish any better and I have made it a hundred times.”

An almost shy smile, only betrayed by the way your lips quiver as you hold back your delight at his praise. “You’re flattering me, Papa, I’m sure you’re way more proficient than I am.”

It’s an endearing look on you, a hopeful sort of confidence, laced with a hint of hesitation. He’s not sure where his next words come from, but despite their barely hidden meaning he can’t hold them back. “I hope I get the chance to return the favor soon. I think I know what your favorite is and I happen to know the perfect recipe.”

Your grin widens, your whole expression one of warmth and joy and he’s rendered speechless for a very conspicuous amount of time.

“Should I get rid of the tray?” you ask. “I think your brother wants his dishes back.”

He finds his words again at the mention of Terzo. “Only if you come back down here after. I need your help this afternoon or I am going to miss dinner as well.”

“Certo, Papa,” you say, mimicking his Italian. “I will be back before you notice that I’m gone.”

You grab the tray and he watches your figure disappear through the door, slumping back in his chair with a myriad of thoughts and feelings running through his mind that he can’t possibly catch up with. His hand finds his crotch as soon as you’re out of sight, adjusting just enough to get rid of the painful tightness in his pants. 

At least this time he didn’t forget to thank you.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

3 Seeing Red

He’s trusting you with a Crowley.

It’s unprecedented. Secondo had Siblings watching before, he had them assist him before by bringing him tools, but never before has he allowed them to touch any of his delicate books.

It’s the next logical step. You have been watching him for months now, you have practiced on less valuable books and shown unexpected talent. And even now, with the Crowley in hand, he’s surprised to find himself trusting you completely.

Inexplicably, his eyes find you ever few minutes without his own doing. It’s not to control you, though maybe a tiny part of him does indeed check in with the state of your work. Whenever you look back, you hold his gaze so confidently. It’s intoxicating to have your eyes on him, fully aware that you reciprocate the feeling, and even when you don’t look back, seeing you so patiently focused on the needle in your hands is quite the sight.

His staring doesn’t stay unnoticed. You catch him looking at you for the tenth time in the past few minutes, though that is only a rough estimate. As elated as you are by his attention, you’re genuinely getting frustrated with him. He has to feel the tension between you. You refuse to believe that all those lingering looks are meaningless to him.

A sudden sharp pain in your finger. You hiss, more in surprise than in pain, and quickly pull away. The thick, curved needle pierced your white cotton glove and dug straight into your skin. By pulling it out so rapidly, you must have damaged an artery or at least left a pretty big wound because the blood spills out immediately. The shock only lasts for a quarter of a second before you pull your hand away, just in time before a few heavy droplets of blood drip down your wrist and onto the floor. Fortunately, the book still looks pristine and you take a shuddering breath of relief.

“What happened?” Secondo asks.

“I… I–”

Before you can explain, he’s by your side, roughly grabbing your arm to hold it steady.

“I didn’t bleed on the book,” you stammer. “I pulled my hand away really fast.”

His grip on your wrist is impossibly tight and you wonder if he’s going to scold you for your clumsiness, for being so distracted. His lips are pressed together as he takes in your shaky frame, his eyes meeting yours with such intensity that you struggle not to break away and you feel your lips quivering as you fight back tears.

“I’m so sorry, I– I didn’t–”

“I don’t care about the book,” he says and then he pulls you out of the workshop. Once you’re safely back in his office, he leaves for the storage room. You stand there, watching the blood run over your hand, pressing your thumb into your pulse in hopes of limiting the blood flow just like he did. But the once white glove is ruined by now, blotchy and red all over.

When Secondo returns, he carries a first aid kit. He sits down on the chair in front of his desk and motions for you to join him. You carefully step beside him, hand out-stretched in a cautious offering, but he’s having none of it, he just pulls you straight into his lap and grasps your wrist again.

“Let’s examine the damage,” he says, even though you’re not sure you can even hear him. His strong thighs are firm underneath yours, keeping you steady, but then there’s the throbbing in your finger, his hand on your arm, a wild mixture of impressions that overflow your sensory perception. Your rapid heartbeat surely does nothing to help with the bleeding.

You fight the urge to shift nervously but he doesn’t seem to notice your state, just turns your hand skyward and gets to work. He meticulously removes your bloody glove, one finger at a time, the fingertips of his own turning red in the process. Frustrated by the barrier, he removes them as well, throwing them aside with an annoyed grunt. Once his bare hands grasp yours, you feel a shiver running down your spine. The pain in your finger ceases to exist for a moment as you realise that this is the first skin on skin contact you ever shared. You’re closer than ever, so close you can smell the remainders of his cologne, feel his exhales on your skin.

“It’s not as bad as I thought,” Secondo muses. “You hit a bad spot.”

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I’m not usually so careless.”

“I know, my dove. It happens.”

Not to me, you want to say, not while I’m here, trying so hard to impress you.

“Go wash out the wound,” he orders then, his hand patting your hip in encouragement, dangerously close to your ass.

You reluctantly hop off his legs and wash your hand in the sink in the workshop. The water runs red at first but turns clear in the matter of seconds. With the blood gone, the wound only looks half as scary and you’re far less shaky when you return to the office.

You expect Secondo to just leave you to yourself now, but he immediately pulls you back into his lap, turning slightly to reach into the first aid kid on his desk, fiddling for bandaids and a spray bottle with disinfectant. You patiently hold out your hand, waiting for him to figure out the logistics.

The antiseptic stings and you flinch, more from shock than actual pain. Secondo is so careful, not a single tremor in his deft fingers as he applies the bandaid, making sure it sits tight around your still throbbing digit.

“There,” he says. “It is better now, yes?”

You nod, sniffling as you try to calm down. “Thank you, Papa.” 

His mismatched eyes meet yours and the concerned furrow in his brow softens. One of his hands rests on your hip, the other comes up, hovering by your jaw as though he’s scared to touch you. You feel his fingertips grazing your skin, tickling, exploring cautiously.

His gentle touch gives you courage. You lean in slowly and press your lips to his cheek. The feeling of his skin against your lips is so soft that you linger, kissing again and again, slowly moving them further down while one of your hands skims his other cheek. Your last kiss hits the corner of his mouth and you hear him suck in a sharp breath through his nose. His lazy grip on your hip suddenly tightens until you can feel the tips of his fingers digging into your flesh.

You sit back and look at him. There is something wild in his eyes now, a flicker of… you can’t quite decide if it’s lust or anger. For a long moment he stares at you like this, a terrifying expression that keeps you static. Right when you come to the conclusion that he must be angry, that you have to apologise, his hand shoots up to grab your chin and then his fingers push into your hair, his second hand joining in until he’s properly holding your head. He growls and presses his lips together until his whole face is tense.

“Papa,” you whisper. “Did I–“

He shuts you up by moving to stand, simultaneously lifting you onto his desk and pushing himself between your legs until your chest is pressed to his. The first aid kit flies to the floor, but the impact is only evident by a distant cluttering because all you can focus on is him. Secondo’s hands find your head again, holding it in place as he continues to stare at you, eyes moving from your lips to your nose to your cheeks that are squished between his palms, and then, finally, they meet yours.

You think he’s going to kiss you as he leans in, but then his head abruptly turns to the side and he buries his face in your neck. With a groan, he pulls you further into him, squeezing so tightly that you lose your breath.

“You’re killing me,” he mumbles. “Oh, my dove, you will end me.”

”Papa–“

Another groan. He sounds like he’s suffering, a wounded animal about to turn into roadkill. You don’t quite understand. It feels good to be so close to him, to have him hold you like this, so you simply sink into his embrace, move your unhurt hand to the back of his neck and softly scratch his scalp. He sighs deeply, slowly relaxing against you.

“What is this?” you mumble.

He gives a dry chuckle. “I wish I knew.”

✦ ✧ ✦ 

4 The Storage Closet Incident

Are you high on glue and paint solvent? Maybe.

In any case, your head is spinning. You spent all morning so far sorting through a fresh delivery of restoration materials, taking inventory and checking if they’re complete. Papa was here earlier to check in with you but left for a clergy meeting half an hour ago, so you’re left alone inside the storage room. There are three more boxes outside in the hallway and you’re on your fourth now, different types of paints and solvents and glue. You never opened any of the cans but you swear you nevertheless inhale the biting fumes.

Upon crossing out the last few items on your list, you hear a heavy knock. Maybe you should be cautious with opening considering that no one ever knocks here, but you do indeed find Secondo in front of the entrance, still fully robed.

“Forgot my keys upstairs,” he mumbles, patting down his pockets as though they would magically appear if he just tried hard enough.

“You can take the ones inside the storage room for the rest of the day,” you suggest.

“Humph.”

He’s usually in a pretty foul mood after clergy meetings that involve his father, so you’re not surprised by the lack of conversation. You watch him pull the keys out of the lock – the door stays open while you’re busy in the storage room anyway – and when he carries them into his office, you think nothing of it. Any potential concern would have escaped you at the latest when you catch him shedding his robes through the open door. As soon as they’re hung up on the coat rack in the corner, you can’t help but sigh. He’s wearing his classic black shirt underneath – black because it won’t show the paint stains on his collar. But it barely touches his neck anyway; he keeps it open just enough to display the first few inches of dark, curly chest hair. You take in his slender form, the taut muscles on his arms stretching out the fabric as he moves around, sorting through the papers on his desk, hands covered in tight black leather gloves that perfectly match his belt.

“So…” He looks up and catches you staring. “How is inventory going?”

“Great,”you say, finally looking back at your actual work. “I’m more than halfway done.”

“Good,” he says. “You’re fast.”

You smile when you deposit the last bottle of glue onto the shelf. “Speaking of inventory, can you help me carry the rest of the boxes? I left the big ones for when you get back.”

He’s already back out of the door before you even finish your sentence, carrying one of the heavier cartons inside to where you’re standing. You push it in front of the designated shelf and wait for him to bring the other two boxes in as well – carrying both at the same time. On his way inside he bumps against the open door to the storage room and it falls close behind him. He sets the boxes down and you notice him flinching as he rights himself, even though he covers it up with a low cough. You make a mental note to acquire something for his back pains, perhaps Primo can whip up some sort of tincture or cream. And even though you highly doubt Secondo would let you rub it into his back, the image is very clear in your mind now.

You hide your deepening blush by pulling out your neat little list, flipping through the pages without actually reading anything. “Thank you, Papa. I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon sorting these until Sister needs me.”

He moves to reach out for your arm, but his hand drops before he ever reaches it. “Thank you, my dove. I know it’s tedious work.”

You smile at him, a little disappointed that he didn’t touch you. “Well, I’m happy to help in any way I can.”

His gaze lingers on you for a little longer before he pulls himself away to return to the office. Only then do you realise that something is very odd in here. The door is closed. Fully closed. With no functioning door handle inside, you have no way of getting out without the keys. For a second, all you can do is stare at the metal bar used to pull it open – and the very empty hole where the key would usually be found.

“You have the keys, Papa,” you remind him.

“I don’t,” he states. “They’re on the desk.”

His lips are pressed together tightly and you can feel the colour draining from your face.  No one ever comes down here, there is no chance people are going to find you anytime soon, at least not before your friends notice you missing.

You swear you can hear him mumble a cazzo, before he lets his forehead rest on his hand, massaging his temples, but your heart is beating so fast that it drowns out all other sounds. You’re not necessarily panicking, even though you do suddenly begin to wonder whether you’re secretly claustrophobic or not.

“It’s fine, I have my phone,” he says but you already know there won’t be any reception down here. Your suspicion is confirmed when he sets it down on the shelf next to him with a little too much force.

“My friends will probably come looking for me when I miss lunch.”

He looks over to you and suddenly his expression changes. There is a glimmer of something almost dangerous in his white eye that makes him look menacing, the effect only amplified by his skull paint and the sharp lines of his cheekbones. You back against the wall behind you, unable to look away despite your body telling you to be on alert. The last time he looked at you like this was when you hurt your hand and you wonder if he’s finally going to initiate more. The thought is arousing and bone-chilling at the same time.

”Papa–“

“Are you scared?” he interrupts, reading you perfectly.

“No,” you reply. “I’m not claustrophobic.”

He approaches you slowly, the soles of his black leather shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. “That is not what I meant.”

When he stops right in front of you, you swallow, your throat suspiciously dry all of a sudden. You can smell him over the paint solvent now, his cologne so heavy in your nose that you get dizzy. If you weren’t high before, then you are definitely high now. Instead of fear, you suddenly feel incredibly, stupidly bold, full of adrenaline and longing.

“I’m not scared of you,” you say somewhat confidently. “I’m not scared of being alone with you.”

You should be, his eyes are telling you. Even closer now, he leans into you, his hands resting on the wall on either side of your head. You know the eye contact is something he enjoys so you keep your eyes on him without flinching away.

“If I had you right here right now no one would hear you screaming.” He chuckles uncomically, his voice deeper than you’ve ever heard it before. “I could do to you whatever I want.”

“Then why don’t you?”

He furrows his brow. “Hm?”

“Why the hell don’t you?” you challenge. “Why don’t you show me what you want to do to me?”

He seems taken aback by this, staring down at you with his lips slightly parted. For a second you think he’s going to snap back, scold you for disrespecting him, but he just huffs out a laugh. “You know why.”

“No I don’t!” You fight back tears as all of your suppressed emotions threaten to spill out. A strangled sob almost swallows your next words. “I don’t.”

Secondo stares at you and you finally look away, trying hard to stay quiet. You know this is not what he expected to happen and neither had you. But you can’t stop, you’ve lost control over your emotions and now that the cork has been removed you can’t get it back inside.

“I keep trying to find a reason why you don’t want me.” You force your gaze to meet his once more, despite being afraid of what you’re going to see in his eyes. “What’s wrong with me, Papa? What do I lack that the others before me had? What is wrong with me that you don’t even want me for a night?”

You’re crying now, struggling to make sense of him. Frankly, you’re already embarrassed by your outburst and expect him to laugh it off or gently tell you that he appreciates you but just doesn’t feel attracted to you like that. Even him yelling at you would help at this point.

“My dove–”

“Don’t call me that.”

He cocks his head to the side, his lip quivering slightly. “Where is this coming from now?”

You don’t reply, even though your pout should be answer enough. Secondo regards you for a long moment but there is no anger, only curiosity.

“Who knew you could be so feisty?” he mumbles, leaning in even closer but turning away just before your mouths can touch. 

His lips ghost over your cheek, down your jaw, but they never touch. All you can feel is his hot breath on your skin, the tip of his nose dragging over your cheekbone. You squirm, letting out a desperate, high-pitched whimper. Secondo chuckles against your ear and the unfamiliar sound goes straight to your core, goosebumps running all over your body.

“You’re cruel,” you whisper. “So cruel.”

“I am.” His lips touch the shell of your ear. “But you seem to enjoy it.” 

Impulsively, you wrap your hands around his neck for support. Secondo moves to look at you again, his pupils blown wide with lust. This time, you close the gap by leaning in, but he turns away just slightly, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. You try again, more boldly this time, and you swear your lips are already grazing his, but then they’re gone again. His hand moves to grip your chin painfully tight, his thumb digging into your cheek so hard you can feel it pressing against your teeth. You’re completely immobile and when you test it out, his grip tightens even more. You’re pretty sure you’ll find subtle bruises all around your jaw tomorrow.

Secondo’s mouth still hovers just in front of yours, his exhales tickling your face, but he remains just out of reach. You whimper in desperation and he chuckles again, nuzzling your nose.

“Not so bold anymore now, eh?”

“Please,” you whine, squirming in his grip.

“Please what?”

You let out a half-strangled mewl. “P-please.”

Secondo hums and he can feel your body shivering underneath his, muscles jerking, everything inside of you trying to reach for more. He knows he’s being cruel, knows that you’re suffering, but he can’t deny that the thrill of having you at his mercy like that is spurring him on. He wants to test out your limits, see how far he can go, if he can get you to beg even more. You’re always so good, so quiet and polite. Seeing those previously unknown sides of you is like unwrapping a birthday gift and why should he stop when there is still so much more to explore?

You whimper louder this time and he brings his other hand to your waist, pulling you flush against him. A gasp and your mouth stays open just slightly, lips wet and glistening with spit, still pushed into a beautiful little pout bis his gloved fingers. He pushes his erection against you, eliciting a moan from you that seems to come from somewhere deep within. It’s what tips him over the edge, his patience dissolving into thin air. He unravels, closing the gap and swallowing all of your other sounds with his mouth. The kiss is sudden and almost violent. He has to release your jaw to ease the pressure on your head, but he just moves his hand down to your neck instead. More moans and whimpers as his tongue pushes into your now open mouth and it’s adorable how you keep trying to move against him. He rewards your efforts by easing up just slightly, allowing you to taste him as well. 

Secondo is not sure what’s taking hold of him but he can’t fight the urge to taste more of your body. You’re all breathless when his mouth moves to your cheek and over your jaw, soothing, exploring. His lips find the soft skin below your ear, a shiver running down his neck. He can feel the tendon there twitching underneath his tongue and then he’s just sucking with reckless abandon, his intensity the result of a week-long, maybe even month-long starvation.

You moan into his ear and he thinks he’s going to lose it, his hips move on their own accord, pushing against you. It’s not a lot of friction but it’s enough to extract a deep groan from him. He wants to let go, he wants to have you so bad that it’s starting to obscure all rational thought. But he can’t lose control like that, not right now. As a safety precaution he pulls away, slotting his knee between your legs instead. With his hand on your hips he pulls you forward and you groan at the friction. A strangled sob and you try to wriggle for more. It’s uncomfortable with all the layers of clothing in between. His own pants are so tight that it provides him more pain than relief but to see you unravelling under his ministrations is enough to keep him going.

“Please,” you whisper, wriggling even more but his hand on your hips stays firm. He can feel the fabric of his pants getting wet under your movements, your crotch hot against his leg.

“Feels like you’re leaking onto my thigh,” he whispers back. “You’re such a mess, my dove, and I haven’t even done anything yet.”

You moan again, completely beyond words. He had this coming, he knows it. This was bound to happen at some point, the inevitable. But you’re at his mercy now and Secondo knows how to handle responsibility. He can see in your eyes that you’re too far gone now and for a second this clarity hits him like a brick. It’s almost like he’s watching the scene from above, bird’s eye view. This is exactly what he did not want – to fuck you like it’s just that, like it’s just sex, a quick romp in a closet, not even fully undressed, no real intimacy. Right now, it’s all you want, it’s all he wants, but what’s going to happen after?

Secondo pulls his head back to assess the situation, but when he sees the slowly drying tears on your cheeks, your still watery eyes, his paint and spit smeared all over your face and neck, he can’t bring himself to say any words that could possibly hurt you.

He’s lucky to be spared any excuses by a plethora of muffled noises in the background. Your eyes widen at the same time as he hears them and reality slowly settles around you again.

