#this is my fountain pen tag now

[running-in-the-dark]

I got a lot of new ink recently (20 samples and 4 bottles), so here's all of them because I think they're pretty 😌

[copper-skulls]

fountain pen doodles i might color in on a rainy day someday. or not. we'll see.

[bmpmp3]

You've heard of Jars of Eyeballs, now get ready for:

Vials of Eyelashes

[ts-track9]

Can we have these fountain pen/quill pen/glittery pen playlists updated with midnights and every future TV? Speak now (album) gives fountain pen vibes and rep lowkey has some glittery pen girlies and I want to know if my suspicions are right

[perlelune]

Tag, You’re It | Ethan Landry

Happy, carefree college days meet their abrupt end when every guy who approaches you mysteriously turns up dead.

Warnings: NON-CON, Stalking, Bimbo!Reader, Clueless Reader, Loss of Virginity, Incel Ethan, Cheerleader Reader, Skin Carving (w/knife), Canon Typical Slashing, Voyeurism, Kidnapping

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

Tapping your pencil against your notebook, you curb the yawn threatening to spill from your mouth. 

Half an ear is leant to Professor Atkins as he drones on about asset allocation and private equity.

Econ classes aren’t usually the peak of excitement, but even less so when you’re sleepy from texting your crush from the late hours of the night until the early morning. 

It’s probably unwise. Your GPA’s been slipping a little. But you can’t help it.

Each time you get a message from Connor, butterflies swarm in your belly. The sweetness of his messages from last night hasn’t fully sunk in. You get heady just thinking about it.

Anika bumps your shoulder to nudge you awake. You gasp and bat your lashes in surprise, eliciting a round of hearty laughs from the students around you. 

You shrink beneath your professor’s disapproving scowl and mouth 'sorry', your face warming as you dip your head.

Your attention returns to your book, the words printed on the page collapsing into each other a befuddling heap. You’ve still got no idea how you’ll pass this class. You were told it’s important so you took it. 

Humongous mistake.

It’s becoming tougher for you to keep up with more elaborate concepts. And Professor Atkins speaks so fast. 

Your mind spins at the amount of information after each class, your own notes making little sense to you.

As your thoughts clamor, the back of your neck tingles with a peculiar sensation. 

You whirl from your seat.

When your eyes drift to the back of the lecture hall, they grow saucer-wide. 

Some guy with a head of thick, inky curls and a boyish face lowers his head the second his gaze crosses yours.

Your mouth parts in surprise. 

He doesn’t look back up as you study him from your seat next to Anika and Mindy, fumbling with his pen as his throat bobs.

You turn away, pouting your lips in confusion. 

You don’t know him, but his face bears vague familiarity.

Then you begin to wonder…was he looking at you before? 

It sure seemed like it. But how odd. Is there something on your face? How would he even notice at this distance?

Returning your scarce attention to the class, you discard the ephemeral weirdness.

You slump in your chair and wait for your professor to be done, stealing glimpses at your phone as you hope for more texts from Connor. 

When he turns off the projector and dismisses everyone, you practically leap from your chair. 

Anika and Mindy trade light jokes about your obsession with your phone as you stroll down the hallways. 

Your back prickles and you turn, your gaze landing near the water fountain where that guy from before is chatting with Chad. 

Realization dawns over you. You’ve seen him hang around Chad a few times…but the two of you have never spoken. 

"Who’s that?" you ask Mindy, slanting your head sideways in the most inconspicuous way you can manage. 

She shakes her head in response. 

"Just that nerdy kid who’s rooming with my brother. He’s kind of made him his pet project. Why?"

So he’s Chad’s roommate. The familiarity makes sense now. Strangely though, you don’t think he���s uttered a word to you since the year began. 

"Ah, nothing," you dismiss. 

But Mindy doesn’t relent, letting go of her girlfriend’s hand to grab your shoulder. 

"He wasn’t weird to you, was he?" she says, glowering at Ethan from a distance.

A sigh leaves your lips. Mindy’s uniquely mistrustful of anyone new in the friend group. In fact, she even investigated Anika when they started dating. It speaks to the power of love that those two are still together despite Mindy’s suspicious nature. 

Though you surmise that considering everything she, her twin brother and Tara went through…it makes sense for new people to set her on edge.  She showed you her stabbing scar once, memorabilia of that awful night. She told you of the nightmares afterwards. 

Mindy’s the toughest, most badass girl you’ve ever met.

The fact that a glint of fear lingers in her brown orbs whenever she mentions it speaks volumes.

You shrug. 

"No, I think he was just looking at me. I’m just not sure why though."

Arching a brow, she chortles. 

"Oh, don’t worry about it." She leans over you to whisper. "Ethan’s probably never seen a girl up close before…if you catch my drift."

You soak in that information with a nod, heat rising in your cheeks at her implication. You’re not that experienced yourself, even if you try to carry yourself with confidence most of the time. 

Discreetly, you swipe another peek at him. He’s laughing at one of Chad’s jokes it appears. 

So curly-haired guy’s name is Ethan.

You make a mental note of it. He’s cute, in a puppy dog kind of way. Not your type though. You prefer your men a bit more…seasoned. 

Ethan’s got more than a few seasons to go before you look at him that way. 

Still, he seems nice and way more organized than you are, like he actually understood the gibberish pouring out of Professor Atkins’ mouth…words that might as well be a foreign language to you. 

A nerd, Mindy jested, as in a guy who’s probably way smarter than you. 

Potential life raft amidst the sea of confusing Econ concepts currently drowning you. 

Anika’s airy tone tugs you away from your inner ramblings. 

"You’re still coming to the OKB party, right?" 

A proud smile drags your lips skyward. "Yeah, I even bought a sexy nurse costume."

Anika cocks her head and squeezes your shoulder. 

"Babe, you have to walk away from the male gaze eventually, free yourself of the shackles of patriarchy."

You confine a laugh at the dramatic hand she spreads over her chest and Mindy’s approving nod. 

You chew on your bottom lip apologetically. "Yes but…Chad said Connor will be there and my boobs look great in that costume."

"Unbelievable," Anika huffs in surrender. 

Mindy beams at you, "As your friends…we support however slutty you want to dress."

"Thanks," you chuckle. 

More banter ensues and you smile at their antics. An idea surges in your head and you decide to let them know you’ll catch up with them later. 

You wave your friends goodbye and focus on your new mission.

When you pivot, your eyes dart about the hallway.

After gulping a deep breath, you take firm strides to the water fountain. 

"Hey," you chime once you’re in front of him.

It’s straight up comical the way his brown eyes bulge in astonishment, his thick brows grazing his hairline. You find yourself endeared as he steals glances around himself, as if uncertain you’re actually addressing him and not someone else. 

He points at his chest. "Y-You’re talking…to me?"

A sweet laugh unleashes from your lips. "Who else, silly?" You tilt your head, scrutinizing him. You note that he’s taller than you thought up close and that a few freckles spatter his face. You have to crane your head up a bit to look him in the eye. "Ethan, right?"

He searches your face before replying, that same disbelief painted on his features. "You know my name?"

"Yes. Mindy told me," you say honestly. 

You see no reason to pretend. He’s Chad’s roommate. You’re friends with Mindy and Anika. While you never got around to chatting with him before, he’s not a complete stranger. You’re part of the same friend group, after all.

"Mindy told you…about me?" A blend of awe and skepticism color his inflection. 

As he gapes at you, you elect to jump straight to your purpose. 

"Ethan…" When you step forward, your chest almost brushing his, Ethan’s Adam apple moves up and down. Pink dusts his cheeks. His eyes bounce as if he’s trying to not stare below your chin. You nibble on your bottom lip and hold his gaze. "I really don’t know how to ask this but, do you think I could borrow your notes? I really struggle w-"

"Yes. Of course. Yes."

His eager, instant reply broadens your smile. "Cool."

He scratches the back of his neck, hesitation coating the air before he blurts out, "I could even tutor you…" When your mouth parts in surprise, he rushes to add, "I mean, only if you want." Ethan’s eyes find the floor before meeting yours again, his face even more flushed than before. "I’m sure you’re so busy, with cheerleading and everything."

Your wide-eyed gaze rests upon him. 

"You know I cheer?"

He clears his throat. "I went to support Chad. I saw you…in passing." He mutters under his breath. "You looked so pretty in your uniform." As he gets a glimpse of your dumbfounded expression, Ethan waves his hand in front of himself defensively. "I swear I’m not a pervert or anything."

Tilting your head sideways, you blink at him.

You wonder why he’s so flustered when he did nothing wrong.

Cheerleaders are there for…well bring cheer. The looks you get in your tiny skirt and short top bear heavily on your skin during matches, but you’ve grown used to it. 

Guys look at girls wearing cute outfits all the time. You have no reason to make him feel bad for watching when it’s the very point of the eye-catching getup and choreography. 

"It’s okay. I believe you." Ethan’s shoulders slump when you reassure him. You shoot him a bright grin. "Let’s exchange socials."

Embarrassment creeps on his boyish features. 

"I…don’t really use social media."

"Oh. Numbers then?"

You save his contact under 'cute nerd Ethan', chuckling to yourself at the moniker. As you pivot to leave, you halt in your tracks.

"Hey, Ethan?" you call softly.

He straightens his back and swallows. "Yeah?"

"Thanks," you say.

You give him your sunniest, most sincere smile. He goes statue-still at the sight, eyes bulging, but no other word leaves his gaping mouth. 

There’s a pep in your step as you stroll away, relief fluttering through you. It gladdens you that you were right about Ethan.

He’s just a sweet guy. A nice guy. 

And now, not only did you just gain a tutor but possibly even a new friend. 

[xxsycamore]

KING'S GAME

╰┈➤ ❝ I just need to know in case…❞ ❝ In case what? In case you take it a little too far in role-playing? In case you go down on me and the words mon empereur leave your lips? ❞ - After a round of some silly drinking game, MC can't help but have certain thoughts about Napoleon and how easily he takes on the role of someone in power. Naturally, she wants to know his boundaries of it.

Napoleon Bonaparte/MC • rating: E (MDNI) • tags: Drinking Games; Alcohol; Shenanigans; Humor; Sexual Tension; Massage; Kink Negotiation; Sexual Roleplay; Power Play; Dominant Napoleon; Dom/sub; Master/Servant; Blow Jobs; Oral Sex; Choking; Dacryphilia; Stripping; Dirty Talk; Vaginal Fingering; Begging; Vaginal Sex; Creampie; Aftercare • wordcount: 6,055 • masterlist

a/n: The idea for this fic was conceived long before an event of the same theme came to Ikevamp EN... We ended up not seeing them all play together in the game so I hope this right here fixes that, maybe? I have no idea how it ended up being that long. I guess I've been looking for the right opportunity to explore this part of Napoleon's character in a smut fic, namely his feelings about being called emperor and the likes in the bedroom. Hope you enjoy!

"Oh, I know! How about we play the Ousama game? It's a popular drinking game back home, in my era!"

It's rare for MC to be the one initiating activities on game nights, so naturally, all eyes are on her. Dazai is quick to give his enthusiastic approval, wanting to know more about a game that came after his time but originates from his homeplace. Sebastian smiles in a similar fashion.

"Good pick, MC. I think our residents are going to like it. Will you please excuse me for a second?"

As Sebastian stands up from the table and dashes out of the room, someone's comment oh my god, he's totally fetching his diary, can be heard. But really, there are no hard feelings. Everyone's more than happy to welcome Sebastian at the table and see him being more open and relaxed around his masters for once. Maybe it does have to be documented.

"It's not something like Arthur's games, I assume?" Isaac directs his gaze at MC, almost pleading under the surface for an affirmative response.

She rubs awkwardly at the back of her neck. As much as she hates to disappoint him…

"Erm, it's basically a game of dares… but don't worry, you can always refuse a dare!"

"That's it, if you want to take the punishment, Newt." Arthur seems ready to dance on the physicist's nerves with a complimenting chin-cupping stance, elbows rested on the table and all. Theo rolls his eyes.

"Let me guess. Refuse a dare and drink a shot."

"That's correct." MC nods before Arthur can take more liberties at orchestrating her own game, even if they happen to be thinking in the same direction. "Let me go get what we need for the game!"

By the time Sebastian is back and patting his breast pocket suspiciously, so is MC, with a handful of… chopsticks. And a fountain pen.

"So, what I'm going to do now is write a number for each one of us… Vincent, Theo, Arthur, Isaac, Mozart, Dazai, Sebastian, Napoleon, and I…so that means numbers 1 to 8, and on the ninth chopstick, I'm going to write Ousama - which means 'King' - and then we shuffle the chopsticks in a cup - Arthur, can you pass me the empty cup next to you? - then we each take one but without showing our numbers to the others. Whoever gets the Ousama chopstick becomes King and he places a dare for someone, using the numbers! Is everything clear?"

"Uh. What kind of dares are allowed?"

Napoleon nods at the direction the question originates from. "Good point. Hey, maybe tone it down with the sexual stuff. There are taken people at the table."

Arthur snaps, "Why are you looking at me? I wasn't intending to. Besides, if a dare doesn't stand right with you, you can always drink and avoid it!"

Memories of other game nights seem to flood multiple minds at once, so MC lets out a half-chuckle half-sigh and moves on. She does take a mental note of the hint of possessiveness in Napoleon's comment just now who instantly got worried about another man being prompted to touch her inappropriately. As if anyone has the balls to touch Napoleon's woman, she thinks to herself… and kind of likes the way it sounds in her head.

It's a shame that Leonardo and Comte aren't joining them tonight and are instead enjoying a more sane way of getting alcohol in their system, in some quiet corner of the mansion. And Comte is totally not smoking a cigarillo right now while talking to his old friend, claiming that he hasn't had one in forever, again. And for that matter, Jean's presence is missed as well, but sadly (although understandably) he dislikes partaking in such activities. He's a lot like Mozart in this regard, with the difference that Mozart becomes another person when he drinks some. And that person loves joining drinking games with his buddies!

"If we're all ready - here we go!"

MC gives the cup a rather unnecessary bartender-style shake, assuring the chopsticks are well shuffled and ready to make it to all the wrong hands.

Once placed on the table, a crowd of hands quickly reach into the cup and sneakily withdraw in order to hide their new secret identity, with the exception of one person who has nothing to hide.

"I'm the king. My, I wasn't prepared for this."

As Sebastian holds up the chopstick of fate high in the air for all to see, a few pairs of surprised eyes catch his own. And something like a shimmer lights up in Sebastian's ones.

For someone as unprepared as him, he surely doesn't waste time on thinking about his next move. Not at all.

"Number 6, exchange a clothing item with number 1. Number 3, take off your pants without using your hands. And number 4 must do a handstand."