“Fratello?” The voice is barely audible through the thick door. “Secondo? Hellooooo?”

He acts faster than you even seem to realise what’s going on, gently letting go of you in favour of banging his fist against the door as rapidly as he can, trying to draw attention to you. There is barely any time to recover. The door opens after a minute and you find Terzo glancing into the room, hands still on the key in the lock.

“Oh, there you are, Secondo. Got locked inside, eh?” Then he smirks. “And with your little assistente no less. Tesoro, you look so flustered, did my brother–”

“Stai zitto,” Secondo snaps, pushing past him before his brother can get any good glimpse at the situation in and on his pants. “What do you even want down here?”

“Oh, thank you, caro fratellino, for saving us from being locked inside this room all day.”

A scoff. Secondo’s eyes find you again when you close the door of the storage room behind you and you struggle to meet his eyes. A pang of guilt, fear even, of what is going to happen now.

Terzo, completely unhelpful, looks between the two of you. “So, what happened here, eh? What did I miss?”

“Nothing, Papa,” you say quickly. “The door closed but it doesn’t have a handle on the inside. We had to use the key for something else earlier and forgot to put it back.”

“That’s not what I meant, tesoro.” Terzo glances at his brother and then back at you, furrowing his brow now that he’s seeing you both in proper lighting. There is a sudden edge of concern on his face. “Sibling, you look like you’ve been crying.”

Secondo is surprised that this is the first thing his brother comments on. You avoid both of their gazes, wringing your hands behind your back. “Oh, it’s nothing. I should probably go… I need to get back to work and I’m already late. Sister won’t be happy.”

Terzo cocks his head to the side, stopping you before you can walk out. He talks in a hushed, gentle voice, practically shutting Secondo out. “You should take a moment to calm down, tesoro, have a trip to the bathroom before you face Sister. You’re quite the mess.”

You nod at him, a grateful smile on your face, and then your eyes meet Secondo’s. A quarter of a second, nothing more, and he has no chance to convey anything with his expression. You give Terzo another pained smile and then you hurry outside.

The two man both wait for you to close the door  before they face each other. Secondo has settled behind his desk by now, a healthy distance between them that seems to be the only thing keeping their tempers in check. Secondo can’t help but scowl, gripping the edge of the table so tight that his knuckles turn white. “This is none of your business, Terzo. I don’t meddle in your affairs.”

“Why did they cry?” Terzo asks, unimpressed. “What did you do?”

“Why do you ask it like that?”

“It’s usually not a good sign when someone cries after making out, fratello. Don’t think I cannot see your ruined make-up. Your little assistente looked even worse.”

Secondo almost jumps from his chair. “You think I would hurt them?”

“I don’t think you would hurt them,” Terzo explains calmly. “Not physically at least. But everyone sees how they look at you, stronzo, how you look at each other.  Did you fuck up?”

Secondo breathes out a sigh, his hand relaxing as he leans back in his chair. “I don’t know.”

Terzo takes a few cautious steps towards him. “Look, I know, you’re not the type, you don’t fall in love, blablabla. But it is never too late to settle down if you find your person, you know? It may feel like giving up your freedom, but look at what you gain.” 

“Aha. And what is that?”

Terzo smirks. “Someone who puts up with all of your bullshit.”

A drawn-out pause as they stare at each other.

Finally, Secondo exhales all the stowed anger, shaking his head incredulously. “I can’t believe you’re trying to explain to me how relationships work. You.”

Terzo shrugs, moving back towards the exit. “Think about it. You are going to feel so much more balanced.”

He’s halfway out the door when Secondo notices that he never told him why he was here in the first place. Thinking back, he’s not sure he’s ever seen his brother in this workshop or anywhere close to this part of the basement before.

“What did you want down here?” he calls after him.

“Huh?” Terzo turns back to him, shrugging nonchalantly. “Ah, you know, a ghoul noticed you two were trapped in there and to be honest… I’m kind of invested now.���

✦ ✧ ✦ 

5 Returning the Favour

A note.

You pick up the weighty envelope that someone, most likely a ghoul, had delivered to you earlier by sliding it underneath your door.  The paper has your name on it in beautiful cursive, deep black ink, a green wax seal with a II stamped into it, keeping the contents safe. The note inside is written in a similar fashion, kept very brief and in neat handwriting. All it says is: My quarters, 7pm. Secondo.

Considering you spent most of the night in pure agony, this is a welcome glimmer of hope. He is reaching out and that is what matters, despite all of your doubts and anxieties telling you otherwise, obscuring the joy you should feel at the fact that things are finally moving.

You take the note and press it to your heart, sitting back down on the bed in your tiny quarters. It smells vaguely of his cologne or at least the whimsical part of you wants it to. In any case, he wrote it, thinking about you, maybe even longing for you. Your worries slowly melt at that thought, even though you’re aware you’re in love with the most unattainable man in the whole abbey.

If you had glanced outside the window in that very moment, you would have caught Secondo making his way through the gardens and to the greenhouse – a man on a mission.

He had been pondering all night what he could possible do to make it up to you, to set things right. And there is really only one thing he could think of: Food.

When you made him lunch he promised to return the favour. Another unprecedented lapse. Secondo cooks, he loves to cook, but he does not cook for his dates. It’s too intimate, too personal. His kitchen is sacred, preparing food a form of meditation after a long day. It’s a part of himself he doesn’t share with fleeting encounters.

So when he found himself in a nearby Italian market earlier, carefully choosing the ingredients for a meal, he almost felt lost. He’s bought in bulk before, he’s bought for himself before, but he’s never bought specifically for two. And most unsettlingly, it feels good.

Now, here in Primo’s sanctuary, he has almost made peace with these new developments. 

Almost.

 “Buon pomeriggio, fratello,” he greets the older man. “I am in need of some fresh basil.”

Primo immediately picks up his scissors. “Che fortunato. My basil plants are thriving at the moment.”

Secondo has no doubts about that. The smells inside the greenhouse are rich and aromatic, a sensory reminder of all the summers he spent in the Italian countryside, trying to connect with his roots. As much as he loves big cities with their bustling night lives, clubs and parties, exclusive bars and restaurants… this is home. 

While he’s busy reminiscing, Primo moves to an array of basil plants in the corner, their oval leaves a vivid shade of green. Secondo is pleased with that. They’re going to turn his dish into the most beautiful colours and since his objective for today is that everything has to be perfect, details like that matter.

“È sufficiente?” Primo asks.

“A bit more. I am cooking for two tonight.”

Primo furrows his brow, cutting some more leaves off the delicate plant. “You have a guest for dinner? Someone special, then?”

Secondo hates that he knows him so well sometimes, but Primo is the only one who was ever even close to a healthy father figure for him. His counsel is the only one he truly values, even though he is rare to seek it out these days. 

All he can do is give a curt nod in reply.

“You’re in love,” Primo states with a smile. “That is a good thing, you know?”

Secondo makes a face. “I feel like I am sick. I don’t know how people do it.”

“It will stop feeling like that at some point,” Primo explains, carefully placing the cut basil in a small basket. “You will grow to appreciate a steady presence by your side, fratello, especially when you reach my age.”

Secondo wants to reply that he doubts it, but it would be a lie to pretend he hasn’t thought about it since getting close to you. You are steady. You are smart and kind and caring, he can talk to you as well as be silent with you. There hasn’t been a single moment in all these months now in which he’s grown tired of you. And yes, that is unprecedented as well.

“Thank you for the basil,” Secondo says.

Primo gives him a gentle, brotherly smile.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

A tentative knock. 

Secondo looks up from the counter and towards the door, his heart rate quickening in a concerning jump. Another knock, more confident this time. He chuckles to himself. You’re nervous but you don’t want him to think that you are – which is exactly how he’s feeling right now.

Before he opens, he wipes his hands on his black slacks, rights the collar of his white shirt, and then there you are. There you are.

And it’s a sight he will never forget. He’s very pleased to see that you dressed up for him. When he kisses your cheek in greeting, he catches your scent and the perfume with its sweet as well as tangy notes perfectly mirrors your character. It takes everything in him to break away again.

“Thank you for following my invitation,” he says, closing the door behind you.

A shy smile. “It sounded more like an order.”

He feels his heart plummeting and for a second there is a shadow of doubt crossing his mind. “Is that the reason you came? Because you felt obligated?”

Your eyes widen and you quickly shake your head. “No. No, I would have come either way, no matter why you want me here.”

Relief. He takes your arm and gently guides you further into the room. “I want you here because I promised to cook for you and I intend to keep that promise.”

“So, this is a dinner date?” 

“Yes.”

“A date date?”

“Yes.”

Your smile is worth it, genuine and so bright that he almost forgets what he’s supposed to do. Your lips are all he can focus on when you’re so close and it’s only when he sees them form an O that he realises he’s been staring. Secondo finally pulls you into the kitchen area and motions for you to sit on a stool at his counter. It’s surreal to see you here, such different surroundings, but it’s a sight he could get used to.

“Is that fresh basil from the greenhouse?” you ask.

Secondo values a professional mise en place, every ingredient neatly laid-out ready to be used which gives you the perfect opportunity to analyse everything he’s going to use. “It is.”

“So you did guess my favourite.”

“I didn’t guess, my dove.” He looks up at you. “You’re not the only one who is observant.”

You smirk and while he’s busy filling a big pot with water to boil the pasta you take in his quarters. Naturally, they are much bigger than yours, the kitchen and living area combined into a spacious room, all dark colours, black and grey, contrasted with a few light grey touches here and there. You notice a lingering smell of incense and what you can only assume is cigar smoke. A small serving cart turned into a bar sits next to an emerald green couch with velvet upholstering. Your eyes are drawn to a carafe filled with a dark ember liquid, sitting right next to a crystal ashtray that reflects the remainders of sunlight streaming in through the arched windows.

Secondo sets the heavy pot down on the stove and the thud makes you turn your head back to him. He’s noticed you drifting off, hoping that you like what you’re seeing, that you wouldn’t mind spending time here more often. His home in the abbey has been crafted very consciously over the past decade, every item carefully curated. He’s toying with the optimal balance between luxurious and still slightly understated, comfortable.

Your face doesn’t betray your opinion but as he turns on the stove, you slip from your stool. He watches you from the corner of his eye as you join him behind the counter and tries not to let you deter him from the task at hand – salting the water, one of many steps. You come to a stop right behind him and then he feels your arms snaking around his waist, squeezing tightly as you press yourself into his back, your cheek right against his shoulder. It’s an unexpectedly tender hug, like you just need to be close to him in any way that you can, and despite your soft affection that he so struggles to accept, he’s immensely relieved to have you closer. 

Secondo lets you hold him for however long you want. He can clearly imagine your squished cheek, your puckered lips, and all he wants is to spin you around and kiss you breathless. But his plan says no physicality until after dinner. He knows he won’t be able to stop once you start touching, and he has a lot to do until then, a lot to say until then. So it’s dinner first, then discussing the necessities, and then he can fuck you.

“My dove, you’re distracting me,” he says, finally adding a generous amount of salt to the water.

“Mhm.” You duck underneath his arm and hug him sideways now, your face melting into his neck. When your nose brushes against his sensitive skin it’s almost enough to make him come undone. A shiver runs down his spine and you give a satisfied hum at his reaction. “Actually, I was wondering… is it allowed to kiss the chef?”

“Ordinarily, it’s not.”

A kiss just below his ear. “And un-ordinarily?”

Fuck his plan. 

He grabs your hips and pulls you flush against him, bringing one gloved hand up to cup your cheek. He stops for a second, taking in the barely visible bruises on your jaw. With the memory of what happened in the storage room clear in his mind, he feels a jolt of lust, and then his mouth is on yours. This time, he’s not as forceful, but it’s not as soft as he would wish either. He can’t help but push his tongue into your mouth at the first opportunity, tasting you and a hint of minty toothpaste. You moan softly, clinging to the front of his shirt until he’s sure he could have spared himself the trouble of ironing it.

He breaks away, staring at your swollen lips, the skin around them all red and wet with spit.

Oh, that mouth.

He’s going to lose his mind over it, slowly but surely, and he can’t help but kiss you again, slower, deeper, exploring every inch of you with his tongue.

When he breaks away this time, you smile and the way it stretches your lips, plumps the apples of your cheeks and brings out that joyful glimmer in your eyes – it feels so personal, so very intimate to him. This kind of smile should belong to him and only him.

“Are you very worried about this?” you ask suddenly, smoothing your hand over his shirt. “About us?”

A deep, long sigh. “I worry, yes. I don’t know if I can give you what you want.”

Your hand slides up his neck, softly cradling his cheek. “All I want is you, Secondo, in any way that I can.”

He smiles at the use of his name, closing his eyes as he leans into your touch. It may well be the first smile in a long time that he doesn’t even attempt to hold back, though he’s not sure if that’s true. He catches himself smiling at the mere thought of you more often than seems healthy. In your presence, his mouth does a lot of things he simply can’t control anymore.

Like kiss you again right now, fiercely, passionately, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth until you start whining. At this point, he doubts he will ever be sated. His need for you is an ever-expanding black hole and he’s teetering at the edge of being consumed himself. But he’s no stranger to uncertainty, to taking risks, as much as he hates the feeling of powerlessness. And so the next time you part, he turns off the stove despite the water almost boiling, and pulls you into his bedroom.

There should have been a conversation at some point tonight that lasted more than that one sentence of reassurance you gave him, an honest exchange of expectations, feelings and hopes, but maybe he doesn’t have to say it.

It’s a knee-jerk response, a very reactionary change of plans: Make love to you (or at least attempt it), eat dinner, then fuck you for the rest of the night.

The bedroom, unsurprisingly, is dominated by a huge four-poster bed, clad in emerald green sheets that give off a sweet scent, only overpowered by the smoky aroma of the incense burning on Secondo’s altar, the light of numerous black candles dipping the room in a warm, flickering light, heavy curtains blocking out the sun completely. 

You stand in front of his bed shivering in anticipation. 

“Two things,” he says, eyes fixated on yours. “First: In here, it is Papa. At least for now.”

You nod. 

“Second: You will tell me immediately if I do anything that you don’t like. No shame, no judgement. You use your words to let me know what you want or do not want. Yes?”

“Yes, Papa.”

He smirks. You learn fast, but he knows that already. Secondo reaches out for your hands, taking both of them in his and bringing them to his lips, gently but insistingly kissing your knuckles. In the dim light, his features look daunting, a stark contrast to his soft mouth. His eyes meet yours, fervently, longingly, and then he drops your hands and pulls you in for a real kiss. This time, knowing he won’t have to hold back anymore, he lets his hands roam free, opening buttons, freeing every inch of your skin with deft, confident fingers, until you’re completely bare in front of him. His mouth doesn’t leave yours even as you gasp for air, sucking and licking on whatever he can reach. Ultimately, he keeps your bottom lip trapped between his teeth to allow you some air, teasing it with his tongue before swallowing your next breath yet again. Meanwhile, his hands explore the outlines of your body, big, curious hands still covered in leather, mapping out every single detail.

Shaky fingers toy with the buttons on his shirt, not managing to open any of them but trailing further down until they find his belt. He allows you to fiddle with the buckle, if only because your warm fingers graze his abdomen with every attempt to open it. When you give up and reach further down, he gently removes your hands and pulls away from the kiss.

You look at him with big eyes, whimpering softly, and he can tell that you’re nervous.

“Relax, my dove,” he says, swiping his thumb over your hot cheek. “All I want is to take care of you. Now, get on the bed.”

You do as he says, so obedient. Secondo removes his belt slowly, watching you stretch out amongst his sheets and pillows. His hand falters at the sight. You’re beautiful, a dream come true, and in that moment he is immensely relieved that he did not give into his impulses before.

With your eyes on him, he removes his shirt and steps out of his pants. He didn’t bother with underwear, so when he joins you on the bed there is nothing separating you anymore. Your skin is hot under his as he crawls between your legs, towering over your shivering form.

He can’t help but kiss you once more, licking into your waiting mouth. Your hand moves to his head, scratching softly, and he hums as he allows his lips to travel to your neck. He finds a deep purple hickey there which shouldn’t come as a surprise to him since he left it there a mere day ago but the sight nevertheless makes him proud. You’re already marked as his and when the night is over, your whole body will be.

Making true on that promise, his lips trail down your body, stamping soft, lingering kisses to your chest, your nipples, licking down to your abdomen where he stays for a moment.

“Hm, così dolce,” he whispers. “So sweet.”

“Papa,” you say.

He looks up. “Yes?”

You buck your hips slightly. “I need… I need more.”

He sits back, intense eyes circling in on you as he removes his gloves, throwing them aside. “Open your mouth, tesoro, show me that sweet tongue.”

You do, poking out your tongue slightly, and he leans back over you, sliding two fingers in between your still swollen lips. You start to suck, swivelling your tongue around his digits and he can feel his cock twitching at the sight and feeling.

“So good for me, my dove,” he whispers. “So good for your Papa.”

You moan around his digits, the vibrations sending a pang of need into his body. When you start to breathe heavily through your nose, he decides that his fingers are wet enough. His hand snakes down your body, collecting more of your arousal, and then he starts working you slowly, carefully. You whimper, demanding more, but for right now he’s not going to hurry. You’re not going to come before he’s inside of you.

He continues for a bit longer until you can feel the arousal flowing through your whole body, building up into waves that make you shiver. His fingers find your waiting hole, spreading out the combination of spit and arousal on his hand and stretching you open bit by bit. His hard cock, already leaking precum, sits hot and heavy against your thigh. Mismatched eyes never leave yours, catching ever flicker of lust and pleasure in your half-lidded eyes, even as the squelching sounds between your legs get louder and you barely manage to hold his gaze anymore.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please, Papa.”

“Please what?” he demands. “Words, tesoro.”

You swallow heavily, chest heaving as your body tries to search for his, but he’s hovering just above you, propped up on one arm, massaging your insides with the other.

“I want you, Papa,” you say. “Please, I need you inside of me, need to f-feel you. Please.”

Secondo could listen to you all day and maybe later he’s going to see just how long he can get you to beg, but right now he’s too impatient, too eager, spurred on by how tight and wet you feel around his fingers. His cock is aching for friction and so he removes his hand, ignoring the disapproving whine you let out.

“Since you ask so nicely,” he says.

Cock in hand, he lines himself up, carefully pushing inside. Your head falls back into the pillows as you let out a drawn-out hum, taking him so well, inch by inch, and he feels a flutter inside of his chest at the sight. Your legs wrap around his back, heels digging into his ass, and he lets his chest sink onto yours, waiting for you to relax, to adjust. Pressed together like that, a searing wave of emotion overcomes him, deep, warm, an intense longing to never let go that is utterly unfamiliar to him. He has to unload the sudden tension in a heated kiss, feeling your moans and whimpers reverberating inside of him as he slowly starts moving.