"By Jove, Sebas, your fetishes are showing!" Arthur blinks, both surprised and somehow entertained by the turn of events which (in his own head) kicks him off the position of number one most perverted person around the table. Or at least for the time being. He's only smiling now because he's safe, being the lucky number 7 and out of Sebastian's fantasies.

Isaac and Theo can't say the same. They exchange a look - eyes traveling up and down each other's frames - looking for a convenient clothing item to exchange, given their different builds. Theo is done with his choice first, and he reaches over the table to undo Isaac's necktie. The smaller man averts his gaze, turning his head away as much as he can so it's not in Theo's way, or perhaps out of embarrassment, but it's over before it ever began thanks to Theo's rough but effective methods of freeing the cloth from under his collar. Using the chance coming with the shortened distance, Isaac snatches Theo's scarf in return as the most adequate thing to take.

"Aw, you two are boring." Napoleon mocks for change, drumming his fingers on the table with a smirk. Theo muses with the thin black tie in his hands, turning to Napoleon with an empty look and silently wrapping it around his forehead instead, tying it off at the side.

"Is this better?"

"Snrk. I don't know, what do we think, Sebas?"

"I approve of your new look, Master Theodorus. Or should I drop the 'Master'? I'm the King now, after all."

MC gasps, "Sebas! Oh, this game is dangerous…"

"Tell me about it. My first dare and I already have to drink. Woe is me." Dazai weeps, rising up from his seat to point at his hakama, making it impossible for him to complete the take off your pants without hands dare.

"Guess that leaves me." Napoleon sighs, pushing his chair back audibly as he stands up.

"Ooh! Go for it, Naps!"

"Good thing it went to someone who's in good shape. I bet it's a piece of cake for him."

"We'll see now." Napoleon smirks to himself, rubbing his hands together as he prepares to tackle the handstand. His eyes get serious for a second as he calculates it all, and in the next moment, his hands are flat against the floor changing the center of his weight. While he's upside down, the gravity makes his partly untucked shirt expose his abs.

Someone whistles, and MC finds herself staring. As if for the first time.

All too soon, Napoleon is back on his feet again, dusting off his palms and retaking his seat by the table. Sebastian is beaming. "I like this game. Thank you for the idea, MC."

"Thank you, MC." Mozart chimes in, for some reason, oblivious to Sebastian making history tonight as opposed to quietly observing it from the side like usual.

"Haha, you guys are welcome… so, let's do it again, shall we? Let's see who will be King this time around~!"

After the new shuffle of chopsticks, everyone seems a little more lively, a little more hopeful - some driven by revenge and some simply by the contagious evil brewing in the air.

"Who is King?"

Out of the people looking at their newly acquired chopsticks, Napoleon is the one who speaks up.

"I guess that would be me."

"It's Napoleon, huh…"

"Oh, how fitting! You were born for it, Naps."

"Haha, not really."

"My bad. You're an emperor, not a king. I'm so sorry, Your Majesty."

Napoleon snorts, not playing along - or perhaps his dismissing the extended apology is his way of playing along. MC raises an eyebrow, studying his reaction. Napoleon's attitude towards these things is… rather complicated, as he seems to both loathe his so-called days of glory and simultaneously accept them for what they are, a part of him. She's been confused more than once about what's a good way of navigating through the situation when the topic is brought up in their conversations. On one hand, she hates the change of expression on his face that makes her feel like winter has returned - even if it's never going to feel to her like how it felt to him, the cruel winter - on the other, she knows he hates it when people walk on eggshells around him.

But now they're all at least half-drunk and merely goofing around. No one's bothered to care about these things, and maybe Napoleon prefers they don't anyway.

"Number 5, hold three ice cubes in your mouth until they melt. Number 4, confess about a fetish you have in front of everyone. Number 2, crack an egg over Number 7's head. Number 1, give me a massage."

"N-Napoleon is a sadist!!"

"So cruel…"

And he's laughing too. Sadistic tendencies aside, his laughter sounds every bit as genuine (and loud) as MC always remembers it to be, and it's strangely soothing. Maybe she should refuse a dare just for the shot, just to drown her worries a little more… Taking a look at her chopstick again because she thinks she heard her number, she sees a 1.

Theo goes somewhere, for ice presumably, despite Sebastian's offer to do it in his stead, and Arthur follows. "Wait, I'll go for the eggs."

"Who got the fetish one?" Napoleon browses the faces of the ones left at the table to spot the flushed one. Vincent raises a hand.

"My fetish is, um… I don't really-"

"Come on Vincent-kun, we all have fetishes~"

"I think I could say… maybe… um.."

"Yes? Go on, say it. We won't judge."

"I'd love it if my partner would touch themselves and let me watch."

"That's perfectly normal, Master Vincent. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"Woah, it's both very vanilla and somehow kinky at the same time..." MC muses out loud. "Oh, but nothing to be ashamed of, certainly!"

Arthur and Theo return, with the latter immediately taking note of Vincent's beet-red face.

"What did I miss? Broer?"

"The fetish dare… Don't worry, Theo, I just had a shot instead."

"Oh, that's good. I mean, no it's not! Napoleon, how dare you make mjin broer take a punishment!"

"It wasn't really- Anyway, Theo, let's shut you up now."

Theo groans, dragging on every move as if giving the ice a chance to melt as much as possible before the inevitable contact with his mouth. At last, there's nowhere to escape and he pops the cubes in his mouth, thankfully they fit.

"Okay, I've been waiting for this. Who gets an egg in the head?"

"It's me… I hate this game…"

Isaac cards his fingers through his strawberry locks, as if for one last time while they're still egg-free. In the meantime, Theo's expression twists, less out of sympathy and more because the ice begins to torture him from the inside out.

"And the executioner?"

"Master Isaac, I'm truly sorry, it's me." Sebastian raises his gloved hand.

"Ahahaha! Haha!" Mozart laughs at the turn of events seeing a servant disserving his master. Or maybe the reason behind his laughter is nowhere that complex. One thing is certain, for some reason, he always gets out of the bunch's drinking games taking no damage in the form of nasty dares and punishments.

Sebastian stands up reluctantly, then sits down again. "Should I just drink? But I have to remind, I can't hold my liquor very well, I'm afraid."

"Just get it over with. I won't be mad at you or anything."

Sebastian sighs to show a little more reluctance before committing the deed. He looks like he's trying to miss his target, but unfortunately the raw egg still perfectly lands on Isaac's head, quickly descending down his face. Isaac's grossed-out expression mirrors Theo's current agony. As someone hands Isaac a handkerchief to wipe off the sticky mess with, another jokingly calls the sight erotic…

"Alright, I'm ready for my massage. Who shall serve the King?"

Napoleon relaxes back in his seat demonstratively in anticipation. It's a bold invitation, and everyone looks up to see the chosen one.

"My king."

MC stands up, showing her chopstick marked with the number 1. She tries to mute the sound of the others' reactions in her head as suddenly her pulse speeds up.

Napoleon flashes her a grin.

"Very well. The King is expecting you."

He lifts his glass to his lips as he hasn't touched it since the beginning of the game, probably deeming it worthless with the nature of the game. Not that he's expecting to be drinking anytime soon - he's simply not the type to back out from any dare unless it's too ridiculous even for him. Maybe that's why he started to miss the warmth at the back of his throat.