He tries to make it last, to keep up a careful, deliberate rhythm. He really, really tries, biting his lip to hold back, but he soon has to go faster to stay sane. More desperate noises from you as his thrusts get harder and weeks of held-back need for you spill out from inside of him. Attaching his lips to the still unmarked side of your soft neck, he starts sucking, biting, trying to absorb you into him. You keen, one hand on his neck, the other tightly grabbing his shoulder for support. With a pop, he removes his mouth to take a deep breath and your expression is hazy, eyes clouded with lust. He shifts his weight onto one arm, angling your hips up slightly and you clench around him over and over again at the changed angle, crying out softly at every roll of his hips. He feels himself getting close and to his relief he can tell you’re getting there too, trembling underneath him more and more.

“Please,” you say, strangled, whimpery. “Please, Papa, I n-need to– need to come.”

He growls, bringing his hand between your bodies to help you over the edge. It’s strenuous, his arm protesting wildly, but when he feels your sticky arousal on his fingers, it’s enough to keep him going.

“Come for me,” he says. “Come on my cock, tesoro. You’ve been so good for your Papa.”

It’s all you need, two more thrusts and a few words of praise, and you tighten around him, crying out as your whole body shudders. He gives a few more laborious thrusts to draw out your pleasure before he finally changes the angle, taking the weight off his arm until he can pound into you harder, chasing his own release. His hips snap against yours, loud obscene sounds, and you whimper in overstimulation, arms wrapping around him gently as he stills. A low moan leaves his burning throat and he spills inside of you, filling you up with his seed. His hips stutter a few more times before he rolls onto his side, dragging you with him.

Heavy, panting breaths fills the sudden silence of the room. Secondo pulls you close and you settle against his chest, breathing kisses to his sweaty skin, softly licking up the column of his throat. He only hums and for a long time, you stay like this, tangled up in silky sheets and the comfort of each other. His hold on you is so tight that you don’t, not even for a second, doubt whether he meant everything that just happened, all the things he can’t bring himself to tell you yet but that you can feel so clearly even in his silence – and for now, that’s enough.

“You sabotaged my dinner plans,” he finally whispers, breathing more slowly now. “I didn’t even get to open the wine.”

You chuckle against his neck. “Would you like me to help you preparing it now?”

Secondo sighs deeply, pulling you closer. “No, my dove, give your Papa a few more minutes of this, yes?”

By the way you can feel him twitching against your belly, you highly doubt that it’s only going to be a few more minutes. He knows this too, his plans long abandoned, and when you prop yourself up to look at him, eyes full of reverent love for an old man like him, he starts to embrace all of the changes you bring into his life. Maybe Terzo was right after all, maybe it’s never too late, not even for someone like him.

Thank you for reading! I know this was very long but believe me, writing it was a pain too :D I hope you enjoyed it – kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always very appreciated ♡

Masterlist – my Ao3

[mrsoread]

laoha

My first leather bound book!

It was so much fun learning how to do a real leather bind. I went back to the workshop where I did my bookbinding course last year and my lovely teacher Karen very patiently walked me through all the steps.

There were so many new things I got to learn, including bevelling the case edges and thinning the leather with this funky looking tool, that is actually not as scary as it looks. Also, I realised that glue stains like crazy on suede and folding in leather corners is an art in itself. It was quite tricky and a lot of work, but also a lot of fun!

I chose to bind Love and Other Historical Accidents by @pacific-rimbaud for this project as I felt the leather would make it look like a book that Draco and Hermione might come across 200 years in the past. I have read almost everything there is by @pacific-rimbaud and absolutely loved every single story, they are written so gentle and poetical, so witty and creative, so one-of-a-kind. But I have held myself back from reading LAOHA until I could do so as a hard copy. The incredibly beautiful and classy typeset I used is by @hawthorneandvinebindery.

This is also my first bind for which I made a dustjacket. I really do like how it came out but admittedly I am even more fond of the velvety soft and simple leather cover.

Bound for personal use only.

LAOHA is free to read on AO3. Do not buy or sell bound fanfiction online - it is both illegal and incredibly disrespectful towards the author. Thanks for keeping the fandom ethical 🫶

[zhalfirin-binds]

Opening the case of a full leather binding with groove on the inside for the first time.

I learned to open those bindings carefully to get a more even crease on the pivot point on the outisde of the binding.

The first thing I do is using a clean cloth or wad of cotton and prepare some clean, soft water. You'd want soft water to avoid water stains which are thing with leather.

Then I dampen the cased in and dried book lightly around the hinge area. As this book is small 'a bit around the hinge area' was almost half the cover. This avoids the next step to cause harsh water stains.

Then I used a brush to moisten the hinge line. If the case got too dry again I just dampen it some more. Then I tease the cover open, which needs nothing but a bit patience. I just lift the cover and wiggle it up until the ip opens easier. That way I open the book gradually. The moisture softens the leather at the pivot point and makes it easier for the leather to crease there instead of getting wrinkles somewhere along that line. Depending on the leather and the glue used that might take a bit, but as I said this is the part to be patient.

[decadentpandawasteland]

Prompt:I picked my journal up. I hadn't written in it for so long, I had no idea where to start.

It was weathered and worn, and the leather binding was aged and cracked from years of keeping it open. The paper inside had begun to yellow slightly. A single ribbon stuck to the top of the book binding acted as a bookmark two-thirds of the way through. The front embossing had faded throughout the years, the only word on the front barely visible but could easily be felt with fingertips, “Journal”.

“What's that, Dad?” Ethan asked, watching me handle the worn book. He was my oldest, always eager to learn but starting to become ashamed of his eagerness. An average teenager in his sophomore year. Unruly but eager, a leader but a follower, a child who thinks adulthood is a time frame, not a mindset.

“One of my old journals,” I said, flipping through the pages. I picked a random page and glanced over it. “I was never good about writing dates, but I saw it mentioned Mr. Woodard, so it's either from my freshman or sophomore year.”

“Wait, really? Why were you journaling then?” Ethan asked, his eyes wide.

I let out a little laugh, “Honestly, I'm not even sure anymore. That was almost twenty years ago buddy. I had a full head of hair, just like you then.” I said, running a hand through the thinnest part of my non-existent hairline. Ethan made a face of absolute horror, his curly brown locks were his most prized possession.

An ancient urge, long forgotten in my mind, had me find a pen. “It's been so long since I've done it, I wouldn't even know where to start.” I thought to myself. Opening it up to the bookmarked page, I read through my old entry. Luckily this one was dated.

November 10

I saw her in class again today. We even talked for a little bit! I couldn't tell you at all what it was about, I just kept getting lost in looking at her. Señor Inglès yelled at us for interrupting class, but I didn't care. It felt good. Hopefully I'll get some actual courage to talk to her about things other than Spanish class.

It's been about two months since the whole thing with mom. Dad isn't holding up too well. Lana came back from college early to help out. I just want to stay out of the way. I really miss her.

A few wet stains were on the page. Losing mom was rough, especially on Dad. They had been together since high school, and the cancer ravaged through her in less than a year. Even to this day, I miss my mom. But at least Dad's with her now too.

I skipped ahead.

Dec. 18

Out for winter break and it finally started snowing. Dad finally started getting out of the house. He needs it. Before school let out I asked Rachel “¿Saldrias conmigo?” while we were practicing conversational skills in Spanish. She just responded with “Me preguntaba cuando preguntarias. Sì.” I was so blindsided, I just assumed she said no! We decided to go see Christmas lights on Christmas Eve at Stanley Park. Corny, I know, but hey it's who I am. Miss you mom.

Pen in hand, I added a new entry.

March 16

Saying it's been too long is an understatement. Around twenty five years, give or take. Rachel and I got married and we have a son, Ethan. He reminds me a lot of me at his age. He's hopeful and curious, questions everything but just a little too shy to be outspoken about it. Mom, you would have adored him, but I'll let Dad fill you in on all of the stories. He better tell you about when Ethan was six and demanded to be allowed to eat the wasabi at Tsunami Sushi.

Rachel and I are doing as well as we can be. I never realized how hard marriage is, but in the end it's worth it. For some reason every day she gets up and chooses to be with my grumpy ass, if you'll excuse my language Mom. The easiest choice I ever make is waking up and choosing her, and choosing this life. I wish we didn't have to be packing up the old house, but I'll make sure Rachel and I help build the memories of our little family. Even if Lana likes to be a fun party aunt a little more than I'd like her to be, but hey, it's her life to choose. I love you and miss you more than you know.

Oh, by the way, we haven't told anyone yet, but Ethan is going to be an older brother! I wanted to tell you two first. I love you.

- R.

I closed the journal and Rachel came up behind me. She kissed my cheek and I watched her slightly graying hair fall down around her shoulder. A flash of seeing her sitting at her desk, freshman year in Spanish class. She looked even more beautiful now than she did then.

“Ready to go?” She asked, giving me a hug.

“Yeah, I think so.” I closed the journal. Ethan came over and we walked out the front door.

As we walked out, I poked Ethan with the journal before asking, “Hey buddy, have you thought about journaling?”

[cute-angi]

And like a fairy tale, he wished his life was

(Short One Shot - Rolan Character Study)

Ao3 Link

Whispering, a cool breeze floated through the open stained glass door into the mansard of Ramazith's tower.

Breathing life into the leathery warm haze of yellowed parchment, forgotten scrolls and spells.

Flipping the pages of the old book that lay on the desk before Rolan, encasing the wizard in a sinister glow.

Struggling against it, he tried to find back to the scriptures he had been focussed on, careful not to interrupt his existing spell, but he had to accept defeat against the forces of nature.

Rumbling loudly, the book closed, emitting a dark shadow as the spell was disrupted.

In frustration, Rolan leaned back in the armchair, unaware of the darkness that had begun moving through his veins, thickening and blackening his blood.

Sighing heavily, he noticed an earthy, damp and musty smell rising from the mouldy furniture.

Dust swirled up in the back corners and shimmered in the moonlight, trying to tell him what a cruel fate he had been saved from.

Lost in thought, however, Rolan turned his attention back to the dark writing, which he was able to decipher successfully and whose magic was almost within his grasp.

Dangerous magic, Rolan was aware of that.

Which he should have hidden; and yet his thirst for knowledge had overcome him.

He had listened to the sweet promise of cosmic powers ... and was still lusting for it.

Breaking the spell that had kept the book closed had been demanding, almost requiring more strength and concentration than the spells and rituals that lay hidden within it.

Sensing the icy breath of nature caressing his face, begging him to stop, Rolan raised his hand, artfully casting a silent spell to close the door leading to the balcony.

Caught in half-shadow, he would almost have missed the blackness that faintly adorned his body had the light of the moon not fought its way through the coloured glass windows.

Showing him the result of his endeavours.

Startled, looking at his hands, he rolled up the sleeves of his cloak in a rising panic, seeing the dark magic, which fortunately was already fading away from him, for it could not hold its own without guidance.

Coming to his senses, Rolan concentrated on binding the escaped weak shadows back to the book and casting a spell on it.

Relieved, he changed his sitting position, bending his legs, pulling them close to his body, wrapping his tail around them and resting his head on his folded arms.

Speaking soft words, he silently lit the candles in the room. Now the room no longer possessed any of its eeriness, even inviting to relax in pleasant peace.

As Rolan looked at the leather cover, which had the same lack of title and author's name as the first pages, he wondered how many before him had believed they could learn and master these arcane powers.

With certainty, he now knew that no one was ever allowed to know about this book and the magic it held.

This world had just survived one evil, it could not withstand another.

Exhausted, he rubbed his eyes and a long yawn forced an amused snort from his throat.

The events that had happened didn't worry him as much as they realistically should.

He couldn't really explain why, but suspected that the averted danger was probably the cause.

The book could not harm anyone.

Nobody should be able to break through its spell so easily and if no one is aware of the book, then no one is looking for it.

He couldn't - no, he didn't want to - destroy it.

Perhaps one day a hero would cross his path and need it to save the world again.

At least Rolan wanted to hold on to that belief.

It seemed ... like a fairy tale ...

...and like a fairy tale, he wished his life was.

Obviously it would find its place on one of his shelves, as it looked inconspicuous given its visible age, so this was the right place to keep it.

Gently flickering, the flame of a nearby candle suddenly captivated Rolan.

As he was about to slip away into the realm of dreams, he clearly heard pounding footsteps walking up the spiral staircase to the mansard and a familiar voice calling his name.

Expectantly, he looked towards the dusky wooden door and watched his sister enter.

Smiling at his figure, she stated that she had been looking for him all evening.

Replying that he had forgotten the time, Rolan rose from his curled-up position.

Quickly bringing order to the chaos on the desk, he reached for a quill and was surprised to discover blood on its tip.

His blood, as a wound in the palm of his hand revealed.

It seemed that he had realised less about his study than he thought.

Without letting his thoughts show, Rolan placed the quill in a dry inkwell, took the scrolls he had found and, above all, the Necronomicon.

He then approached Lia and, closing the door behind them, the candles went out, shrouding the mansard in mysterious darkness once more.

[ladylilithprime]

Welcomed Back By The Lights

Series: Fluff Is My Jamstiel

Fandom: Supernatural: 

Pairing: Sastimmy/Jamstiel (Jimmy Novak/Sam Winchester/Castiel)

Rating: General

Tags/Warnings: Witch Sam Winchester, Hunter Novak Brothers, Jimmy and Castiel Are Twins, Brief Allusions to Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff

Summary: Sam Winchester-Novak will not start worrying about his husbands being late returning from a hunt until they're actually late. His goddaughters are very helpful at distracting him from worrying anyway.

For: @fluffyfebruary challenge!

Prompt: Day 21: Tender

Read on AO3

DINNER TIME CAME and went. The empty places at the kitchen table were filled by two bright-eyed little girls, aged seven and four, who had negotiated the night's intended meal of pasta prima vera with grilled chicken breast down to buttery noodles with lightly steamed broccoli and dino chicken nuggets. None of them commented on the two plates that went into the oven to be kept for later, just in case, and the girls were mostly distracted by the prospect of honeyed blackberry pie for dessert.

"And what's the rule about having pie for dessert?" Sam Winchester-Novak asked his goddaughters with mock-seriousness as he held their plates at the ready.

"Don't tell Uncle Dean we made pie or he'll eat the whole thing," Samantha and Tylene Moore chorused amid grins and giggles.

"Exactly right," Sam praised as he handed over their plates and forks with a grin of his own, inwardly cackling at the inevitable future moment when his little co-conspirators would slip up and say that in front of his brother. Only once had Dean eaten the entire pie that had originally been made to share among the whole family, but Sam was determined to never let him forget it.

Once the pie was eaten, Sam sent the girls off to brush their teeth and get changed for bed while he lit the porch lanterns and checked the locks on all the doors except the front. He resolutely did not look at the clock as he rejoined the girls in the living room where they all curled up together on the couch with Bones at their feet for Story Time.

The book that came out for Story Time wasn't a mass-published volume with glossy pages and evenly typed and printed words and page numbers. In fact, it wasn't published at all. One of Sam's "network contacts", Andy Gallagher, had gotten into traditional book binding a while back and made several different-sized blank books with stained pages and real sheepskin leather embossed covers. Everyone local who was in the "network" had gotten at least one, and Andy dropped a new stack off every few months for Sam to sell as an "extra" in his tea and herb shop.

This book was a collaborative effort that went back and forth with the girls, started by Sam when Sammi was born and added to by the girls' parents and various adoptive aunts and uncles around Palo Alto. Each story was made up, sometimes on the spot and later transcribed with questionable faithfulness to the telling, the words handwritten into the pages with care for legibility across different handwritings and pens. Sometimes a little sketched illustration accompanied a story, and the three which had been added by the girls' mother had ended up with scrolling painted illuminations because Jess was determined not to waste her art history degree despite running a cafe as her day job.

It was to one of these three stories that Sam turned that night, knowing Tylie tended to need a reminder of her mother still on nights she slept away from home. Sammi had requested a story about dragons, so Sam turned to the second story and began to read about the little dragon who lived in the woods and was trying to learn to fly all by himself. He had just reached the part of the story where the little dragon tried diving off the cliff by the sea with his little wings open to catch the wind when he felt the wards chime against his awareness, followed shortly by the sound of the door and a pair of familiar, much-missed voices calling out a greeting.

"Uncle Cas! Uncle Jimmy!"

Story Time was abandoned in favor of the girls leaping up and racing to give their newly-returned uncles welcome home hugs. Sam and Bones followed with only slightly less haste, Sam visually tracking his husbands' movements and range of motion (Cas dislocated his shoulder again, Jimmy's being careful of his ribs) before he finally got close enough to claim his own hugs and kisses.

"Welcome home," he chuckled, releasing them to let Bones get her due greeting. "You're just in time to finish up Story Time and help get these two into bed."

"One of these days we'll remember not to take the PCH on a Saturday," Jimmy groaned.

"No we won't," Cas groaned back. "Because that would mean there was actually a faster road north from LA."

Sam laughed, because it was expected and because he knew Cas was right and they would probably inevitably be late returning again because of the traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway, but so long as they always returned to him he could put up with them being late.

Especially when they took over Story Time and did the voices.

[solavirtus]

𝑳𝑼𝑪𝑬 𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑰𝑻𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑺...

( rachel hilson , demi female , she / them ) — amongst the faces lining the staff portrait wall, you recognize CADENCE 'CADIE' BROOKINGS, the twenty-nine year old library staff within the school. having spent two years as a member of the verum staff, students say that they’re reminiscent of the way glue sticks to the tips of your fingertips, hands stained by paint; the smell of a homecooked meal wafting through the corridors, laughter spreading through the small house; books upon books on your bedside tables, the ground; pages littered everywhere in your workshop, waiting to be bound, stories to be told for generations to come, a secret you hold close to your chest, excitement thrumming under your veins. their dedicated and dexterous temperament brings color to these halls, but be warned, you may also find them to be stubborn and neurotic. regardless, hopefully they’ll remain when it’s time for verum to open its doors again. ╱ kira, twenty5, she / her, gmt + 3.

BIOGRAPHY

you grow up in a small cottage. green ivy decorates the stone walls of your house, the smell of mom's homemade stew wafts through the open windows, reaching a garden surrounded by flowers of all kinds. nurtured with love and care, all of them bloom in spring, a perfume that fills your chest with warmth.

you sit on the ground, soil dirtying your clothes, grass painting your pants green, without a single care in the world.

you play with your sibling, homemade toys in your hands; knick-knacks made of wood and fabric, before you are called inside. with grins on your faces, you fight over who gets the spot next to the window, then sit down on the table, grab a slice of bread, and dig into your meal.

as children, you don't see the lines of worry etched onto your parents' face. you don't see how money stretches thin, the family profession no longer profitable by any means. you don't think of what it means, you don't expect anything to change — until the war comes, and it changes everything.

you make promises. both to yourself and to those you care about.

then to someone new.

you intend to keep all of them.

-

cadence is born two minutes before her sibling, which she holds over their head every single time. she is the big sister, minutes count. as fraternal twins, they are born together, raised together. their mother knits them the same thing each time, maroon and lilac, green and orange, always two different pairs of the same item on their shoulders. they learn to take care of each other, as well as the nature around them.

none of the parents have khemia running through their veins, but you hear of stories of a faraway uncle, an aunt, a niece thrice removed. you wonder if you have any chance at it — and your mother smiles down at you, running a hand through your hair, telling you are special with or without it.

brookings family come from generations of bookbinders- a family profession taught by each parent to their child, practiced at a small nook of a bookstore in cynefin. it's their second home, where shelves are full of hand-bidden books created with varying care and embellishments on them.

people come to the brookings to create family heirlooms, precious manuscripts that they want to preserve for years to come.

as it is tradition, cadence, endearingly called cadie by friends and family alike, learn the art of book-binding as she grows up. surrounded by books, she loves the art of preserving manuscripts, as well as choosing the right leather, the right engravings, the art that goes on the cover —- it's something she adores, the fact that they are part of that history, that tradition in other people's lives.

when she and her sibling turn out to be attuned to khemia — it's both to the happiness and surprise of their parents. although a part of them are worried about their children going off to a world so unknown themselves, they encourage them to go to verum. cadie has always been attuned to the world around her, the energy within objects, the flowers that grow in their garden — so it is clear that anima will be her major.

years pass, a whirlwind of knowledge and entry to a world she adores. new friends, new memories, she manages to visit family during the holidays, and stays at verum during school days to optimize her time and costs. no longer a child, she knows how they struggle with money - and tries to chip in, working half time at the library, spending less and less, managing to save enough to give back to her mother whenever he can.

unfortunately enough for the brookings, the demand for hand-made books falls more and more as years pass, making it impossible to live by the family business of bookbinding. their path to their store is untrodden, their father waiting every day at his workshop, without any customers dropping by.

it's both sudden and unexpected. one day, cadie and her sibling walk inside their cottage, and she can feel that something is off. there are tears in their mother's eyes, hands shaking as they clutch against her skirt. there is a letter on top of their dinner table, drops of tears marring the ink of the neat handwriting.

it's as if their perfect world has shattered all at once. their father went to fight in the war — volunteered, despite his age, wanting to do something, anything but come home every day with the same news.

at first, cadie is furious, frustrated by how he did not come to any of them, not even their mother. they are grown people now, and family is supposed to carry burdens together, not sacrifice themselves like this.

then- she realizes someone has to fill the position their father has left, and puts herself in his shoes. determined to make their family business boom again, she works at the library to earn money for now, and practices book-binding each day. she has something that their father never had — khemia. and she intends to use that to their advantage.

one day, when someone approaches her with a blinding smile that makes her heart skip a beat, and a promise to help with so many of her problems — it feels too good to say no. so, she makes a promise.

[seaglassandeelgrass]

your top 5 top 5!

Random assortment from the depths of my notesapp:

Recurrent Wikipedia Holes: bog bodies, spectral black dogs, mine disasters, shipwrecks, theatre fires

Comestible Textures: marzipan, gnocchi, fruit leather, canned mandarin oranges, pumpkin pie

Poems: for example- mary oliver, high treason- jose emilio pacheco, exultation is the going- emily dickinson, lies about sea creatures- ada limon, any common desolation- ellen bass

Child Ballads I Know Off By Heart: suffolk miracle, clyde water, matty groves, twa corbies, willie o' winsbury

Crafts I'd Like To Learn: paper-marbling, stained-glass, book-binding, wood-working, copper-enameling,

[Top 5 askbox thingy]

[lustbile]

The Journal

TenxReader

Word Count: 7.3k+

Summary/Warnings: Smut with plot, semi public, a lot of biting, mentions of supernatural and just general weirdness, and small amount of blood play

Apart of the Club X series: Masterlist (can be read alone or within the series, but unlike others it might just be the slightest amount confusing)

“So that’s what you’re into now,” your best friend’s voice is bored and distant, her task of wiping down the bar that stretched out in front of her taking a majority of her attention away from the babbling you’ve tried to subject her to since you entered the empty restaurant only about 20 minutes before, “weird demon sex clubs?”

—

—

“Ah ah, I never said they were demons,” you correct quickly, the thought of defending yourself never crossing your mind as you petulantly slap your hands against the polished wood, “I just said it was…. weird.”

“Weird is an understatement,” she scoffs quietly as she turns to dip her dirtied rag back into the bleach water and ring it out, “I mean look, I’ve always been supportive in the witchy stuff you’ve been into but this…. is a bit much.”

“I don’t see how this is any different than any other thing I’ve read into.”

“Oh you don’t see?” you finally manage to pull her attention towards you as she harshly slaps the rag back onto the wood with a stern glare pulled on her pretty features, “you’re talking about vulnerability and abandoned warehouses and public sex. That last one is definitely new.”

You fully expected this type of response, only hoping she’d be busy enough that you would dodge the motherly scolding she liked to give you when you pitched your schemes to her with your eyes wild and wide, but nevertheless, she was completely right.

It came from an old book, tattered and torn from being flipped through one too many times, that you found at your favorite antique store. The store itself was already notorious with your tight inner circle of friends as the creepy shop that was corrupting your brain, a constant taunt being that the little old woman that ran it was the actual devil and she was just waiting for the right time to jump you and eat you whole, but this did nothing to stop you from visiting at least once a week.

But the book, it was different from any other you had found. It was completely handwritten, including amazingly done sketches in a deep unfading ink, and spoke of outlandish things.

Some were easily brushed off, like a murder that happened in the 50’s that was known to stay in the mouths of the older folks, both to them and the book it was widely believed to be the doing of some long tongued and wild eyed creature, until a local sweet old man admitted on his deathbed that it was instead his one crime of passion.

He had been a young soldier that snuck into his lover’s room one night, and upon learning that she was to marry a nice lawyer the day after he was meant to deploy, his mind went blank and his hands were carving out her heart. He luckily escaped any questioning after being shipped off, and once he returned home he captured the heart of a pretty young girl and lived out a long life sitting on top of a horrid truth.

So yeah, stories of those sorts, having been solved in your lifetime, meant very little to you, but the one you were going on about now, meant the world.

The writing looked like it had been put down by a panicked chicken rather than the woman who’s name was written neatly in the front. It lived in some of the pages towards the back of the small book and spoke of a dark club. Club X.

She went on and on about stumbling across the club purely by accident, and meeting another woman with glittering eyes. Graphic details of being taken in the middle of the dance floor with a million eyes looking but not fully seeing her as she fell apart against a dancing and eager tongue made your heart thump lodged in your throat. But the more and more she visited the club, the more incoherent her words became, but towards the end the writing had become stained and obscured by a deep brown stain, before it stopped altogether.

Thankfully, the details of where the building was was completely visible regardless of being the thoughts of a mad woman, and with a lot of thinking and staring at the town map, you’ve come to believe that you knew exactly where the mysterious club stood.

Only a street down from the restaurant you sit in now.

“Listen, I know it sounds ridiculous, and it probably is, but what’s the problem with just going to check right?” you scramble to pull the delicate book from the bag that sits in the stool beside you as your friend moves closer and closer to where you sit, laying it flat to show her the page you’ve had bookmarked since you read it, “and look at the name she puts, I think it’s the man who ran it and it’s a long shot, but maybe he’s still alive, or if not maybe some family is! Right here, Asm-“

“Don’t say it again,” she’s quick to interrupt, sliding her free hand to hover above the page you’ve glued your eyes to, “I don’t wanna hear any old man names, especially that one it gives me the ick.”

“It’s just a name,” murmur to yourself, but move to put the book away regardless, “but anyways, I have something that most people who were going to the club didn’t, knowledge of what exactly I’m walking into. I can just go and look around, worst things worst its still a freaky sex club and I just go home, but I’m willing to bet this lady was just off the shits and its just an empty building with some funky vintage beer bottles that you can add to your collection.”

You feel like you’ve won an award you weren’t even trying to compete for when she finally breaks out into a soft smile. The huff that leaves her chest is endeared, and you swear your heart began to vibrate when she reached to run a gentle thumb across the swell from your cheekbone.

“Fine, do what you want, but if the bottle isn’t completely intact when you find it I don’t want it.”

“So you’re not coming with me?” your head tilts to the side in confusion as with things of this nature in the past, she’s always followed along to ensure that you didn’t do anything to stupid. You never felt like the company was fully necessary, but it was appreciated regardless.

“Baby, as much as I’ve enjoyed your info dumping you’ve done tonight, the other person that was meant to clean with me had to leave early with a stomach bug so I’m busy pulling a clean up job that’s truly a job for about five people. But you seem to really believe in this little adventure of yours,” she leaves the rag in a damp mass next to the stack of dirty glasses beside you to take your hands in her’s, her slightly wrinkled fingers are still warm and the way they lace with yours makes you feel like nothing in the world could hurt you, “besides, you’re as smart as a whip and I know you have me on speed dial. I trust you.”

——

You no longer love the feeling of being trusted.

When your friend had given you the heartfelt speech only a little over half an hour ago, you felt like you had been put on a nice pedestal before she handed you a cookie with a pat on the head.

Now the “cookie” had turned to rot in your belly and you were faced with your own perfectly dreamed up reality.

It was already late by the time you had walked into the restaurant your friend works at, the sun already setting and the last few customers gathering their things and paying the bills, so once you got her stamp of approval and we’re heading out the door, the only light left was a bright and full moon, and flickering street lights.

You took your time walking in the direction that your book and personal sleuthing had pointed you in, the closer and closer you got to the one warehouse in town that seemed to never be bought back from the city, the knots in your belly pulled tighter and tighter.

But regardless of the almost painful twist in your gut, you surprisingly almost missed the building in its entirety.

It was as if your entire being blocked out the thumping bass that shook the sidewalk and the blinding red light that spilled from beneath the entrance and out the fractured windows. Your brain trying to force itself from entering the building you spent so many weeks trying to locate.

But the way your heart thuds in your chest when you stand in front of the entrance is something you couldn't even pretend you didn’t feel.

Your tongue digs into the side of your jaw, and you're confused at the feeling of warm tears burning at your waterlines. It’s exactly the way the owner of the journal described it in her manic writings, weirdly exact considering the other stories that surrounded it that dated it back far before you were even born.

You want to go in, the shaking steps your legs take is evident to that, but the tense muscles of your shoulders and stomach makes you hesitate and even grumble out into the air.

You almost jump out of your skin when you hear a shuffling to your side, your throat tensing when you look over, and are put slightly at ease when you see two men who you assume are acting as some type of security. You almost expect them to look up and ask you for some type of ID when you’re being very weird and blatant about your presence, but they seem too preoccupied with the dim screens of their phones and the way they lean forward at different times as if they’re waiting for someone.

Your hands are shaking slightly as they scramble down to grab for your bag, desperately looking for something to occupy you to walk by them without being even more weird, and when your fingers wrap around the flaking leather that binds the book, you grab it like a lifeline.

Your fingers flip through the pages with perfect muscle memory as you trip up the few steps that lead to the door, the tabs you carefully placed on the first page mentioning the club not even necessary with the way you could find the page even in your sleep.

You subconsciously hold your breath when you walk past the two men, almost as if the book is instead something wildly illegal and you're trying to sneak past your parents, and your washed with a temporary wave of relief when you pass through the doors without even a glance from the two.

Though the relief is stolen from your bones the second your feet touch the floor of the club.

It’s as if you’ve entered a place you’ve known your whole life, and from the amazing descriptions from the woman in the past, its not a completely surprising feeling.

But another part of you feels like this is the first time you’ve seen human beings in the flesh.

You can't help but to feel like you must look like an absolute nerd as you pull the book up to your face as you start to survey the club, but thankfully the book told at least one truth, and many of the club goers are too busy grouping and grinding against one another to even acknowledge your existence.

More truths come to light as you flick your eyes between the pages and the walls.

The bar is still tucked in the same far corner as she described, the flittering red and blue lights making it feel like a beacon of calm regardless of it being surrounded by drunken forms and its intimidatingly pretty bartender.

The dj is just a stoic and unimpressed looking as the one from so many years ago as he subconsciously bobs to the beat that he creates as he messes with the nobs and switches in front of him. He’s actually so similar, you wonder if you were right and the owner did have family floating around, and maybe the dj is one of them.

You stumble further into the room as you pick out small details she wrote about so lovingly. Your legs carry you to the back of the building as you smile at the sight of the wine stain the writer claimed to have created when her lover shocked her with a playful bite to the neck.

You almost feel like the universe is gifting you everything you could have possibly asked for when you see the loose board that she said a friend of hers would always trip over, and electricity zips up your spine in excitement when you spots the large painting that still hangs over the booth she claimed as her favorite, and she meticulously sketched out next to a paragraph about what she thought the artist was feeling.

All these things though, lead to the things that make your jaw hang slightly open.

The large balcony above you is larger than you ever imagined. The hundreds of bright red carnations she loved to sketch drip from the golden bars like water, and the black velvet curtains that hang over the room it leads to look heavy enough that they suffocate someone if they fell.

She seemed so intensely in love with the place you stand in, and the woman she met there, and those emotions were more than evident from the way the recreated the energy of the club with her words and art. Which only tips you towards the part that caught your attention perhaps the most.

It was exactly where it was meant to be. Just below the balcony that hangs high on the wall, gaping wide and dark like the mouth of a hungry monster coaxing you to enter its throat. The only issue that you can see being the hanging rope that blocks you from entering, but with only shining bright clasps holding it onto hooks on the walls, you don’t think you're above sneaking past it with little guilt.

The hall was the one thing that taunted you the most about the story the woman spun in the little worn book. The empty and dark vass space being something that coaxed her as well, but unfortunately for you, and maybe her as well, the parts of her journal that began the tale of her passing the temping rope, was the exact spot that was stained with bleeding ink and a suspicious brown color.

You survey the space around you, looking for anyone that could possibly be a worker or just a stickler for the rules, but seeing as everyone in your range of vision was attached by the mouth on someone’s neck or sloppy lips, you figured you were in the clear.

You drop the book gently back into your bag before you step slowly forward. Your heart feels like a wild animal trying to break out of the cavity of your chest, and it feels like your intestines have been successfully replaced with writhing worms that are desperately trying to reach your gut. You feel heat traveling up your chest and neck, and as you get within a few feet of what feels like the end of your life, your body begins to shake.

If you had the ability, you would have screamed, and if you had the strength, you would have fought back. But right when you're about to reach the threshold of the hall, and right when you feel like your legs are about to collapse from underneath you, strong fingers clasp over your trembling mouth, and an arm wraps tightly around your waist.

You’re turned faster than you can blink, the sudden motion making your brain swirl in your skull and making you go lightheaded and dizzy. And while keeping their hand clasped tightly over your mouth, the person that cages you in slams your back into the cold wall and knocks the air from your lungs.

The eyes that meet you are cat-like and dancing wildly, the grin the man you're faced with now smiles at you wickedly, and when your hands dart up until your nails dig harshly into the skin of his forearms, his smile only widens.

“Now,” he starts, the remains of a chuckle shaking his chest and his words slightly, “what exactly are you up to?”

You wait for a moment for him to release you from his hold, and when after a minute or so he still hasn’t budged, all you can offer in response is an annoyed arched brow.

“What?” he has the audacity to ask with taunting sincerity, “you thought you were smart enough to go wandering around, so you should be smart enough to figure out a way to talk around my hand right?”

It’s with immense irritation that you realize the two possibilities you’re faced with.

From the book you know about the weird concept of soul mates or whatever they were meant to be. The woman and the mysterious dancing girl she met so many years ago, and similar stories from the friends she met during her many visits to the club who had almost identical tales that she had to recount.

So with that information you know the possibility of this grinning man being your person is high, but your person or not, he was lighting a fire in your chest regardless.

You don’t think or even weigh the negatives before you send him a hard glare, and you show very little hesitation when you push forward to sink your teeth into the first finger you can catch.

His yelp is covered by the blaring music, but you hear it loud and clear before he reaches his free hand up to pinch at the bridge of your nose to pull you off like a rabid kitten.

“You know what I’m up to,” you huff petulantly as you lean back into the wall with your arms folding over your chest, “or at least I’d assume you’d be smart enough to use your context clues right?”

His lip curls when he glances back up to you as he pets at his now bruising finger, but even with the thin veil of irritation on his pretty features, you can tell he enjoys the sarcastic tone you’ve adopted.

“Yeah you’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he bites back as he steps closer, crowding your personal space and pushing his chest tightly against yours, “you’re lucky I’m who caught you and not boss man.”

“Boss man?” you ask, trying not to show you excitement over him spilling the treasured information about the club that you want so desperately.

He doesn’t answer you verbally, and the sly wink he throws at you shocks you more than you would like to admit, but when he tilts his head back quickly you don’t hesitate to follow his line of sight to the edge of the balcony.

If it weren’t for the thin wires of light that create hatching over his eyes and mouth, you probably would have missed the masked figure that leers at you from over the railing. His hands and shoulders are covered by the masses of flowers, and the hollow black where he hides his eyes stares down at you two with a look that you assume is annoyance and possible curiosity.

The moment you two look up, the figure jerks back. Your eyes flick quickly between him and the man in front of you, and from the bratty grin he wears as he looks up, you feel as if the masked man didn’t have any intention at being caught.

You get lost slightly in staring at the man pressed against you, his teeth that look sharper in the red lighting and his eyes twinkle in mischief, and even with the obnoxious start to your interaction, you’d be lying to say you don’t find him beautiful.

It takes you a second to regain your senses, tearing your eyes away from the fascinating side profile of the man, but when you glance back up to the balcony, the mask man has retreated back.

“He doesn’t like much when we take people back there before they’re ready,” he attempts at an explanation as he turns back to you, and seems unfazed when he misses the mark and just confuses you further, “he let the two goons outside have a little exception, but that's because they don’t know how to go easy y‘know.”

“No,” you shake your head at him with a quiet scoff, “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think you know more than you think,” his voice drops as he speaks now, and as he speaks he reaches out his hand to hold himself propped against the wall next to your head while his other hand moves to run gently up the side of your neck, “I mean, you know who I am at least right?”

“I have an idea,” you admit with a huff, but you also admit to yourself that this probably means you won't be getting into the hall. You do mentally jot that down as a loss, but decide to take the man pressed against you as a win and you reach to grab at his shirt in retaliation, “but you could at least give me a name to work with.”