As MC makes her way to where he sits, she witnesses the singular bobbing of his Adam's apple when he gulps down the liquid, and she watches dumbstruck for a second as he motions for her to take a sip if she wants to, from the same glass. Well, yes, she finished her own drink a while ago. She accepts the glass from his hold.

"Now, what kind of massage should I request? Hmm…"

Arthur's dirty remarks fall on deaf ears as MC focuses on not choking on the liquid in her mouth.

Napoleon is a giver.

But there's something damn attractive when he allows himself to take from others.

"The king orders you to rub his shoulders."

And it's damn attractive when he's commanding like that. She sees now what the others were referring to in their provocations earlier - it rolls so, so easily off his tongue when he gives an order like this. Even if it's for a stupid game, the sharp look he gives her feels rather… real.

Not that this is anything new to her. For all Napoleon's gentleness, in the bedroom, he has this side of him that colors him rather dominant. And she'd be lying if she said she's gotten so used to it by now she doesn't feel anything between her legs right this moment. Instead of being a liar, she blames it on the alcohol.

Standing behind Napoleon, MC puts her hands on his broad shoulders… and really, it's been a while since she last gave him a massage. Usually, it's the other way around, as Napoleon added it to his ever-growing list of skills, even if initially it was something he'd never done before, given his status in his past life. Now she has his shoulders all to herself to knead and push at, and she catches herself putting selfishness in the act of service. Because she can't help but have impure thoughts.

Napoleon groans. It's quiet but she catches it over the cacophony of other noises in the room coming from the rowdy bunch. They're already setting things up for the next round, and here she's still stuck on her dare. She doesn't want to go back to her seat. Maybe Napoleon can read her thoughts like he always does and offer her his lap for the rest of the night; maybe he will go further and excuse the two of them for the night-

One hand at work, she reaches the other into the cup because they tell her to, and it appears to be Isaac's turn to be King. Good for him, but bad for everyone else. Seems like it's going to be a long night…

Later in the night and a few more rounds down the line, apples have been eaten without hands, glasses have been downed, a few mounts were the targets of unpleasant substances, either deadly spicy or deadly sweet, some clothes have been removed, some eyes filled with tears - and the collective level of soberness in the room has been drastically lowered.

It's a surprise how they even managed to put an end to it before the sun came out when naturally there's always someone who didn't get a chance to take revenge on someone else. Napoleon and Theo, being the best at holding their liquor as per usual, felt it their duty to help the others to their rooms.

MC didn't have much to drink, otherwise she'd be asleep on the pile of residents by now. Not that she intended to retain some of her soberness, it simply happened - because the bubbling feeling in her chest wasn't caused by alcohol, to begin with.

Napoleon, always the caretaker. Maybe if she throws herself at him he'll carry her to her room as well.

"Goodnight, Theo, go get some sleep." The sound of him returning after separating from Theo interrupts her daydreams.

Once he sees he's all alone with MC, he offers her a smile.

"And we're the last ones again. C'mon Nunuche, let's go to our room."

"Carry me?"

MC tries her best puppy-dog eyes at him, and he tests her for a second like it doesn't work on him. He then gawks at her laziness, hoisting her up his shoulder and giving her ass a little spank. "Let's get you to bed, naughty Nunuche. Some of those guys will be mad at you for weeks, you know? But you better not give them those eyes. Only I get to see them."

"Mm…Napoleon?"

The varnished floorboards creak under Napoleon's steps as he makes his way down the hall, holding MC's weight securely. "Yes?"

"Do you really enjoy it? You know, being treated like a majesty."

It's a short trip, and MC's perspective soon goes back to normal as the floor and the walls swap their places once more before her eyes. Not that she's interested in it, so she throws herself at the bed in the next second, sinking in the welcoming embrace of the comforter, not bothering with removing it at least for the time being.

"Pfft, where did that come from?" Napoleon says while closing the door behind him. The crickets are still singing their songs under their window, it can't be that late in the night.

"From the game. For a second I was worried it left a bad taste in your mouth."

"Hmm." Napoleon fake-muses, kicking off his shoes before sinking one knee on the bed. "I think I liked it when you were the one treating me like a majesty."

"No, don't joke, tell me seriously."

"I am serious though."

Somehow they end up in this position that doesn't help resolve the tension poisoning the air around them one bit; with him caging her with his body on the soft mattress and her having nowhere else to look at but right at his penetrating gaze. Her fingers twitch, nails catching into the fabric of the comforter, seeking a sense of stability.

"I just need to know in case…"

"In case what? In case you take it a little too far in role-playing? In case you go down on me and the words mon empereur leave your lips?"

Like a spark to the kerosene pooling low in her belly, Napoleon's words make beautiful explosions bloom behind her eyelids that have fallen shut amidst the last sentence. She takes a breath but it only feeds the fire as she can't help the way her exhale sounds raspy.

"Would you like that?"

"Would you?"

MC bites on her bottom lip. "This is not about me."

"I thought you wanted to serve your King."

She averts her gaze, because if she looks a little longer at this alluring jade gaze that reeks of sex, she'll be able to feel herself losing her composure, and she's trying to have a serious conversation here.

"I do."

"Hmm." Napoleon plays with her, trailing a hand down her modest home dress, prodding at the buttons at the front. "This is bad, I don't know what to ask for first. I've lost shape."

"Liar. You were perfect at it earlier."

"Someone's been paying attention. Were you also fucking me with your eyes? Right there, at the table?"

MC takes two sharp breaths, and it resembles panting, all too soon. It's out of irritation and not arouse, not yet. When she pictured their little game, she thought she'd just have to bow her head obediently and indulge in her desire to serve. Not enduring Napoleon's verbal teasing as any other night.

"Is it that bad? Will my King punish me now as he sees fit?"

Napoleon looks at her. For all the things that may be at the tip of his tongue, MC imagines most vividly the tone Napoleon would speak them in and how much he's cut for the role. Her soul sings at the thought, but it's nothing holy.

"Get up then. Don't you think it's a little rude to be lying down in my presence?"

That's fair. With renewed vigor, she pushes herself off the bed and waits readily by the side of it.

"Remember to not look me in the eyes. It's forbidden. You'll only look when I allow you to, if I allow you to. You'll have to earn my grace."

Instinctively, MC wants her nod to be accompanied by eye contact, but she corrects her mistake before it can even take place.

"Present yourself. Take it all off."

MC blinks surprisedly at how fast things are happening but isn't against it at all. She has the feeling that he is capable of making her do all sorts of dirty things with a mere flick of his tongue, undressing for him is nothing.

She makes a show of it, despite not having many articles of clothing on her to take off seductively - before long, she's stepping out of her dress that has pooled at her feet, and she retakes her previous position.

"I'm pleased with what I'm seeing. Come closer. Kiss me."

He doesn't have to ask twice. It's something familiar and yearned for since they crossed the threshold of their room—hell, no, since they took a seat at the table for that game. It's welcoming and fulfilling and it's just what she needed-

Or so she thought, until she terribly embarrassed herself with a rather awkward and rigid pressing of lips against lips, and no movement. In her selfishness, and out of habit, she left her mouth open for Napoleon's invasion. But she's forgetting to consider that kings get tired of their conquests too.

She summons her boldness and turns the desire in her veins into fuel for action. She shoves her tongue in Napoleon's mouth, but gently, not with the intention to dominate, but rather to serve. To kiss him until he gets enough. Her tongue swirls against his own, the movement rather clumsy, the making out of a juvenile rather than that of a skillful lover… but it's what he wants. He wants to see her seduce him, use every millimeter of her body for his pleasure, and keep going until he has his fill.

A thin string of saliva connects their lips upon her withdrawal, and her eyes are shut tight. She has to keep them shut, otherwise she'll look right at him. Napoleon chuckles.

"You may open them."

She does, and the sight is not kind on her fragile composure. Locking eyes with Napoleon has never felt like this, like a privilege, and exploring this new feeling is exciting.

"You're not half bad with your mouth. Undress me and put it to use."

Heartbeat thumping in her ears, MC finds it impossible to conduct herself in that moment; to sturdy her hands into performing the task and to break her gaze from his piercing pools of jade. She starts with the shirt, more tugging at the buttons rather than precisely undoing them, before pushing it completely off his shoulders, and finally letting it fall to the floor. He's glorious with just his trousers on and that scrutinizing, almost cold gaze. She opens the fly enough to take his hardness out, and her stomach tightens instinctively.

She wets her lips and parts them, taking in the head of his cock, letting it rest on her tongue. Even when her world narrows down to the hot pulsing flesh in her mouth, she catches herself dividing her focus between pleasuring her lover and.. the position she's doing this in. There's a little bit of getting used to it being required, and it makes her realize how unfamiliar that is - her being on her knees, on the hardwood floor, and Napoleon standing upright. When was the last time they've found themselves in that exact arrangement? It could've happened once or twice before, in the heat of the moment, or when the space had limited them. But never intentionally. Not because MC has anything against it - rather, it would be Napoleon who changes the position whether he's about to receive oral. He makes sure he's at least sitting down at the edge of the bed, where MC can rest her hands on his hips, or on the bed. Where he can see her better, to check up on her. Now she has to look up to see him, and he seems so far away, or maybe her eyes are doing tricks on her, or maybe her vision is blurring because she accidentally took his cock too deep down her throat and now tears are gathering in the corners of her eyes.

Napoleon brings his hand over her head and collects a fistful of her hair, one unfamiliar thing after another - but before intimidation can mix into her blood, she breathes in deeply, because it's not him forcing her down his cock, it's him forcing her off it.

He holds his cock firmly by the base as he directs it at her parted lips again, but doesn't breach the gap between them. He simply rubs his cockhead on the soft cushion of them, gathering the saliva that starts to droll down and smearing it back on her lips.

"A pretty mouth indeed."

MC can only look at him. She looks at him like she's looking straight at an open flame.

"Next," Napoleon begins, cupping her chin and caressing with his thumb where his cock used to be just a second ago. "I want you to go on the bed and show me the position you want to be taken in. Can you do that for your King?"

MC finally averts her gaze; it happens involuntarily, purely as a reaction to another surge of surprise and embarrassment.

"I— Yes, my King."

Napoleon angles her chin up, a signal for her to rise to her feet. Yes, that would be a good start.

The bed is just two steps away from where she is but MC feels like she can trip thrice on the way there with how much her legs have turned to jelly. Still, she makes it. There's not much room for thinking this through, for deciding on what would work out best for both of them - normally it's him who takes these decisions, anyway - so once she leans forward on the bed, she gives way to impulsivity and the way it saves her from having to give it any more thought. If she has to name the reason, it would be that it aligns with everything that Napoleon is tonight. Of course it would be fitting if he were to take her on her hands and knees.

"Does this… please you?"

She hears the rustling of clothes behind her back, probably the sound of Napoleon getting rid of his trousers, before he approaches her. He doesn't say anything about approving the position or not, and MC can't decide if his silence is worse. He comes to stand right behind her, and she crawls a little closer to the edge of the bed to make sure their skin is touching. Napoleon lets one hand roam from the fold of her knee up to the curve of her butt, and MC jumps lightly at the touch. Needless to say, she's sensitive and oh-so neglected. Her insides throb at the mere proximity of Napoleon's slender fingers close to her sex - it's a miracle she doesn't come undone on the spot as he actually directs his touch to the apex of her thighs. Wetness catches on his fingertips and he wastes little time caressing her folds before plunging two fingers inside.

"Nnghhh…" MC tosses her head, trying her best to enjoy the feeling of finally, finally claiming some pleasure but without losing herself completely in it. Napoleon twists his fingers until his open palm is facing upwards, thrusts in and out a few times in a way that doesn't intend to bring pleasure but rather to prepare - and then his fingers audibly and briskly exit her wetness.

MC whines at the loss of his fingers but finds a new fire sparkled to life inside her, and she's more than happy she wouldn't have to wait any longer for the next dose of intoxicating pleasure.

"Good girl. Do you want my cock?" Napoleon asks, openly and greedy. He's not risking having her beat around the bush by posing a more generic question like what she wants next. They both know the answer to that already.

Not that he spares her the torturous reminder of what she'll get by saying the right thing. He rubs his flushed tip on her glistening folds, pressing it in enough to just barely catch on her entrance; to make her bite her tongue and assume he just might show mercy and put it in without her pleading for it.

"I- Yes, please, Napoleon— take me, fuck me! Please…"

She only realizes once it slips out that she used his name and not the object of their little game of pretend that is his title, but there's no going back.

Napoleon doesn't punish her for it. Instead, he rewards her, giving her what she wants most. The groan he lets out as the familiar warmth and tightness enfolds his aching cock is telling of his own desperation.

MC cries out at the intrusion, only now understanding the difference of not having him finger her for longer prior to this. It doesn't hurt - she just feels a little fuller somehow. A little on edge. He gives her time to adjust, however, and she just basks into this dangerous feeling for as long as it's there until he carefully withdraws only to give it another thrust.

"Ahh!" Her insides squeeze around Napoleon again, as he goes in deeper this time. She blames the position, trying to reason out why she feels him in her guts. Napoleon withdraws again, and then pushes in, trying to fit even more of himself inside.

"You're taking me so well. I'm so deep inside you, I bet you can feel me in your deepest parts."

She groans at his words and their truthfulness as his thrusts grow rhythmic, the place where they're connected burning with the delightful friction, and her arms soon give out. She buries her head between her hands, enduring the change of angle as her rear sticks out, and Napoleon keeps pounding at her. His own sounds of pleasure are barely masked by the sounds of skin on skin, but he's not hiding them either. He lets her know how good she's making him feel, telling her something dirty in a low voice that she can barely register over the drumming in her ears.

"You feel so good- merde- Ngh. I want to stay inside you forever."

He's always holding her tightly when he fucks her, his grip being strong enough to leave marks the following day, but there's something about the way he takes hold of her hips now. At first, MC thinks nothing of it, lost in euphoric pleasure. It's only when she feels her knees being lifted off the bed that she understands what's happening.

Napoleon rises up her bottom to meet his hips, in his standing upright position, taking full control of her body in that moment. He's so strong, making it all seem effortless; and it's not a matter of matching his thrusts anymore - she can't do anything. She's facing away, with one pair of limbs immobilized and the other grasping uselessly for purchase at the covers. Her whole body rocks back and forth, feeling like a ragdoll in Napoleon's arms. There's something primal and simultaneously embarrassing about how good it feels to give herself over to him like that; about the trust she puts in him to have her completely at his mercy.

And then Napoleon stills inside her. And he groans. And before she knows it, a warm spray of come hits her walls. Her eyes widen, only now realizing they've already been going at it for a while, for a while enough that he seemingly couldn't hold back and—

And maybe he just didn't feel like waiting for her to come before he does.