“Hm, I didn’t expect you to be one for such formalities,” his head tilts in amusement at his own words, and the action nudges the tip of his nose into yours and makes your heart flutter up into your throat, “but you might as well know the name of the man you’ll be destined to fall in love with.”

You roll your eyes hard enough for them to start to ache, and he quietly laughs and moves to press his nose into the soft flesh of your cheek as he feeds off your annoyance.

“Ten,” he answers quietly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he moves to whisper the syllable in your ear, and you never thought that with just one word he’d have a shiver rushing up your spine.

You respond quietly with your name, but the word comes out strained and rushed when he begins to nibble on the lobe of your ear and pushes his knee harshly between your thighs.

Both your hands now hold tightly onto the sides of his shirt, and when his lips move to trail against the side of your neck that isn't enveloped by his hand, you tug roughly at the fabric and your back arches slightly away from the wall.

His tongue is hot when he lays it flat on the center of your throat, and when he swipes it up until it flicks against the end of your chin, you can't help but cringe slightly at the feeling regardless of the way it makes heat pool in between your thighs.

The wicked grin on his face never falters, it only grows wider and more hungry when your eyes meet again, and with his staring so deep that you fear he may be collecting every ounce of your soul, you two have a silent agreement on the unnatural waves of electricity that connect you.

When his lips finally land on yours, it's the roughest and clumsiest kiss you’ve experienced. Both of you fight each other with hungry and eager tongues and the way your teeth gently knock together has your skull rattling in a way that, if you weren’t so hell bent of devouring each other whole, you’d probably have to take a breather.

Your hands reluctantly release the wrinkled fabric of his shirt, and in a desperate attempt to stay occupied, they shoot up the tangle tightly into his hair. You admit, you probably tug harsher on the strands than you probably should, but the groans he pours into your mouth, and the way his hips rock roughly into yours, has you tugging again and again.

He presses you further and further into the wall, and without thinking your hips begin to kick and tilt down until you're grinding harshly and sloppily against his tense thigh.

You let out a quiet whine that's muffled and garbled by his moving at the feeling of him pressing his thumb gently into the dip beneath your jaw, and pressing into your jugular. The sound is followed almost immediately by a small yelp when he latches his teeth to your bottom lip and gives you a stinging bite.

You’re frustrated almost immediately with the lack of friction you can feel from the layers of clothing between you, and now the slight shooting pain from the tensing skin between his teeth, you can feel the impatience in your belly crawling up and invading your chest and throat.

He’s quick to pull away when you retaliate with your own nipping bite to his top lip, your teeth still sinking down when he does and making his sting probably just as much as yours. And when he eyes you as his eyelids droop down into an accusatory squint, you assume he’s not used to getting a taste of his own medicine.

He mutters something to himself about your feistiness, and a sly comment about how he shouldn’t be surprised as he was expecting to get a handful, but he gives you no time to make a snide comment or even question about any of the words, before his fingers are closing firmly but loosely around your neck.

He keeps you rooted in the spot that you stand, the only change in your posture he allows is pulling you slightly away from the wall, just wide enough for him to slink behind you and tug you roughly back into his chest.

“You like poking around into business that isn’t yours?” he asks rhetorically as his free hand reaches around your shoulder to push past the neckline of your shirt, and right as he pressed down the center of your chest and his fingers brush the bottom of your rib cage, his fingers curl and he starts to drag his blunt nails up your sternum as he continues, “need to know and see every single little thing right? So… what’s the harm of being on the other side of it for once?”

“What are you on about?” you as sharply as you try to turn your face towards him the best you can, but his hand tilts under the bottom of your chin until your head is forced to lean on his shoulder and he’s nothing but thrilled at the way it makes you struggle.

“To be seen, or not?” he presses his lips back against the shell of your ear, and the way he whispers roughly makes you shiver again as your thighs press tightly together, “you know what I mean, and you know the answer I want, but its all up to you in the end.”

The electric and slightly humiliating buzz of being seen in a mass of bodies committing the same sins as you was something the woman in the book went on about frequently. She mentioned that there were a few times where she and her lover snuck off to get alone time of course, but the almost blinding pleasure that came from being worshiped by not only one person, but the eyes of an entire room, was addictive. And you wanted just a taste.

You grumble in response, the idea of admitting to the already confident man that you did indeed wanted the same amount of attention as he did made your chest burn even more than it already was, and you’d rather take your chance with his terrifying looking boss than to give him the satisfaction of your verbal confession.

He seems unaffected by your nonverbal confirmation, the way you press into him as his hand wraps around your waist again and creeps down to the button of your shorts, and your own hand grabbing onto the sleeve of his rolled up long sleeve shirt to guide him to undo the clasp or just dip below the waistband, is enough of an answer for him to know.

He chooses to pop the button, and once he has the zipper pulled down enough that he can work with, he begins to shove the worn denim down your hips along with your underwear until they are wrapped around your knees and he can push his fingers roughly between your thighs.

You try to clear the fog that he creates in your mind from his teasing fingers long enough to reach your free hand back to give the same treatment to the dark jeans that wrap tightly around his hips and thighs in a way that had you mentally drooling from the moment you got to get a full look at him, after he ambushed you of course.

You’re not sure how he undid your shorts so quickly without being able to see, but as you fumble and scratch your nails against the sensitive skin of his hip, you give yourself the benefit of the doubt seeing as your trying to work while his middle and ring fingers tease over your entrance and the heel of his hand presses clumsily into your neglected clit.

He, on the other hand, doesn’t give you any benefit of the doubt. He at least has the decency to press his lips across your cheekbone and temple to muffle his quiet laughs, but to make your task even more difficult, his fingers shallowly curl up into you just enough to make you twist and curl.

Once the button of his jeans finally releases, you instinctively let out a huff and sink your shoulders back into his chest as you reach past the fabric to wrap your hand around his stiff length and pull it from the confines until you can press it against his lower belly. And you get just one tally on your side of the boards you’ve created in your mind when his amused laughs devolves into pleased grunts and tilting hips.

“Please,” you start quietly, trying to rock more against the parts of his hand that press against you while running your palm up and down the length of him and smearing him with his own pre come, “I can tell you’re just as impatient as me.”

He swears in your ear, using his hold on you with both hands to shift your hips up and pull you closer before he clears his throat to speak, “well could you imagine, looks like we are a match made in heaven.”

“More like hell,” you retaliate, digging the heel of your own palm into the skin just below the tip of him to egg him on even further, “but either way, that's the point isn't it?”

“I should have expected you to be just a little bit of a smart ass,” he mutters a half hearted complaint, but he only contradicts his own words when he pushes your hips away enough for you to guide him between your thighs and to glide against the arousal that spilled from your body and his hands spread messy along any available inch of skin.

He thrusts smoothly against your back a few times, bringing his arm down to guide him towards your entrance painfully slow, but when you let out a gravely moan of his name, he cant deny himself for any longer, and he’s sinking into you until your eyes start to gently flutter.

Once he’s seated inside you, his hand tenses slightly tighter around your neck, and when you both start pushing towards each other to meet in the middle of your thrusts, his other hand takes the opportunity to map any inch of you he can reach.

He gropes almost painfully at your chest, traveling over your stomach and up your shirt to dig his fingers into your skin until you swear he’s tattooed his finger prints onto you, all while nipping and lapping at the skin of your jaw and neck.

No one immediately in front of you is watching, they’re all in their own worlds of flesh and saliva, but you can still feel eyes of someone on you. His first and foremost as they burn holes into the side of your skull and glance to watch where you push back against him desperately, but there’s another feeling you get of being seen and studied thats so intense that you’re a little shocked when you chance a glance up and see that whoever the masked person was from earlier wasn’t there at all.

So no, you have no idea who, or what is watching you right now, but you can feel the unusual heat it stirs in you as your body flutters around him as he fucks you sloppily. You feel a deeper relation to the woman that owned the book that still rests in the bag that feel unceremoniously from your shoulder when he first put his hands on you, and you hope that maybe you’ll eventually slip into the life of bliss that she meticulously wrote about and possibly learn what happened that demolished the stories that lived in the back of the journal.

You could feel the pleasure crawling up your spine like a monster out creature, your panting breaths tipping the man that works you over off to this even though you’re sure he was already aware before you were, and you think your legs are back to the edge of collapsing when his creeping fingers dance along the expanse of your stomach to find their place back between your thighs.

Your back stiffens at the first touch of his rolling finger on your clit, and your head tilts even farther back onto his shoulder than he already had it. He doesn’t seem interested in coaxing you to your finish slowly, at a pace that would have mercy on your melting mind and shaking form, but he instead abuses your clit until your whimpering out and stumbling and stepping slightly on his toes.

You feel like you’re waiting out the suspense of a horror film that’s score is too obvious to the incoming jump scare. You tilt your neck in a way that seems normal to him, but in reality your trying to feel the many rings that decorate his fingers with the delicate skin of your throat to test if any of them could possibly be sharp enough to cut you and draw blood. You know what blood means to him, and you know it's something he’ll have to do soon if he truly can feel how close you are to the edge.

You feel like you’re floundering a bit, confused from the possible deviation from the story you’ve committed to memory. Was there any chance in this world that this wasn’t your person?

You push this thought away as soon as your panicked mind can construct it though, because there’s no way the spell that it feels has been placed on you would be there if that was the truth, and your body is heated almost like a furnace, but you suddenly love the idea of being burned by him.

You pull in a gasping breath of air that pierces through the music and grunting that rattles in your ears, the taste of your orgasms dancing on the back of your tongue and your back arching so harshly you fear that one of your muscles might seize up and cramp. And right when you feel his hips start to stutter in tandem with yours, and when you’re only seconds from blabbering out mixed syllables that you could only hope would come out as a coherent question, you feel it.

His teeth latch onto you again, his canines not sharp enough to make a clean cut as they dig into the muscle of your shoulder, but his determination is strong enough.

It burns painfully, and makes hot tears well up in your eyes, but almost embarrassingly, is the exact thing that pushes you scrambling over the edge.

You feel like it hurts to breathe, your lungs so focused on letting out puffs of air and broken moans that they can't seem to remember how to bring oxygen in, and your eyes roll for a completely new reason for the man and much more painfully.

It’s when you feel him start to suck the rushing blood from your newly christened wound that you also feel the rumble of his groans against your skin and feel him start to come inside of you. His fist tightens again around your neck as he pushes aftershocks through your nerves with his own orgasm, and with flying hands you grab at both of his wrists, not to ask in any way for him to ease up, but from a sudden wash and need to hold onto him possibly until you die.

He lets you collapse to the floor once he pulls out, but he follows your sinking form and sits alongside you and partially underneath you as you both try to catch your breath.

The club scene in front of you is now blurs of flashing lights and abstract writhing forms, and if it wasn’t for the zaps of energy you feel from every brush of his finger tips, your brain would probably be too muddled to register him fixing both your clothes and his.

You become just slightly more aware when he shifts your body against him enough to grab at the strap of your bag with the heel of his shoe, and you try to sit up faster than necessary and give yourself a small head rush when he pulls it to himself and flips it open.

“You seemed a little weirdly unaffected by the whole,” he flails his hands in front of you for a second as he speaks, and your lagging mind takes a second to catch up with his attempts at implication, “not the fucking part clearly,” he teases, “but the leading up to it. The meeting part and all.”

“I know what this place is,” you admit, and if your legs had gained just a bit more strength you probably would have stood and requested a glass of water just from how gravely your voice had become, “I knew I was probably going to run into you.”

“But you weren’t looking for me,” he tries, and fails, at hiding the slight edge of offense his voice shows, “if you knew I was here why didn’t you look for me?”

“I didn’t worry about it,” you say, warming up a bit again in the fear that it may have come off slightly rude, “or, like, I mean I knew you’d be able to find me easier than I could find you. I was more interested in finding answers.”

“Answers to what? You said you knew this place, or at least what it is?”

“Well I only know the basics,” you shift in his hold, knocking his hands away as they sift through your bag, and grabbing blindly until you can pull out the book, “I found this journal and it-“

“A journal?” he asks in a volume that could have been obnoxiously loud if it weren’t for the thumping bass that shook the floor beneath you, and pulls the small book from your hands.

“It was written by a woman who came here a long time ago,” you explain, deciding to not take offense to his rough and grabbing hands, “I found it and tracked the club down, I needed to see if it was real.”

“Oh it's real alright,” he laughs as he starts to flip through the pages, stopping for a moment to smile at a simple sketch she had done of a cat that she said lived in the back alley, “hey wait I think I know this name, and these people.”

“What are you on about?” you ask with a scoff as you tug the book from his grubby fingers, “you can’t possibly know these people, this was written in like the fifties. Stop pulling my leg.”

“Oh I see,” he smacks your thigh playfully as he leans over your shoulder to glance at the first page that mentioned anything about the date, the ink clear enough to read 1953 in the swirling handwriting, “you think you know everything.”

“I do know everything, fuck you,” you glare playfully at him over your shoulder, “or I would know, if you’d let me go into that weirdo hall.”

“No hall, for now at least,” he sighs, the gears in his head turning as he thinks of the next thing to say, “but you know, time doesn’t exist the same way here, the woman who wrote this probably didn’t know that at the time, so I’m not surprised you don’t either.”

“What do you mean time doesn’t exist?” you look at him as if he’s grown a second head, but do you really have the nerve to question him like that? Considering that entire concept of the club you are very aware of its existence now, a time situation shouldn’t be the most shocking should it?

“Well, it's hard to explai-“

“Then don’t explain it,” you almost jump fully out of his lap at the deep voice that rattles above you, and both him and you look up at the figure that looms over you now.

The man is tall, his black hoodie looking weird in contrast to the clothes of the other club goers, and with a squinting observation and a familiar and annoyed sigh from the man seated behind you, you realize you’re being stared down by the mysterious entity that is the DJ, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket in annoyance.

“Huh?” Ten lets out more in the form of a noise than a word, as his arms wind tightly around your form.

“I said don’t explain shit,” the man begins to tap his foot in irritation as he speaks, and you wonder if he’s aware that he’s in rhythm with the song that surrounds you, “you need to chill out with the loose tongue, its bad enough we have the big mouths outside.”

“I wasn’t gonna go that far,” Ten sounds reminiscent of a scolded toddler, and considering the man is hindering you from getting information that you wanted so badly, you can feel yourself mirroring the pout he wears, “I know what I’m doing alright man? Why are you over here anyways, shouldn’t you be at your little booth minding your business.”

“No one minds their business over at that booth, and you should know that better than anyone pervert,” the words are sharp, but the curl to his lips and the underlying playfulness to his tone tells you the likeliness of them being friends is high, “anyways, I know we don’t follow any regulations or anything here, but I’m still gonna take a fuckin’ break or two.”

“Well breaks over,” Ten reaches out a hand to playfully swat the man away, “I didn’t wait this long for you to just interrupt my bonding time with my person alright?”

“Alright, alright,” he finally starts to shuffle away, throwing one last comment about Ten being bitter his person showed up first over his shoulder with a grin.

“What a loser,” Ten starts, looking at you playfully and rolling his eyes, “too bad he’s like my best friend or whatever.”

“You seem to have a lot of fun around here don’t you?” you take a shot at voicing your observations, your heart fluttering in a completely new way at the warm smile he shoots you.

“Just wait a see, my love. Just wait and see.”

[steelcarbuncle]

Meet the Mammets - Dewy and the Library

Dewy is a custom mammet for the library built precisely three fulms tall at his iridescent white puff. He is built with an Ishgardian steel frame and aurum regis and phygrian alloy inner workings and his voice box has a warm tone like low organ pipes and almost no modulation to it with the occasional hiccup. His chassis is painted with a chromatic red paint that shines bright pink in the right light. He has little Nymian runes that stand out against the enamel in their natural phygrian gold edging every outer plate on his frame. He is apparently docile and will tend to the books of the library diligently until called upon for translation or other services, though he will step in if someone is struggling.

As the library mammet, he has two cores and a crystal to house his database set between them. Only the bottom core is wired directly to the small rainbow hued crystal and is a part of the enchantments that control the library's more unique functions. Dewy has a translation function for the written languages that can currently be found in the library but further translation function will have to be learned for the languages currently absent. He is also linked to the control book for the library that allows him to speak through the book to provide live translations as needed. He keeps a searchable index of contents within each volume in his database so that he can make recommendations when a certain material is needed. Though his primary tasks are all related to the upkeep of the library, he is equipped with the function of producing a levin shock by overcharging his primary core and conducting it through his hands. This is used only in dire self defense to prevent the destruction of his unit.

The library is coded and several Nymian runes are set at static intervals on the ground around the library to break the books up into sections, these sections are further divided at each shelf with another set of runes placed on the shelving. Each book is given a small vellum page at the back of the book with inscriptions that complete the translocation magics that allow its contents to be transferred to the pages of the control book. The process of adding the vellum to the book is not as simple as adding a page and the page must undergo a ritual infusing a bit of the book's essence into the vellum, a task Dewy can automatically perform once asked as the enchantment is bound in his second core though it takes nearly two bells where he will be unable to function otherwise.

The control book is a heavy tome as the bindings and cover feature metal components over hardened green glider leather. There is clockwork mechanisms in the front of the book in an aurum regis and phygrian gold alloy that have the same Nymian marks that can be found in the library and will need to be aligned to each section, shelf, and three dials for individual markings for which the book is marked. Inside the tome, the pages are thin vellum that have been treated with aetherconductive rosegold inks which has stained the pages a soft orange hue and left them reflective to a degree. There are precisely 300 pages to the tome and the book cannot translocate a tome that is bigger in its entirety. Tomes in excess to this limitation need to have a "bookmark" processed which allows the user to pick the section of the oversized tome they are reviewing. There are other limitations as a book much larger in scale will find the pages of the tome shrunk to fit the control book and while the light orange hue does not affect text, it is sometimes detrimental to conveyed pictures. The control book also has a small band of metal at the bottom of the front cover that houses the connective portion that allows Dewy to translate for the user or respond verbally with book recommendations. Dewy has the capacity to turn the clockwork dials at the front of the book remotely, but rarely employs this.

Books can be misplaced in the library and still located with the magics of the control book but removing a tome from the enchanted area of the library will render the call for the book useless and return nothing to the control book.

[andypantsx3]

in cinders | 7 | illuminations

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

length: 24,362 words / 9 chapters

summary: You’re just trying to fairy godmother your best friend into a happily ever after. If only the prince would stop hanging around and cooperate.

tags: cinderella AU, prince!Shouto, romance, misunderstandings, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut

Lady Utsushimi had asked for you, but she did not look pleased to see you.

“Must you always be covered in soot?” she complained, but she let you into her chambers all the same.

You stood awkwardly in the middle of her sitting room, not daring to touch anything. You’d tried to wash up after your shift, scrubbing yourself down quickly with your rough bar of soap, but you’d not had much time, and on top of that, all your clothes were soot-stained and would require several more washes to get it all out.