The realization makes her dizzy in an unexplainable way, and she moans so loudly she feels herself pathetically falling into that bottomless fit, just like that, just as Napoleon takes his cock out of her. It's petrifying, coming without him inside her, but strangely the pleasure never ceases. His hand finds his way between her quivering thighs and shoves them apart in a quick manner, beginning to rub at her clit; whispering praises against the skin of her nape, enveloping her smaller body with his own from behind as she presses into the bed so violently, chasing after her peak.

"Come for me. Come for me and scream my name."

And that's enough to tip her over the edge. Coming with Napoleon's load inside her intensifies the feeling; the way her insides are still remembering his shape, the way she's so full yet so empty. It makes her see stars.

"Napoleon— Ahhhhh!!"

"I'm here. I'm here, mon amour."

Napoleon holds her trembling form as he draws out the last of her high, gently moving her into a spooning position. He keeps touching her everywhere, her belly, her breasts, the curve of her shoulder, caressing all the spots that went unloved in their game.

"I felt— so good I thought I might die—"

Napoleon huffs out a breathy chuckle, and it tickles the babyhairs at the base of her neck.

"I'd be lying if I said this doesn't stroke my ego, Nunuche.", he whispers, and it's somehow more shiver-inducing than anything he's said that night. "I think you might be right. I might be enjoying myself a bit too much when I'm calling the shots."

MC turns her neck just enough to look at him from the corner of her eye. She studies him again, with his disheveled hair and boyish smile and his low tolerance of putting up a front now that he gave voice to his most basic instinct and let it rob him of the ability to give anything more thought than he needs to. She leans in for a kiss and he takes the initiative enthusiastically but ends up drawing it out to make the remaining endorphins dance slowly between their bodies.

Letting the tiredness in her limbs settle in just like the fact that the room is several shades a brighter blue than how they entered it, MC only nuzzles back onto Napoleon's chest, trying not to give voice to the heat between her legs beginning to awake again without a sense of the time.

"And I might just love to see you like that. Mon empereur."

Taglist: @arsnovacadenza @kimi00twin @otomelady @privilegedpancake @g-kleran    @thesirenwashere @ravenarld @devonares @galaxyprison @starshards26 @thewitchofbooks @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @lordsister @ikemen-banshou   @themysticalbeing @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @coornn @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @queengiuliettafirstlady @aurora-morning ​ @ikemenlover24 @mcofthemansion @joy-the-reader @katriniac @ikemen-writer @tele86 @lovely-bubb1es @aria-chikage @babyblue0t7 @rhodoliteschaos @shrimpy-kitsune @nightghoul381 @xbalayage @lucyw260 @kittygrimm88 @lokis-laugh @judejazza @my-day Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

[2023gisecretsanta]

APPLICATIONS ARE NOW CLOSED.

"Hello!" A soft voice suddenly speaks up and you turn your head, noticing... a spirit. It looks at you, eyes shining with excitement, a mask resting on the side of its head. "I have something important to share!"

The spirit pulls out a scroll from behind and rolls it down. It clears its throat before speaking.

"A very important event is happening! I am welcoming you to this year's edition of...

GENSHIN IMPACT SECRET SANTA!"

Welcome to Genshin Impact Secret Santa 2023! It's a christmas based event where you gift each other gifs. You get a randomly assigned participant and you have a create a gift for them! And obviously vice-versa, someone gets you! In this year's edition, we open the event to not only writers, but also to other artists! For rules, FAQ and how to join please read under the cut.

The christmas spirit– as you realized– hides the scrolls and pull out... another one, alongside with a fountain pen. It hands you both of them. You not only notice that its fingers seem to be a little translucent at the tips, but also that the pen if wrapped in red and green ribbon. You find it cute.

"Here are the rules. We obviously have some rules to follow." It says proudly. The spirit seems very happy from its own hard work. "And your form. If you wish to take part in the event, please fill it out!"

This is a SFW Genshin Impact x Reader event, so it would be nice to avoid purely NSFW blogs in the event. That way everyone, no matter, what can take part. You can join if your blog is multifandom, as long as Genshin Impact is one of the fandoms you createfor.

The applications will close on 25th of November, 4 PM GMT+1. During 28th to 30th of November we will be sending messages (or asks) to the participants with the person they got. Remember to keep it a secret! After receiving the person, you are free to start creating.

Please apply only if you are sure you can do it. That way we will avoid any unpleasent situations. If it happens that, for whatever reason, you can't take part in it anymore (after applying) please contact us as fast as you can!

The posting period is 24th of December to 26th of December. During this period of time all you have to do is post your work, tag the person it is for and tag the post with #gixrsecretsanta2023

To take part, just fill out the Google Forms! If you have any problems with it, feel free to DM or send an ask.

You are free to follow the blog for more updates and announcements.

— FAQ

"Can I take part if my fandom blog is a side one?" — Yes! Just give us username of your blog and we are all fine.

"It's already past 26th of december and I got nothing, what do I do?" — Please DM us if this happens. We will ask the person that got you what is happening. In worst case scenario (as in, if we get no reply from the said person), someone else will create a gift for you.

"What's the word minimum for fanfics? Limit? Or general theme?" — There is no word limit or minimum amount! And so there's no certain theme we expect people to follow. You can create your gift with a winter theme, christmas theme, maybe something totally different, anything that you think may fit the person you got.

"I have a question that isn't on the list" — Ask us! In DMS or our inbox, whatever you prefer.

We hope you have fun taking part in the event! ❤️

divider credit: @/saradika

[wearyeyebrow]

Red Winged Black Bird

Summary: Lucifer's molting. Such an ordinary, simple bodily process shouldn't faze him, but it's wrapped up in so many memories. Maybe your gentle touch and patience can see him through.

Tags: Lucifer x MC, non-sexual safeword use, non-sexual intimacy, vulnerability, romance

-

Lucifer wakes up with a start. 

He itches. 

Old feathers surround his bed, torn at the edges, and he itches. Damn to all hell he itches.

Lucifer glances to his left, relieved you’re still sleeping peacefully. He has so many things to do, appearances to keep and appointments to make, he doesn’t have time to deal with this right now. So he grits his teeth and leaves before you wake, not trusting his short temper today. 

He doesn’t avoid you outright. You still see him during meetings and fleeting moments between classes. Even still, you notice his agitation, his restlessness. You resolve to check on him when he skips dinner and soon you find yourself outside of his bedroom door. One knock, then two, it’s only when he hears your voice that he lets you inside. 

You’re surprised to see him in demon form already, then you notice the feathers just behind him. Quite a few are in a waste bin and others are strewn about his white leather couch. What you assume is Lucifer’s work lies haphazardly on the coffee table next to his usual fountain pen.

You slowly reach out to touch his arm. “You know you don’t have to tell me what’s going on if you don’t want to, right? I’m just worried, you’ve been on edge all day.” 

“You so often see through me. It is unnerving, although… not always unwelcome.”

“What about this time?”

His adam’s apple bobs. “...I am not sure.” 

“May I keep you company? I’ve brought some of my own things to work on, no pressure to talk. Or I can leave if you want.” 

He looks torn for a moment, before he sighs and runs an errant hand through his hair. “No, you - you may stay.” 

“Okay.” You slowly lean up and place a gentle kiss on his temple, “Let me know if you want me to leave though. I won’t take it personally.”

His voice is relatively subdued and “Thank you,” is all he offers.

You sit in the armchair diagonal to the coffee table and open a textbook. You turn on the light next to you and dim it to a comfortable glow. 

Lucifer sits next to you and picks up what looks like a notarized form. Typically he leaves his work in his office unless he truly wants privacy. But this is the first time you’ve seen him so immediately distracted. He fidgets. He twitches against the cushions, ruffling his wings, bouncing his leg. He lasts maybe two minutes before sighing and muttering “I can hardly take it anymore.” 

You close your book and look at him quizzically. His wings are quivering and his eyes are obscured by his hand, elbows resting on his knees, slightly bent over. He almost sounds pained.

“I’m not sure why I let you in tonight.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.” 

“That’s-”

“But I should. I -” he sighs, “May I discuss something with you?”

“Always, Lucifer.” You shift in your chair and lean toward him, both curious and concerned. 

He sighs again but it sounds more like a grimace. 

“I’m molting.”

“...Forgive me for the comparison, but like a bird might?”

“While that is an unfortunately apt comparison, I have the sense to get it over with quickly.” You almost snicker at that, but the air still feels heavy so you restrain yourself. 

“Are you okay?” You ask, genuine in your concern. 

“Of course. This is nothing I haven’t experienced before.”

“But… something about it bothers you.”

“What gave you that impression?”

“Lucifer…” 

He sighs. “My apologies. I realize I am being… difficult.” 

“May I sit next to you?”

“If it pleases you.” 

“Do you want me to sit next to you?”

“...Yes.”

So you move. The sofa dips slightly with your weight and you lower your voice, understanding and intimate. “Lucifer, what’s going on? What’s eating you?”

He can’t look at you, not yet. Something in him desperately wants to talk to you. Something else is fighting against it, like usual, that vulnerability is humiliating and unbecoming. He should be better. 

But he trusts you. After everything you’ve been through, this is nothing. It should be nothing. The fact that he’s so torn up over it, whether to tell you or not, whether he’s feeling things correctly, embarasses him further. Your gentle hand on his arm grounds him some. The racing thoughts in his head aren’t quite so loud. His heart is pounding and he doesn’t know why. His throat feels tight but he doesn’t know why.

“If you want to tell me about it, would you rather I just listen?”

“...No, you can ask questions and comment on it. A conversation might be better than a monologue.”

 “Okay.” You wait for him to begin. 

“...As far as I’m aware, most beings with feathers molt from time to time. Angels and demons are no different. Back in the celestial realm social grooming was common, even encouraged, especially during molting season. Even angels without wings participated. 

After the fall, those of us who had wings lost their feathers, and those who didn’t grew tails. I know it was a difficult transition, and subsequently they no longer molt. If I had not… removed mine, maybe I would be featherless as well. Regardless, they grew back feathered, so I still molt every few decades.”

He pauses a moment and you wait for him to collect his thoughts. 

He sighs. “Mammon used to preen the pin feathers I can’t reach. I put a stop to it once I caught him selling my feathers online.” 

You can’t help the chiding click of your tongue. You love Mammon, truly, and he often gets the short end of the stick, especially when he means well. But, just like any of them, sometimes he’s in the grip of his sin and he can hurt the people around him.

“I am well aware that he sells anything that will make him money, such is his nature. I realize holding that against him solves nothing, and yet…” He trails off.

“Now, I take care of it on my own. It is a process but nothing that I can’t handle. Still, it is… uncomfortable, and I apologize if I was unusually abrasive earlier. That is no excuse, but hopefully an explanation.” 

“Well, it makes sense, it sounds awful.” He grins wryly, “What I’m also hearing is that preening is an intimate thing for you. Knowing that, I still… Is there anything I can do to help?”

“To help?” He murmurs.

“May I try and get the feathers you can’t reach?”

“I…”

“It’s okay to say no.”

“I’m aware. I was both hoping you’d offer and also hoping you wouldn’t. I like the idea of your assistance, but I’m… not quite sure how I’ll feel in the moment.” 

“Hm… we could safeword it?”

He scoffs, “This isn’t that kind of intimacy.” 

“I know, but it’s a system we’re both familiar with, isn’t it? And we trust each other with it, or I like to think that you trust me to respect your safeword.”

“I do.” He says without hesitation.

“Then even if this situation isn’t sexual, a safeword might help you feel a little more in control? You don’t have to explain why you safeword either, you just have to know that I’ll respect it.” 

It makes sense. It makes sense and he suddenly feels a little more at ease. “I am unopposed to that idea. Our usual word is fire - shall we use the same?” 

“That sounds good to me.”

“Then it’s settled.” He breathes out slowly. In the meantime you’ve already tried to conceptualize how best to access his wings. Folded against the couch doesn’t work, and they’re entirely too big to completely unfurl here. He seems to be on the same page. “It’s easiest if I lay on my back, although sitting on my bed is also an option.”

“Whatever makes you feel most comfortable.” 

He sighs again, a nervous habit. “You’re less likely to get a face full of feathers if I lay down.” 

You chuckle just a bit and see a hint of a strained smile flash across his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. 

He keeps his wings folded against his back, lips tight in a line, and settles against the bedspread, head facing the end of the bed. You sit next to him, waiting for him to spread his wings, but they stay tightly folded against his body.

“I just had a thought,” he murmurs, head tilted against the mattress, looking away from you. “Molting isn’t a… it can be an unsightly process. I know you aren’t squeamish, but I will understand if you decide to rescind your offer.” 

“I’m not worried about that, but noted.” He grunts. You lean back, “Go ahead, I’m out of the way.” 

Slowly he unfurls his massive wings. You scoot in closer until the upper right one lays over your lap, thick and feathery, both too heavy and too light to feel real. You sweep up his wing to where it meets with the muscle of his back. It is here that you are always starkly reminded of his inhumanity. Your back does not have twisting muscle for a set of wings, but his does. 

Now that you truly take him in, his feathers are a sight. Usually they’d be thick, neatly woven together and optimized for flight. Now they’re strangely sparse and overlap oddly, filing in gaps. The edges are tattered on some, while others are shiny and new but entirely too short, still growing to their full length. The most noticeable spot is right above where his back ends and his wings begin. Instead of black feathers he’s covered in little spikes - some are short and close to the skin, others are longer but pulled taught and white around the edges. 

.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you murmur. 

“You won’t.”

You try a different approach. “Teach me.”

“Do you see the pin feathers at the base of my wings?”

“I think so. Some are shorter than others.” 

“The ones that are really short and close to the skin are still blood feathers. True to their name, they’ll bleed if you touch them. The longer ones should be covered in a casing. Do you see those?”

“Yes, I see quite a few of them.” 

“Those ones are ready to be preened. Use your fingers to rub away the casing. It’s made of keratin, but it will probably turn to dust. Unless you want to sneeze, don’t get too close. I’ll try not to move.”

“Tell me if I hurt you.”

“You won’t, truly.”

“I’m going to start now.” He grunts an affirmative.

You gently reach between his feathers, most of them shiny and new, and start by 

rubbing off one casing. It does exactly as he says it will and crumbles to dust pretty easily. You go for another, and then another. Soon his rigid posture starts to relax, and then he’s melting. His brow finally smoothes and his breathing slows. The silence eases into something comfortable and intimate. You take your time, gingerly maneuvering around the smaller blood feathers, working your way up his wing. He’s managed to reach most of it without issue, surprisingly flexible for a centuries-old demon. You get a little lost in the repetition of your task and almost start to tell him about your day when you hear it.