Lady Utsushimi clicked her tongue and gestured to her ladies’ maid, who still looked bewildered at your presence.

“Hana, please call for tea,” she said. “After that, you are dismissed for the evening.”

Hana’s brow furrowed, but she nodded as she swept from the room.

Lady Utsushimi fixed you with a considering look. “Come with me. I won’t have you on my couches in that.”

You followed her as she turned on her heel and led the way deeper into her chambers. Like the prince’s, her apartments appeared to lead into her bedroom through a large set of double doors. Through her bedroom, another set of doors lead into a smaller room. The room was roughly the size of the storage space that doubled as your bedroom. Instead of bags of flour and spare mops, however, the space was absolutely stuffed full of dresses, bursting in jewel tones.

Lady Utsushimi picked through them with a discerning eye. “My plainest gown, I think, or questions will be asked.”

She pulled a pale blue dress from where it hung amongst the others and thrust it at you. “Wear this.”

You gaped at her. “Lady Utsushimi, I--!”

She smirked. “You clearly didn’t have a problem helping yourself to my things last time. Put it on and come out to the sitting room.”

She left, closing the door behind her and leaving you alone with the dress clutched in your hands. It was certainly plainer than anything else the Lady Utsushimi owned, barren of any decoration except for minor stitching at the sleeves, but it was still finer than anything you had ever worn, barring her dress you’d stolen for the ball.

You peeled out of your sooty dress and donned the gown, then made your way back to the sitting room.

The tea had arrived and Lady Utsushimi gestured you to her couch. After setting the leaves to steep, she spoke.

“I’d like you to tell him.”

You looked up at her sharply. “My lady?”

She clacked an elegant nail against her tea cup. “Shouto tells me he’s to teach a servant girl called Y/N to read. If you’re to continue to see him, I won’t have you doing so under false pretenses.”

You flinched. “Please, Lady Utsushimi. I do not think he intends to see me again.”

She scoffed. “When Shouto wants something, he is not so easily deterred.”

You blinked. “But he does not know I am the Lady Ito. What reason would he have to seek me out again?”

Her eyes went skyward. “The two of you are thicker than porridge.”

You did not know how to interpret this, so you said nothing.

Finally sighing, Lady Utsushimi moved to pour the tea. She passed you a cup.

“If he asks to see you again, I’d like you to tell him. It does not have to be now, but I hope that you will be honest with him.”

Slowly, you nodded. You could accept those terms, considering the likelihood.

She leaned back with her own cup, satisfied. “Now then. Are you looking forward to reading?”

You leaned forward. “Yes! I’ve always wanted to. I’ve wondered what could possibly be so interesting that a person could hold still for hours and never notice that time was passing.”

She smiled. “I have several tomes I think you would find interesting, once you’re ready.”

You thought of the thick bindings and crisp pages of Prince Shouto’s birthday books. “What sort of books does his highness find interesting?”

She laughed. “Shouto is boring. He likes political science, mostly. As the future king should, I suppose. He reads a fair bit on ethics, and history.”

You nodded as if those words carried any meaning to you.

“What do you like to read?” You asked her.

She grinned, something toothy and genial. “I much prefer novels. They’re fiction, so they’re specifically designed to be interesting. Shouto’s books are all droning passages about things that hardly anyone cares for.”

You laughed despite yourself. It seemed to suit him - he was so serious at times. And yet, you thought, for someone so serious, he did like to tease an awful lot. Was it something he’d learned from the Lady Utsushimi? She seemed to take every opportunity to poke fun at both you and the prince…

“You’ll have to tell me which you prefer, after you’re taught,” she said. “I think you’ll come to see it my way, of course.”

The thought of a noble being interested in anything you thought was certainly a novel concept. The last time you’d been asked your preference on anything, the housekeeper had asked you choose between peeling vegetables and scrubbing pots.

“I get the feeling people come to see most things your way,” you said, forgetting yourself.

Lady Utsushimi gawped at you, then let out a loud laugh. “You’re a quick study. Shouto will certainly have his hands full with you.”

You flushed as an unbidden image rose to your mind of the prince with his hands quite literally full of you. You stared awkwardly down at your cup.

Lady Utsushimi laughed again and gestured at your tea. “Now drink up. We wouldn’t want you to be late for your lessons.”

You nodded and finished your tea, leaping up to change back into your servants’ garb. You most certainly didn’t.

Prince Shouto was already in the library when you arrived, his broad shoulders hunched over what had to be the largest, dustiest tome you had ever seen. His outer jacket had been unbuttoned and thrown over the chair next to him, leaving him in his pristine white shirtsleeves. He looked as though he had been camped out a while.

“Your highness,” you said from behind him. “My apologies for keeping you waiting.”

He straightened, turning to you. His hair was adorably rumpled, like he’d been running his long fingers through it absently as he read.

“Y/N,” he said.

The sound of the simple word in his mouth did something strange to you. You felt your spine tingle, and it felt like every fiber in your body snapped to attention, straining towards him. Were you unwell? Carefully, you pressed your fingers to the inside of your opposite wrist to check your temperature.

“Please, come sit.” Prince Shouto gestured you over, pulling his jacket from the chair and pushing it out for you. You went to him slowly, perching awkwardly on the chair next to him.

He scrounged around on the desk, flipping the cover of the huge tome back up. From underneath, he unearthed paper and fresh ink and two pristine quills.

“I thought we might begin with your letters.” He said, and you nodded.

His mouth quirked at the corners. “I confess to having never taught anyone anything before. You’ll have to be patient with me.”

You laughed. “If you are with me.”

His smile deepened and he rolled up his shirtsleeves. The sight of his bare forearms and the roll of a powerful shoulder under the white fabric did something strange to you again. You felt too aware of him, like he was a candle and all the world around him was only dark.

He picked up a quill and, dipping it carefully in the ink, scratched out a series of symbols on the parchment before you.

“There are twenty-six letters. You will have to memorize their form and the associated sounds - some of them can have multiple. After that, we will move to combining them to form words.”

You nodded, craning over to see the letters better. He shifted to allow you access, and the movement had the effect of turning him more fully towards you. This close, you could again smell that combination of mint and something masculine like leather. You felt a little like your mind was melting, and you blinked, trying to refocus on the letters.

Prince Shouto pressed an elegant fingertip over the first. “This is a - it makes several sounds like ah and ey.”

You murmured the sounds and he nodded, leading you through the rest of the letters. He guided you through multiple rounds, eventually jumping back and forth between them to quiz you. You fumbled at first, but hit your stride soon enough, flushing when he complimented you.

Soon enough, he deemed you good enough to move on to simple words. In neat handwriting, he penned out a few short words. “Not all words are this straightforward, but this should do to start,” he said.

You shifted again to get a better look, leaning forward in your chair. You lifted a hand to brush your hair back behind your ear to get it out of your way, focusing hard on the combination of letters on the page.

All at once, you could feel Prince Shouto stiffen beside you, letting out a sharp breath.

You turned to look at him in concern, “Are you alright, your highness?”

He was staring back at you, full mouth parted in something like surprise. His grey and blue eyes were darting all over your face quickly, like they were cataloguing all your features anew, like he only had seconds to memorize you.

“You--oliv--” he said, then stopped, shaking himself a little. He closed his eyes for a moment. “It’s nothing, please continue.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “If you’re not well--”

He shook his head, then leaned forward to tap an impatient finger on the parchment. “The words are over here.”

You huffed but went along willingly enough, turning back to the paper. He shifted suddenly, propping an elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand, bringing him much closer to you. He let out a long sigh, and then seemed to inhale deeply.

You looked at him in askance but he said nothing, gesturing again to the paper.

You looked the words over, sounding them out carefully. You could feel his eyes on your face as you read.

He scratched out several more and you read them out slowly, aware of him watching you closely the entire time. Finally, you’d have enough of the staring, whipping around to face him again.

“Have I done something to offend you?” You asked. You’d scrubbed down before tea, but you wondered if you’d missed a spot of soot on your face.

“Do you know how to dance?” he asked suddenly.

You stared at him, unsure of the line of question. “What?”

“Do you know how to dance?” he repeated. You felt like you could catch fire from the intensity of his focus.

You swallowed your questions. “Forgive me, but the kitchen staff does not have much use for dances.”

He considered your answer for a moment, before intoning softly, “You would have not had the opportunity to learn.”

Something like irritation boiled underneath your skin. You’d begun to think him alright for a noble, but if he wanted to rub it in…

“One of many faults,” you said, hotly. “I cannot read, I cannot dance, I cannot ride, I cannot--”

“Would you like to learn?”

You looked at him in surprise.

He shrugged a broad shoulder. “I’m teaching you to read. Perhaps I might also teach you to dance, and to ride…”

You stared at him and he fixed you with a blank look. “Well?”

The tips of your ears went red. “Well I, yes--”

“Good,” he said abruptly, leaning back in his chair. “Next Saturday then. On your afternoon of rest.”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Alright.”

He shifted forward again, waving back over the paper. A strong thigh pressed casually against your leg through your skirts, and you went still, waiting for him to move it. But he did not.

“Now read these,” he said, pointing to the words you’d abandoned. “I know you can.”

You looked at the page, and with great effort, set yourself once more to the task of reading. Over the course of the evening, he drew out several more words, eventually progressing to a trickier set. At one point, the librarian came over with an assortment of lit candles as the light from the high windows faded. You hardly noticed, though, engrossed in the task of learning your words.

“Last set,” Prince Shouto announced when the candles began to gutter in their holders. “Read these for me.”

You looked at the words he’d put to the page.

Nice to meet you.

You sounded them out slowly, tripping a little over the sound of “nice” and the silent e. Finally, you managed it.

“Nice to meet you!” you said happily.

He looked you over approvingly. “Good girl.”

All at once, your brain emptied. If anyone had asked you, you most certainly could not have told them your letters, or the words you just read, or even your name. Your mental capacity narrowed only to those two words, and the burn of Prince Shouto’s warm thigh against your own.

He leaned toward you, eyes moving over you in concern. “Are you alright?”

“Good g--” you gasped, then stopped yourself, flushing. “I mean, I’m alright. Yes, I think it’s time to stop for the evening.”

Something like amusement passed over the prince’s features briefly, but one blink and it was gone. He stood, gathering up the papers and ink.

“Yes. It’s getting late,” he said. “I’ll see you next Saturday?”

You nodded. “Thank you, for today. I’ve always wanted to learn.”

He smiled, then pressed the papers and ink into your arms. “You’ll have to practice. I’m going to quiz you when we next meet.”

You nodded seriously. “I will.”

He walked you out of the library, his left side a distracting heat at your shoulder. You bid your farewells, and you turned down the corridor to the servants’ halls.

The quiet, dark halls did little to distract you from your own thoughts, which you would have liked. The prince’s deep tone when he said your name, the silky caress of his voice when he said those two blasted words, played on a loop in your mind. You could still feel the heat of his leg against your own, see those long fingers pressing into the parchment.

With a sudden, heart-rending pang, it dawned on you. The reason why you felt like every particle in you was drawn to him, the reasons why you’d flushed at his teasing and even why you’d sat up in the dark after the ball, feeling his hands on you.

You had feelings for him.

Fuck, you thought, stifling a groan. When he was on the lookout for Ochako, your best friend. When your best friend had her own feelings for him.

You suddenly felt like a thief, stealing all his time away. He was looking for Ochako and here you were, sucking up all his extra hours with reading and whatever he thought he was going to teach you next Saturday. Here you held the answer to his search and you were hoarding it away like a dragon jealously guarding its treasure.

Now that you thought you knew him better, you thought it unlikely that he would look for the Lady Ito so ardently, to seek her out and punish her as you’d thought in Lady Utsushimi’s chambers. A man who taught a servant to read because he was sorry he'd offended her was not the sort of man who would spend weeks hunting down a woman who had stepped on his toes. No, he was looking for Ochako, and it could only be because he loved her.

You had to tell him.

Lost in your thoughts, you exited the doorway to the kitchens, almost colliding with someone on the stairs. You tripped, stumbling backwards.

“Careful!” A gentle pair of hands caught you, and you followed the line of a strong arm up into the kind face of Izuku Midoriya.

“Mr. Midoriya!” you said, apologizing. “What are you doing down here?”

He put an arm up behind his head, tousling his green curls awkwardly. “Oh! Just, um, errands.”

You regarded him carefully. The prince had certainly never sent him on errands down here before. What was he really doing down here, creeping around in the dark kitchens?

Whatever it was, he certainly didn’t seem keen to tell you. His body language was nervous, squirrelly. There was likely no sense in pressing him, when he so clearly had something to hide.

“Ah, well,” you said slowly. “Thank you for catching me. Um, have a good evening.”

He smiled. “You too!”

He hurried off, and you followed the stairs out of the hall, down to the corridor where your room lay. As you pressed open the door, Ochako shot up in her bed.

“Did you forget somethi--Oh! Y/N!”

You laughed, closing the door behind you. “Who else would it be?”

She fidgeted, the straw of her pallet rustling underneath her. “Oh, no one. I just thought you were - well, nevermind. Is that paper? And ink? How were your lessons?”

You smiled. She'd been so excited when you'd told her of the prince's offer, even though you knew she would prefer to be the one spending time with him. She was so good.

“I can read now! Well, some. I can teach you!” you said.

She grinned. “I’d love to. Then we can write mean notes about Kamiko and no one will know what we’re saying.”

You chuckled, climbing into bed. “Well worth the effort of learning to read.”

She laughed. “So it is.”

You snuggled down into your pallet, somewhat cheered. Ochako was so wonderful, no wonder she was your best friend. No matter what, you were going to do the right thing by her, and by Shouto. They'd been kept from each other for long enough, and it was time to make them both happy.

"I hope that you will be honest with him," Lady Utsushimi's voice repeated in your head.

Yes, it was time to be honest.

Come Saturday, you would tell him.

[bambooslayer]

Scent Headcanons

so my covid/quarantine experience has been marked mainly by two things: indie perfume and the magnus archives. to combine these two interests, I’ve decided to match the “scent vibes” of some magnus characters and the entities. scent headcanons I guess? if those weren’t a thing before they are now. scents that I’ve tried will be marked with a *.

The Institute Staff

Jon- Solstice Scents' Gibbon’s Boarding School: dusty wooden desks, paper, carefully hidden tobacco pouch, dying fire, dried leaves, leather chairs, autumn breeze

This scent really captures the “tired academic” aura of Jon, especially S1-S2. Not quite completely put together, but still surrounded by the scent of knowledge.

Martin- Stereoplasm's Lydia*: A uniquely transformative scent; opens with agrestic lavender and earl grey tea with snips of fresh fennel greens. A flood of soapy emerald green bubbles then rests softly into clean sunset musk.

Martin has a comforting, calming scent. He always, always smells like tea no matter what he wears or does. Hints of soap peak through as he tries to keep himself clean and put together, even if the world is about to end. The scent of someone who’s learned to pull himself together to be ready for everyone else.

Sasha- Alkemia's Old Books and Fresh Flowers*: Fresh neroli orange flowers and heliotrope blossoms pressed between the delicate paper pages of a leather-bound book

Boundless beauty and ancient knowledge in one scent. She’s always sorting through the archive’s resources and constantly smells like the ancient paper surrounding her.

Tim- alphamusk's Bardot*: Gorgeous badass goddess like musk that’s insanely irresistible. Notes of roses, woods, magnolias but all blended so effortlessly and meld together beautifully in this sexy magnetizing musk. Everyone who smells it loves it. Very femme. Iconic.

Who doesn’t love Tim at first sight? A sexy, charismatic, fingergun shooting bisexual who’s always ready to do what he needs to get things done. A scent that blurs the lines between gender fits him, and it’s sexy to match. Even when he’s at his lowest, he still draws you in.

Elias- Alkemia's Book of Shadows*: A biblichor of eldritch books - heavy parchment paper, ancient iron oak gall ink, crumbling leather bindings, and wafts of rare incenses

Jonah Magnus smells of all the cursed knowledge he’s acquired. The statements and ancient books he’s encountered leave their marks on him in scent. You can’t smell the underlying evil, but there’s a certain darkness that lives there.

Basira - Death and Floral’s Red string of fate: Red musk and black, burnt amber blended with golden honey and black molasses

I don’t have a good explanation for this, it just feels right.

Melanie- Death and Floral’s Half-hoping to be eaten by a bear: Woody, sweet bare skin; the lingering scent of dry leaves on a cold morning.

Melanie smells of her supernatural adventures and longing for something more.

Daisy- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's Mr. Czernobog: Unfiltered cigarettes, the leather and metal of sledgehammers, aortal blood slowly drying, and black incense.

Daisy knows what she’s done. She’s a Hunter, and these smells follow her.

Peter Lukas- Arcana Wildcraft's Black Sand: The scent of a warm night on a dark, sandy beach. Atmospheric sweetness with a hint of salt air and a subtle undercurrent of danger. The richest amber resin, black coconut, coconut husks, and smoky vetiver.

The scent of the loneliest sailor. There’s a dangerous draw to him still, but you can tell you should keep your distance. (unless you’re Elias of course)

The Entities

The Buried- Alkemia’s St. Louis Cemetery #1: “An atmospheric brooding of Spanish moss, crumbling stone, old cement, red clay brick, and graveyard dirt.”  

It’s not quite burying you, but it’s about to. You won’t be able to tell that it will until it’s too late.

The Corruption- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Elli’s Song: “The horrors of entropy, death, and decay: desiccated black mosses, vetiver, olibanum, patchouli, and ashes.”

Rotting. Decay. The disgusting decomposition of all things.

The Dark- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Event Horizon: “A disconcerting scent, heavy and oppressive, through which no light, no matter, and no spirit can escape. Black opium, labdanum, opoponax, black orchid, and benzoin.”

Pretty self-explanatory. Complete and utter darkness.

The Desolation- Arcana Wildcraft's Devilish: “Shaking off vanilla's reputation for namby pambyness, this infernally dark and smoky fragrance comes complete with licks of fire and sulfurous wafts of brimstone. The devil really does have all the best scents.”

Was it worth it? The meaningful life you lived? Was it worth meeting this fiery end? A scent to match the end of a life worthwhile.

The End- Alkemia's Dustsceawung: “Dustsceawung is the contemplation of dust, worldly desires, and the ephemerality of all things... raspings that were once a tree, ruins that were once cities, bones that were once lovers. Dust is always the ultimate destination on our journey. The scent of forbidden explorations and an olfactory meditation on dust... attic air, the inside of old trunks, abandoned haylofts, library stacks, and abandoned buildings.”

The death of all things. Everything must succumb to its true form: dust. No matter what you fear, no matter how accomplished you are, no matter what you’ve planned, it will come for all. This scent carries the dust of those already ended, a reminder of your fate.

The Extinction- Alkemia's Deus Ex Machina: “An olfactory portrait of industrial decay and the fallen gods of age of disruption, innovation, and technological revolution... fire hardened steel, rusted iron, motor oil, wet cement, burnt copper wires, and grey amber.”

Mankind has brought itself to the edge. All that it has created is what finally destroys it. Remnants of industry linger, all that’s left of humanity’s monstrosity.

The Eye- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's The Book: “Old, yellowed parchment paper, tattered leather bindings. There’s a distinct warmth to the scent, though it is ancient and brittle.”

All knowledge lives here. It has watched you your entire life. It knows everything about you, everything about everyone, everything about everyone that has lived. Pages and pages and pages of its stronghold live in the institutes.  

The Flesh- Arcana Wildcraft’s Edward Hyde: “A depraved mix of dirt, blood red musk, roasted meat accord, acrid yellow musk, salt, and an odd hint of expensive men’s cologne.”

Meat. Meat. Meat. Meat is meat. A meaty scent that marks the servants of the flesh.

The Hunt- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Berzerker: “Thick furs, strips of leather, and a blood-stained axe with crushed poplar bud and juniper”

The Hunt is never over. Once you get a taste of blood, there is no going back. Furs of a predator, the sharp metallic weapon mixed with the blood of your prey.

The Lonely- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Desolation: “In the perfume, I also tried to capture the blue-violet-white of an afterimage and the silence of a snuffed candle. The scent is dry with age, taut with loss, grief, and heartbreak, and sorrowful in the unspeakable desolation of simply being forgotten.”

Alone at last. Forever. Alone in life, alone in memory, alone in history. A scent that marks those marked by the Lonely, disappearing into nothing.

The Slaughter- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s The Black Tower- “A sepulchral, desolate scent. Long-dead soldiers, oath-bound; the perfume of their armor, the chill wind that surges through their tower, white bone and blackened steel: white sandalwood, ambergris, wet ozone, galbanum and leather with ebony, teak, burnt grasses, English ivy and a hint of red wine.”

The scent of those trapped in the endless cycle of the violence of war, spanning centuries of slaughter.

The Spiral- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Azathoth: “Azathoth is the blind, idiot god who sits on a black throne at the center of Chaos. His scent is high-pitched and screeching, both impenetrably dark and searingly bright with the clarity of madness: tangerine, saffron, vetiver, black amber and cedarwood.”

A scent that matches the contradictions and chaos of the spiral.

The Stranger- Arcana Wildcraft’s Blood & Circuses: “The monstrously sweet scent of clowns gone wrong. An outlandish, carnivalic mix of white pancake makeup accord, pink cotton candy, and the salty sugariness of warm kettle corn.”

The circus has returned. I hope you’re ready for the show. Steer clear of anyone who carries this smell, and give an extra glance to the mannequins you pass.

The Vast- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s R'Lyeh: “The sunken city of the Great God Cthulhu. A hellishly dark aquatic scent, evocative of fathomless oceanic deeps, the mysteries of madness buried under crushing black waters, and the brooding eternal evil that lies beneath the waves.”

The scent of an eternal expanse that you cannot possibly comprehend. Is it the fear of what lies beneath? Is it the depth itself? Does it matter once you’re lost in it?

The Web- Haus of Gloi’s Spider Silk: “Procured from a dream: delicate water mint, wispy grey musk, crystalline webs of amber, oakmoss, torchwood, copaiba resin, and a touch of withered violet leaf.”

A gentle spider creeps its way around, leaving their little traces in the webs they weave. Only too late will you notice that you’re trapped in the web.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

“there’s something on your shirt. you – that’s blood!” + Vaxilmore

I kind of feel like we wrote this together with how much you helped me with the campaign 1 crash course :,) 

Also on Ao3 if anyone would like to leave a comment! 

---------

Shaun Gilmore looked like a man who enjoyed noise.

He looked like a man made for excess, for festive music and loud, wine fuelled laughter, for company high on fine food and dancing and whatever else they cared to bring to a party. With his embroidered edges and dripping gold jewellery, he would never strike anyone as someone to enjoy the silence after the end of a long day.

And there were some places where Shaun Geddmore and Shaun Gilmore blurred, where he couldn’t remember which likes and dislikes, what features of his personality he'd carried since birth and which had been carefully woven into the costume he’d worn to find success in Tal Dorei.

But this wasn’t one of them.

Shaun did like quiet. He liked his own company, he liked peace and silence, the ache in his muscles and clinging scent not unlike burning that came with a job well done and a lot of magic expended. He was content now, as he retired for the night in the evening stillness, locking the chamber door of the house he kept in Whitestone with full intention to not speak to another soul until the sun came up.

His work with Allura on the city defences was rewarding, a way to put his skills to a loftier use than selling trinkets and making the lives of common folk easier. Here, he was defending them. He was protecting people. It was just so exhausting.

He took a long, indulgent bath, though so much of him just wanted to collapse into bed and sleep away the brain fog. He knew the soak, the warm water, the scent of the herbs and spiced oils that always reminded him of Marquet, would do him better in the end. He made himself take his time as he took out all of the clasps in his hair and beard, combing the thick, black curls through, as he cleaned the salt of the day from his face. So it was nearly midnight by the time he wrapped himself in a silk robe and padded to the canopied bed but he certainly felt fresher and more relaxed.

A few pages of his book and then a generous handful of hours to sleep. Shaun chuckled to himself as he slid under the blankets, imagining what his love would say if he could see him. Most likely he’d be teased at how pampered he’d grown, at how one day of hard work could leave him so tired when he spent all his time tramping through gods only knew where, sleeping on the hard ground and living by his blade. Facing unknown foes every single day and now this business with the dragons, risking death in countless ways-

Shaun forced himself to stop, closing his eyes, fingers gripping his book tight enough that there would be indents left by his nails when he eventually let go.

You cannot help him by worrying he told himself with the weary sternness of a parent who’d told their child not to climb that tree a million times only to find them amongst the leaves again, you’ll only make him feel guilty when he returns.

When. Because his little bird would always fly home to him, every time, he promised whenever they had to part. And one day it would all be over and he could finally put a ring on his finger and he would never have to worry about where Vax’ildan was ever again.

Shaun had to believe that.

He made himself focus on his book, lighting the candle by his bedside with a wave of his hand, extinguishing the ones in the adjoining bathroom in the same gesture. And after a while, the tension eased and he could let go of his worries. Though his fingers still itched for the feel of soft, dark hair under them, his chest wouldn’t have felt so hollow if it had the gentle weight of a head pillowed on it.

Dawn would have found him slumped back against the pillows, glasses slipping off his nose and book slipped onto the floor if it hadn’t happened.

The magic had an unfamiliar, unpleasant scent, not unlike the dank, wet earth smell of a grave. That grabbed Shaun first, had him nearly up and on his feet, power crackling in his palm, before the sudden flash of energy even engulfed the room. He braced himself, muscles taut and face lined in cold concentration, ready for the attack.

But the flash faded, dissipating from the room like smoke, a powerful but uncontrolled moment in time, gone as fast as it had appeared.

And there was a new weight in the bed beside him.

“Vax’ildan?” Shaun cried in a strange mix of relief and horror.

His love was curled in a tight ball, still in that awful rank armour of his. His black hair had fallen across his face but what skin showed between the fronds was ashen and he trembled softly all over. Mud and ash and grime smeared Shaun’s silen sheets where it met his body.

Something was very wrong.

“Vax’ildan,” there was only urgency in his voice now, “Vax, speak to me. You’re safe, you’re here with me, it’s all okay…”

“Shaun?” his voice was a strained whisper, sounding strangely vague and disconnected like it didn’t come from him at all.

Having to fight to keep his calm, Shaun touched his shoulder gently and rolled him, wanting to see his face.

“Vax? Little bird, it’s me, you...what...there’s something on you, what- oh gods, that’s blood.”

All questions fled to the back of his mind. There was a large, dark stain of it spreading across his middle, soaking the padded shirt he wore beneath the armour. Shaun wished feverishly that it was someone else’s, a thought he’d feel guilty for later, but when he pressed gently, more welled up and Vax’s breathing turned shaky and pained.

“Oh Vax, my love, what happened?”

He asked but didn’t expect an answer, nor did he wait for one. He ripped away the light, leather plate, letting it fall carelessly to the floor, not stopping until the half elf was down to his undershirt. That went too, so he could see the wound. Small, nothing that wouldn’t heal in time, but he still found it so hard to look at, that ragged hole against the pale skin, where he’d placed who knew how many kisses.

“There was an arrow…” Vax mumbled vaguely, very out of it, “Must have left it behind…”

“What?” Shaun didn’t understand, he just jumped up and dived for the small medicine kit he kept amongst his travel bags, coming up with rages, bandages and a salve, summoning a bowl of clean water. He wasn’t as skilled a healer as some but he’d been around long enough to know how important it was to learn the basics.

Vax hissed and moaned through the process, the cleaning and the binding, the wound may not be fatal but it certainly was painful and it would only get more so as it healed. If it healed. If it didn’t get infected. Stop that.

It was only when the wound was securely bound and the herbs were doing their numbing work that Vax found his voice again, as his fingers groped blindly for Shaun’s. Even though there was a bowl of dirty water, bloody rags and armour that reeked of death waiting to be cleared away, Shaun clutched them tight and knelt by his side, not realising until he did so just how much he’d needed it.

“Sorry,” Vex exhaled weakly, “Didn’t mean to drop in on you like this.”

“But how?” Saun shook his head, trying to reconcile it with his own knowledge of magic and coming up with only one, seemingly impossible anwer, “Vax, was that a teleportation spell?”

“Was it?” Vax murmured, still a little vague, “I’m still getting used to all this…guess it could have been, it’s not like she gave me an instruction manual…”

Shaun felt a cold hand grip his insides. He didn’t have to ask who she was. Just another thing he’d been folding away, admonishing himself for thinking about.

It would be okay. Vax had promised. He had to believe that.

“We were on the way to Draconia...got jumped on the road, didn’t even see their faces. If it was just fucking high road bandits I’m going to be so pissed…”

“What? Getting yourself here all the way from Draconia...Vax, easy, try to focus. Slow breaths, that's it…” Shaun squeezed the slender, callused fingers held in his own, “You were attacked? Were you with the others?”

“Uh huh,” Vax tried to take deep breaths, wincing when it moved some clearly bruised ribs, “Was. But then I saw the arrow coming. Right at me, was going to bury itself right in my guts. Ever seen someone die like that? Slow. Messy. Your own poison leaking into you, no way to stop it…”

“Vax,” Shaun hoped his love was too out of it to hear the break in his voice, “You’re not going to die, it didn’t go deep enough.”

“No,” Vax managed a rough laugh, though it cost him another groan, “Because I left. I saw my own death coming...for the second time, I mean...and…”

“And?” Shaun prompted, his vision starting to swim.

“And all I wanted was to be with you. If I was going to die and it was gonna stick this time then...all I wanted was to see you. And I guess the random magic kicking around in me took that as a request.”

Shaun felt his throat tighten and all he could do for a moment was press Vax’s hand to his lips, his turn to tremble.

“Can you send a message to them?” Vax mumbled, “Stubby, she’ll be out of her mind. We were so close...”

“I will,” Shaun nodded, clearing his throat, “Of course. I’ll bring them here once I’m strong enough, Pike at least, so she can heal you. And then...then you’ll be back out there before you know it.”

He made the words leave his mouth, when everything else in him wanted to beg him to stay. To never leave the safety of Shaun’s arms, to leave the rest of the world to its dragons and it’s apocalypses, let the gods have their games, and just be his. As selfish as it was, Shaun would have given so much just to have the chance to say it and thus make it true.

Eventually the adrenaline leeched out of Vax and he slipped into sleep, no sign of it other than his breathing levelling out and his hands going slack in Shaun’s grip. He didn’t want to leave him sleeping in dirty sheets, still in his mud splattered boots and trousers, but the rest was what he needed now. There would be time in the morning.

He didn’t move from Vax’s side until he was sure he was fully asleep and wouldn’t miss him. Only then did he stand to send the message, over by the window. Before he summoned the strength from his frayed nerves, he looked out over Whitestone, at the shimmering transparent barrier that crowned the city, only visible when you looked through it and noticed the stars were swimming slightly. Or perhaps it was the tears in his eyes.

He’d built that barrier, he and Allura, to protect the city and every soul within it.

It seemed that Shaun Gilmore could protect everyone but the person he loved the most.

[crystalgirl259]

The Flame and the Dragon Ch2

Chapter 2: The Dreamer

"Shit! Fuck! Dammit!" Kai growled as he once again reached the last page of the leather-bound novel he had been reading. He turned the last crisp leaf only to find the last page, telling that the Dragon Lord still had to find his true love, so yellowed with age and stained that it was beyond readability. No matter how many times he read his favorite story, it frustrated him to no end that the ending remained a well-kept secret. With expert care, he closed the antique book, being extra careful with the antiquarian treasure.

Gold claps and hinders lined the corners so the leather would not wear out too quickly.

Red, orange, white, and blue jewels were embedded into the twists of each corner, while a gold clasp with a leather strap kept the book locked when it wasn't being read. Gold patterns adorned the exquisite cover while faintly glowing letters spelled out the title. The spine was equally studded with gold corners binding it together and studded with dully-glowing jewels. The pages were aged and yellowed but worn in a way that made it clear the book was not only well-used but well-loved.

Running a hand through his spikey brown hair, he gently placed the book back in his bag.

Then he interlaced his hands behind his head before leaning back against the trunk of the tree he currently occupied in a laidback manner before gazing at the clear blue sky above him. The teen had tall, thick spiky brown hair, shaped like fire, and bright amber eyes that shined like burning embers. He had a focused expression on his face, with a scar visible on his right eyebrow and a bandage above his left. He wore a red half-zipped-up jacket over a white shirt with some kind of Japanese symbol on the back of the jacket and brown pants.

Nineteen-year-old Kai Smith closed his eyes with a contented sigh before happily trying to drift off to sleep.

He wanted to escape the shackles of life outside the wide acres of land and forest surrounding the small home he occupied with his beloved sibling. If only to escape for a moment.

"KAI!"

"AHH!" He cried out as the sudden noise caused Kai to bolt from his serenity, and momentarily forgetting where he was, he maneuvered to see what it was that had woken him. The sound of giggling from above forced his eyes open, and he came face to face with the adorable face and sweet, innocent smile of his younger adopted brother. He had long, blonde tousled hair, and brown arched eyebrows with bright emerald green eyes that many people would state could sometimes glow in the dark.

He wore a dark green jacket with a white t-shirt and black pants and black and dark green sneakers.

"Good morning!" Twelve-year-old Lloyd smiled down at his older brother with a wide, bright smile and innocent eyes cutely shut. "Sleep well?"

"I did," Kai smirked with a tone of mock irritation. "Until a certain someone conspired to kill me by knocking me out of a tree." He answered with a mock glare, but his brother simply burst into laughter before taking a step back. Recognizing the game, Kai smirked and took a step forward. Lloyd took another step back, but Kai was quick to follow him until finally Lloyd turned and sprinted. The chase had begun. Letting him have his fun, Kai let his little brother win for a moment before putting on a sudden burst of speed and tackling the child to the ground.

The two rolled around for a few minutes before finally collapsing in a field of colorful flowers in a heap of laughter.

"You have been a very, very naughty boy, Lloyd Montgomery Garmadon-Smith." Kai scolded playfully, wagging his finger in front of Lloyd's face as if punishing a small child. Lloyd pouted at this, succeeding only in making himself look cuter, but Kai had helped raise him and was immune to his little brother's tricks to getting out of trouble.

"Perhaps I should ask Nya if she could cook a veggie casserole for dinner instead of pizza?" He mused thoughtfully. Lloyd's reaction changed in an instant.

"No!" The younger boy squeaked in pure panic and quickly jumped to his feet. He tugged harshly on Kai's arms and ran around him to push him to his feet when that didn't work. "Let's go, please! We can go right now! I'll even carry everything home, I promise." He started saying quickly and desperately. It took all of Kai's willpower not to fall to the ground laughing at his brother's response.

"Alright, alright green bean, we'll go." Kai chuckled at his brother's relieved smile while reaching to retrieve the bag that he had lost during their play. "But you have to promise to behave." He added and Lloyd groaned in defeat but nodded, his love of seeing the town outweighing his pride. The siblings had moved to the sleepy town of Ignacia when Lloyd was eight and Kai and Nya had just turned fifteen. They had instantly begun rebelling against the role society had dictated for him.

The trio's father Ray, a retired blacksmith, had settled his family in the small town not long after the family lost their mother to illness.

When the Smiths first arrived in Ignacia, Maya, the trio's mother and a fantastic artist who was very talented with watercolors, and their father Ray shared a love of adventure and traveled around a lot, studying the different cultures they came across. They continued their adventurous life after they were married. They had settled down for a short time when they received the joyful news that Maya was pregnant with Kai and Nya. After the twins were born, the couple decided they wanted to adopt another.

It wasn't long before they adopted a one-year-old Lloyd.

Once Lloyd was old enough to travel, the family continued their adventurous lifestyle. Unfortunately, news of her mother's illness sent the family rushing back to Ninjago City for treatment, but sadly no medicine was enough to save her. Maya's dying wish to her children and husband was for them all to be happy and to never stop following their hearts. Shortly after, the remaining family members moved to the sleepy, provincial little town of Ignacia.

The town of Ignacia was built in a large glade of a mighty forest and was truly an ancient phenomenon.

Its appearance was matched by the backdrop of giant mountains which have helped shape the city into what it is today. The materials that these mountains brought were of great importance. The village itself looked elegant. With its seagrass rooftops, redwood walls, and native bird species, the place had a pleasant atmosphere. The main attraction in the town was the fountain, which was built thirty-nine years ago. Ignacia had an unhealthy economy, which was mainly supported by fletching, wood-crafting, and armorsmithing.

But their biggest strengths were sustainable hunting and advanced medicine.

In the town of Ignacia Ray set up a small shop selling glass objects, paintings, sculptures, and anything he could craft in his forge. Even though they were quite wealthy compared to the rest of the small town. It hadn't been too difficult for the family to settle into small-town life after almost four years of traveling. Nya, like their mother, adored all forms of art around the world, but she found the Japanese style of their home inspiring. Soon her own art flooded the shop.

As long as Nya had her art, she was happy.

Carefree and fun-loving, Lloyd found a new adventure in everything he could find and delighted in the woods and the fields around his home and the town and the many buildings. If he wasn't exploring, he was plotting to steal candy from the grown-ups. Kai, unfortunately, hadn't adjusted so easily. He missed those days. Traveling and seeing many exotic places and cultures, and learning about the world ever since the morning they came to this provincial, backwater town.

It was already mid-morning and the streets were alive with bustling people, carrying out identical routines to the rest of the week.

The smooth cobblestone streets lined the city, identical massive stones corbelled together. Identical red and brown houses on batches of dirt or elevate on hills lined both sides of the streets with windows for houses on top and shops on the bottom. They were smushed close together while stone chimneys lined each roof. An enormous wall surrounded the town, separating it from the lush woods and fields, already starting to change color in the late autumn.

Kai noticed every morning just the same.

The baker carried his tray like always, the aroma of baked goods filling the crisp autumn air as people opened up shop and carried out their daily routines. People were gathering their goods and running errands, the same routine, saying good morning and asking how they were and how their families were doing. Even though the Smiths were different, they were no exception.

"Good morning, Lloyd! Good morning Kai!" The baker called, carrying a tray of bread and rolls.

"Good morning!" Lloyd chimed and rushed over with Kai behind him. The child bounced from shop to shop, delighting in his favorite past time while Kai tried in vain to strike up a conversation with the baker.

"Where you off to?" The baker asked.

"The library," Kai answered. "I just finished the most amazing book about a spellcaster and–"

"That's nice." The baker replied, having clearly stopped listening after Kai said library and called to his assistant to finish making the croissants for the day. Kai rolled his amber eyes and called for Lloyd. They continued their stroll to the only real place Kai felt at home in the dull, little town. Already, townspeople began to gossip about them as he walked by.

"That boy is strange, no question." A group of gossiping old ladies muttered amongst themselves.

"He's always distracted."

"He's never part of any crowd." An aristocratic woman pointed out. "He's always by himself reading books."

"His head's in the clouds, all the time." An old man grunted.

"No denying he's a funny boy that Kai." A group of shoppers conversed amongst themselves, while men running shopped, bowed, and tipped their hats respectively to any woman who came by. Kai growled in annoyance as he heard the gossip. A caravan drove by, ignoring the two boys after the driver said the usual good day, while three teenage girls giggled like school girls when the brunette walked by.

"That boy is so peculiar."

"I wonder if he's feeling well?"

"He's too wild." A man said to his wife. It took all of Kai's will to not growl in frustration.

"He always has a dreamy far-off look on his face."

"If his nose isn't in a book, he's scribbling away in a notebook."

"He's so strange but special; it's a pity he doesn't fit in."

"Oh yes, he's ravishing isn't he?"

"Quite, he is a funny boy though."

"A beauty, but a funny boy."

"Very different from the rest of us."

"FSM take me now if I ever become part of this life!" Kai growled to the heavens, stomping his foot in frustration. His fists clenched whenever the words odd, strange, funny, or peculiar were mumbled over and over just like yesterday and the day before that. Every day was the same thing and he had half a mind to turn around and tell everyone in town to piss off and mind their own business. But he forced his tongue in check. He cared nothing that such an outburst would only warrant more disrespect from the town and they'd treat him even worse than he already was.

It was solely out of respect for his family that he kept his cool.

Kai had adored and respected both his parents. He, Nya, and Lloyd had been devastated when age robbed them of their beloved father. Shortly after the disease killed their mother, their father's broken heart followed her in death less than a year later. The town could say whatever they wished about him, but Kai would never forgive himself if he accidentally tarnished his parents' good name because of his inability to control his temper. That and he knew the only thing losing his temper would accomplish nothing.

Except the residents marching up to his house and complaining to Nya about how her twin brother was too wild and lacked discipline.

Quite frankly, Kai loved Nya too much to let her put up with their nonsense simply because she was Kai's twin. It simply wasn't worth it. Kai had never denied he was different from everyone else, even in his own bizarre family. But after years of traveling and seeing so many different cultures and places, his own mannerisms seemed minor in comparison. However, in this backwater town so pedestrian and old-fashioned, those simple characteristics were all the town seemed to care about.

Unlike most boys, he wanted to become a writer and travel rather than marry and inherit and run a vast estate.

Kai loathed the mannerisms that many considered normal, and as headstrong and outspoken as he was, wasn't afraid to voice it and for that, he was considered odd and freaky. Not that Kai cared, he'd long since ceased caring about what others here thought of him. But despite that, he truly wished someone would look beyond his looks and accept him for who he was. An individual and not another handsome boy bound for a wealthy marriage and was simply just too headstrong for his own good.

His sharp eyes barely caught his reflection in the glass of one of the shop windows when he and Lloyd stopped to gather the groceries on Nya's list.

He turned to meet the lovely boy staring back at him. People always said the twins were lovely like their parents. Nya possessed their father's charcoal black hair and their mother's ocean blue eyes. Her brother had their mother's brown hair, even though his hair was a lighter shade, and he had his father's burning amber eyes. Lloyd may have been young but Kai could already he was going to become a handsome young man. Kai was fully aware of his appearance and what others thought of him.

But in his mind and his normal standards, he wasn't beautiful or even handsome.

To be beautiful you had to be tall and lean like his mother or Nya, and you had to have a perfect tan and look like prince charming. Compared to Kai, Nya was a gorgeous princess and Lloyd was an angel, while Kai looked more like a damsel in distress masquerading as a boy. Yet while Kai didn't see the beauty in his appearance, everyone else in the town saw nothing but his fair facade. They made no attempt to look behind it and considered him odd, peculiar, and strange.

Though he couldn't care less what others thought of him, it saddened and frustrated the fiery teen to no end, not one in town could accept him for who he was.

"Kai?" A sweet voice broke the older teen from his thoughts, and he diverted his attention from his reflection to his worried little brother, holding two large paper bags of already paid for food. "You okay?"

"I'm fine bro," He smiled, "Just lost in my thoughts." He replied following his reflection until the glass faded into the wood, they continued on their way...

[miraizu]

Open Book - 2. Interesting Customers

Open Book Ship: Chrollo Lucilfer/Reader Part: 2/? [PREV] | [NEXT] Word count: 2,728 Warnings: None. Synopsis:  Everybody has to make a way of living. Some are hunters, some are thieves, some are just regular civilians trying to enjoy their lives. You? You're an informant, and in York New City, a city that never sleeps, you're about to find out just how much of a commodity that really makes you.

       With the rain cleared up and the skies cloudless and sunny, your store was busy.  The mafia auction had brought in all sorts of newcomers in town, most of them small fry not worth your time.  You should have been pleased at the business, at making money, but your mood was soured.

       Last night, the auction had purportedly been robbed.  It wasn't confirmed yet, but you knew full well who was behind the heist, confirming your suspicions and fears.  The Phantom Troupe was in York New City.  With this new information, and the constant whispers of your customers discussing the event, you couldn't help the agitation that set in your veins.  Part of it was just the fact that the Troupe was here.  The other part, annoyingly enough, was that that meant he was here, and hadn't sought you out yet.  You weren't sure if you should be relieved or upset, and this caused you to be snippy all day with everybody.

       Hearing your name get called, your gaze flickered to the door, seeing a familiar face among all of your newer customers.  You gave him a dry smile.

       "Zepile.  I haven't gotten any specially made items for you, if that's what you're after," you said immediately, careful with your wording considering a majority of people didn't know about nen.  Seeing he was accompanied by others, a rare sight within itself, you raised an eyebrow.  ". . . Who are they?"

       The man in front of you took note of your expression.  "Man, you sure are in a bad mood today.  What happened?"

       With the rush hour dying down, leaving only a couple other customers save for Zepile and his entourage of three, you couldn't avoid the conversation.  Don't get it wrong, you enjoyed talking to Zepile, but you were in a bad mood today.  Certainly not in a mood to socialize.

       "It's nothing," you responded after a moment.  "Anyways, if you're not here to buy, what are you doing?"

       Zepile gestured to the two kids he had with him.  Was he babysitting?  You allowed yourself to take them in in more detail.  One kid was looking around the shop with wide, brown eyes, his green hair standing straight up and his clothes offending your sensibilities.  Next to him was the other kid, seeming more bored than anything, with fluffy white hair and upturned blue eyes.  You sort of wanted to see how soft his hair was.  The last newcomer was a taller man, probably around your age, in a business suit with small glasses.  A peculiar bunch - where did Zepile pick these people up?

       "We actually are here to sell stuff."

       That was a first, and you raised an eyebrow, eyes focusing on the bags in the kids' hands.  "You?  Sell?"

       The brunet laughed.  "They need money for the auction, and so I decide to take them to the best antique shop around."

       Your smile was wry.  "I'm flattered," you said flatly.  "What do you plan on buying at the auction?"

       The white haired kid spoke up before anybody else, his eyes narrowed suspiciously on your figure.  "It's none of your business."  His tone was decidedly unfriendly, and you snorted, not offended.

       "If it's none of my business, then you don't get any of my business.  Sell your shit elsewhere, kid."

       The older man among them immediately whacked the kid, and the other kid apologized hastily.  There was a genuine look in his eyes that made you stop for a moment and decide to hear them out.

       "I'm trying to get Greed Island," he told you.  You had heard of the game before, and you leaned against the counter, eyes turning upward in thought.  That was certainly going to be a lot of jenny, especially since the copies were limited.  Why did they want to get Greed Island, though?  You had met its creator - you weren't about to break it to the kids, but not only was the game a sham in a way, the guy who created it was one of the biggest assholes you had ever met.

       Although thinking about him now, and looking at the earnest kid with the brown eyes...  There was a strange air of familiarity around him, now that you thought about it.

       Humming, you examined them.  "I'll make you a deal," you decided.  "Whatever you have, I'll give you double price."  The kids' eyes grew as wide as saucers, but before they could pipe up, you continued.  "However, I want your information."

       They seemed confused.  The only one who had understood was Zepile, and he grinned, knowing that they had gotten a victory.

       "Information?  Like our names?"  This came from the bespectacled man, and you hummed, pulling out a book out of seemingly nowhere.  It was thick and old, the leather binding showing obvious signs of aging, the pages all gilded.  There were no words on the cover, and it felt almost weightless in your hands.  Holding it out, you gave a somewhat genuine smile.

       "Put your hand on this."

       The white haired kid and the taller man seemed skeptical, but the other kid was eager and put his hand on top of the book.  Immediately, his eyes lit up in recognition.

       "It's nen!"

       So they knew nen, too.  This only got more and more interesting.  Withdrawing the book from him, you opened it up to the middle.  At first, the tea-stained pages seemed blank, but slowly, writing started to appear on the page as if a ghost was writing the words.  It was your handwriting, neat and concise, but words you had never written before.  The three newcomers watched in confusion, most likely due to the fact that they couldn’t see the words being written.  Once it was done, you scanned the page.

       "Gon Freecss?"  The brown-eyed kid - Gon - lit up, his eyes widening.  You continued.  "Hm, your birthday is May 5th, so you just turned 13, and you're an enhancer..."  Including the basics was his blood type, and a little 'x' on a small map, showing his location.  He seemed interested, peering at the page in surprise, only growing more interested at realizing the page was blank to him.

       "How did you do that?"

       You smiled a bit more, amused at the kid's reaction.  "It's my nen ability," you explained.  "Well, one of them.  Your dad is Ging Freecss, isn't he?"  At the mention of his dad, Gon lit up even more, if possible.  He was a literal ray of sunshine, it seemed.  "I've met him before.  I have to say, I'm glad you're nothing like him, as he's a piece of--"

       Zepile cleared his throat, causing you to pause and realize you were about to shit talk the kid's dad in front of him.  Whoops.  Quickly trying to cover it up, you shook your head.  "I'm assuming that's why you're searching for Greed Island," you hastily amended.  "Although if you're searching for him...  I do have his location."

       You felt bad for tacking on surprise after surprise for the kid, and even his two friends looked startled.  "Really?!"

       "I have the location of anybody who I use my ability on.  If you're in search of him..."

       Gon looked like he was genuinely considering it, before he shook his head.  "I have to find him myself!"

       You commended him for the determination, even if both of his friends seemed a bit more dismayed at Gon's line of thinking.  Wanting to get this show on the road, you looked back and forth between the glasses guy and the other kid.

       "So who's next?"

       "Why should we have to give you our information?"  The snide remark came from the snarky kid, and you closed the book with a snap, gazing evenly at him.

       "If you want double the jenny, you'll stop testing my patience before I kick you all out."

       Glasses guy went up next after that, touching the book hastily.  Opening the book again, revealing another blank page, his information slowly started to appear.  Leorio Paladiknight, 20 years old and an emitter, although he hadn't genuinely learned real nen, yet.  He wanted to be a doctor - how sweet.

       Last was the other kid, who stared at the book for a moment before begrudgingly touching it, a scowl on his face the entire time.  If Gon was sunshine, this kid was the exact opposite, the pessimist to Gon's optimism.  Soon, you figured out why, raising both eyebrows at this own kid's information.

       "Killua Zoldyck...  No wonder why you were reluctant."  You had met a couple of Zoldycks, specifically Illumi Zoldyck, Zeno Zoldyck, and Maha Zoldyck, but none of them allowed you to use your ability on them.  Killua was the first Zoldyck to be put in your book, and he didn't seem pleased about it.  Wanting to ease his and Leorio's obvious worries, you stood up straight.  Closing the book, it vanished from sight, disappearing.

       "I suppose it's only fair I introduce myself," you said, giving them your full name.  "I'm a specialist, and that's my main hatsu, Informant's Guide: Novella.  I'm usually the one people come to for information on people." You kept it brief, not wanting to give away too much insight on your ability.  "Anybody who touches my book gives me information such as their name, age, birthday, blood type, nen type, and other basic information, as well as their location.  It's generally my fee for helping people out."  There was no need for them to know anything else about your hatsu, and that explanation seemed to appease them enough.  Not wanting them to ask any other questions, you nodded towards the bag in their hands.

       "So, Gon Freecss, what have you brought for me to buy?"

       It turned out, Zepile had been helping the kids find items made by geniuses, people who used nen without knowing.  Some were genuinely valuable, and true to your word, you gave them double the jenny.  You weren't one to break your promises, even though it did hurt your cash drawer a bit in the end.  Worth it, you supposed, to get information from three interesting individuals such as Leorio, Gon, and Killua.  It soothed your irritation a bit, especially since you had accidentally let the blond from yesterday slip away without getting his own information.

       As much as they interested you, though, you were glad they didn't stay for long.  Your mood may have lifted a bit, but you still weren't particularly up for expending energy into socializing.  Waving 'goodbye', you were relieved when they left, leaving you to deal with the tourists that milled around, listlessly looking without plans on truly buying anything.

       Gon, Leorio, and Killua...  I'll have to thank Zepile later.  They are certainly an interesting bunch, and I have a feeling that will not be the last I see of them.

       The rest of the day had been mostly uneventful.  You had one girl come in and buy about 200 jenny's worth of antique books, but other than that, no other customers really stood out to you.  Not until the end of the day, when the sun had just started to set.  You had about an hour until closing, and the shop had been empty when the bell rung, signalling a new customer.  Immediately, you had been put on edge.

       He was taller than you for sure, with black hair slicked back, and large gray eyes that had made you freeze for a moment.  They reminded you of the calm before a storm, analyzing and unfeeling.  Despite that feeling, though, they were gorgeous.  You had to force yourself to look away so you didn't seem creepy at all.  He seemed to read your thoughts, his lips barely quirking upwards.  Thankfully, he said nothing, instead going off to the side.

       He was confident and calm, but you didn't trust him.  His presence put you on edge, and you watched him out of the corner of your eyes, pretending to keep yourself occupied.  You only were distracted when yet another customer came in, dressed in all black and seeming tense.  Great, you could sense this guy's intentions from a mile away.

       Sure enough, he pulled out a gun, pointing it at you and causing you to deadpan.

       "Give me all of your money, or else I'll shoot both of you!"

       He had picked a really bad day to threaten you, considering you were already irritated.  Despite the threat, his black eyes seemed to avoid your own, sweat dripping down his face.  A newbie at that.  He was about to get a rude awakening.

       Your other customer had shifted, slightly turning towards the man, and you noticed the symbol on the back of his trench coat.  The St. Peter's Cross..?

       Raising your hands up and feigning innocence, you slowly walked from around the counter, the gun trained on your figure.

       "Stop right there!"

       As if you'd listen.  In a flash, you darted forward, grabbing his wrist hard enough to crack the bone as he howled in agony.  You pulled him forward, using your other hand to grab the gun as you flung the guy over your shoulder.  He impacted the ground harshly, and with the hand holding the gun you had swiftly disassembled it as if it was second nature to you, the bullets falling to the ground before you dropped the empty magazine.  Your other customer watched in an almost detached manner, but you paid no attention to him.

       "The next time you try this," you said casually, picking the groaning robber up by the collar of his shirt and dragging him to the door, "you won't be walking away with just a broken wrist.  Do I make myself clear?"

       He nodded frantically, and you kicked open the door before throwing him out into the street, ignoring the pained yelp that came from him as he roughly hit the cobblestone.  Turning back, you locked eyes with the raven-haired man.

       "Sorry about that.  It's a common occurrence in downtown York New."  His lips quirk upwards again, barely noticeable.

       "You handled it well."

       Yeah, and you just stood and watched, asshole.  Instead of saying that out loud, you gave him a tight smile.  "Is there anything I can help you with, sir?"

       His eyes scanned the store as you walked past him, making sure to brush his shoulder as you went back behind the counter.  At the touch, you saw him give an amused smile, eyes locking with yours again.

       "Hm...  No, I got what I came here for."

       You knew he hadn't stolen anything, so you weren't entirely sure what he was talking about as he strode out of the shop, stepping casually over the dismantled gun that was still on the floor.  

       You didn't tear your eyes away until you couldn't see him through the shop windows anymore.  So be it - you also had what you wanted, and summoning your book, you watched the words appear in interest.

       You had told the others earlier of your hatsu ability, Novella, but that wasn't all you had up your proverbial sleeves.  A sub-class of Novella was another hatsu: Open Book.  It gave you more basic information - a person's name, location, and age.  Of course, you couldn't get any information the person themselves didn't know, but you were in luck that the man knew both his full name and age.

       "Chrollo Lucilfer, 26," you hummed, watching the small dot move, signalling that Chrollo was heading towards the outskirts of York New.  How interesting - today seemed to prove fruitful for information and a plethora of interesting characters.  You wished you could get more information from him, considering he seemed to be particularly interesting, but it was what it was.  You could always seek him out and have him touch your book one way or another.

       With the sky a purple now, you decided it was good enough to close up your shop, making sure to clean up the gun.  It was useless to you, who detested guns.  You'd just have to dispose of it, and in an instant it was nothing more than crumpled metal in your hands, unable to hold up against your nen.

       After the mess was cleaned and the door to your shop was locked, you had went back up to your loft, feeling somewhat tired after the day's events.  Here was hoping that tomorrow would be easier going, you supposed, unaware of the plot that was brewing beneath York New City - one that would pull you right into the middle of everything.