“Fire.”

You remove your hands carefully and shift away from his wing giving him the space to fold it back into his body. 

“You okay?”

“Yes.” His voice is thick, rough with something you rarely hear but definitely recognize. 

"How do you feel?"

"I am unsure." His voice cracks and he clears his throat.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No."

"Did it feel good?"

"Yes."

"Too good?"

"No - I started to remember." He murmurs, "I wasn't sure, but I thought I might."

"Did you want to?"

"Not particularly."

"Are they… are they good memories? Bad?"

"...Both. I dislike feeling far away and I dislike lingering there. I dislike wanting to linger."

"There's no wrong way to feel."

"I'd rather not dwell in it tonight." 

If you see unshed tears in his eyelashes you elect to ignore them. He sits up and slumps next to you, wings folded behind him. He looks more exhausted than usual. You can't force him to sit with what he feels, but you can be there for him. 

"It may not have seemed like it, but I really enjoyed that. Thank you, I - this usually lasts a few weeks.” He breathes in deeply, fists clenching and unclenching against his thighs in your periphery. “If you are willing and if it wouldn't put you out, I'd be grateful if you’d do this again." 

"I'd like to. Tomorrow night, same time?" 

"If you'd like." 

"I would." You clasp his hand in yours and bring his knuckles to your lips. "I love you, you know? I enjoyed tonight. I like helping you relax even if it's only for a little while." 

His eyes search your face as his expression softens. He is incredibly fond; there's a tenderness in his eyes with a slight edge of vulnerability. 

"You are too good to me." He says, low and hushed, in the scant space between the two of you. His wings unfold and gently wrap around you, encasing you in a comforting black veil. His arms wrap around your body and he rests his forehead in the crook of your shoulder. You find purchase in his hair and you nuzzle against his temple. 

Pride objects to vulnerability, and yet it feels so freeing, so warm to just be with you. His true self is a continuum of sorts, both this man and the one by Diavolo’s side are one and the same.

He gently pulls you until you follow him into his lap, straddling his waist so your head remains above him. His wings still engulf you. He presses you impossibly close, but still gentle, open - it is your choice to be here, to hold him like this. 

You kiss the crown of his head and feel him kiss your chest in return. "Your work can wait until morning. Join me in bed? Please?”

"I suppose I can make an exception, just this once."

You kiss his cheek, “I’m sure it was a tough decision.” 

He snickers and you both roll out of bed to dress down. Suddenly his feathers are gone and you're left with his human form. 

"How do you feel in that form?" You ask, brow furrowed. 

"I assumed this form would make it a little easier to lie together." 

Your gentle smile warms his soul. "Come here then, my little black bird." 

He huffs but the adoration in his eyes gives him away as he turns his back to you. You know he'll extract himself after you've fallen asleep so he can shift back into his demon form. But in the meantime you just want to hold him, and with the way he relaxes in your arms, you’re pretty sure he’d like to be held just as much. 

[decaying-words]

The Innocent

All chapters Jonathan Crane x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 4.1k words TW & tags: NonCon, fear kink, masturbation, awful everything AO3 • All my stories

"She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear. I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…"

The Innocent

Foreign music notes of a perhaps forgotten song vibrate in my dry throat in low hums, barely covering the insistent scratch of the fountain pen darkening the cream coloured papers splayed on my antique desk. The watch which delicately sublimes my bony wrist with its dark brown Italian leather and finely carved metal hands indicate three hours and fifty-six minutes in the afternoon; I still have four whole minutes, I realize with a palpable excitement that is most unwelcome in my line of work. My patient is, without a single doubt, already waiting in the other room; I will not greet her before the time has come, for it is absolutely crucial to not reveal any ounce of delight or impatience. In fact, I must remain perfectly professional, detached and clinical, or else I am taking the risk of exposing my ulterior motives and intimate desires. 

Four minutes is exactly the amount of time needed to adjust my tie (dark brown as well; a color not too contrasting to my marble pallor and which makes me look distinguished and inspires confidence, a key component in my profession), inspect my impeccable tweed vest made of Irish virgin wool dyed an exquisite amber color, and delicately clean the lenses of my round glasses with a microfiber cloth. Three hours fifty-nine; the last notes fade on my chapped lips when I leave my cognac leather armchair and direct my wiry frame to the door, spidery fingers holding the brass handle which feels pleasantly cold against my tight skin. 

Within my aging ribcage are percussions worthy of Ravel’s Bolero; intense in nature and laced with the fruitful musicality of controlled nerves. The entrance is methodical, natural and restrained, with a smile, polite enough to be welcoming but faint enough to remain professional, and soft crow’s feets rolling in a pleasantness that seems genuine. There are no emotions in my eyes; yet, dissimulated behind my glasses it might be hard to tell. My voice is warm and comforting, despite the crystal-like brokenness of its undertones which has been forged through the years.

Her smile, painted in a shiny coral red, is wide and transpires a heavy relief. She has been looking forward to our session all week long, I am sure; she reminds me of a teapot in the way she lets her worries fester until they turn ugly and make her completely dysfunctional. Her fingers cross and uncross nervously on her lap, as if incapable of knowing what to do with her own body, before she stands up, flattening her perfectly ironed marine blue pencil skirt, and retrieves her matching blazer jacket. I hold the door open and she penetrates my office with a footstep so light it could have belonged to a ghost; I notice the floral notes of her perfume, horrifyingly sweet and childish.

Through the nine sessions we had together, it is worth mentioning that her outfits are always delicately picked, colors matching and completed with a set of earrings (one on each lobe), a gourmette bracelet with her name engraved (a baptism gift, I reckon), and a now very familiar pearl necklace which I abhor passionately. Her hair is always impeccably styled down and her face painted just enough to be womanly without looking like a whore; something important, I suppose, for it matters greatly to her father. She reminds me of a ventriloquist’s doll, carrying a fabricated superficiality that betrays the profound emptiness of her soul. I am not certain she likes her appearance very much, the short heeled suede shoes, the old-fashioned manicure or the vulgar pearl necklace; but rather that she likes the simulacre of control on her life this shows on the outside, especially to her father, a figure we never cease to talk about.

My patient does not sit down until I instruct her to, the anxiety to pick the wrong choice and disappointment still viciously anchored in her childhood; an emotionally absent and academically demanding father tends to create such complex insecurities in the younger hearts. I would know. As always, we will be talking about it; and as always, she will unravel the same pointless secrets in an uninteresting logorrhoea that could very well bore me to death if it weren’t for the topic of her recurrent nightmares, cautiously sprinkled in her stories and immensely more fascinating —from a clinical point of view, of course. 

I am taking place in the armchair in front of hers, crossing one leg on top of the other, not dissimilar to two long and pale sticks enveloped in soft and tasteful fabric. My elevated ankle reveals the smallest ounce of marble skin, adorned with arched tendons which roll and disappear beneath the dark Egyptian cotton of my socks. I sense her heavy gaze following the slender silhouette of my legs to the tip of the deep brown leather of my derby shoes; a rosy tint blooms on her cheeks and my lips twitch in amused curiosity while she plays nervously with the pearls of this dreadful necklace which she is, in my humble opinion, either too old or too young to wear. She feels desire for me, despite being a couple of decades older than her; an expression, I believe, of her yearning for a paternal love, approval and affection.

My notebook lays graciously on my lap, angled in such a way that makes it impossible for her to see what I will be writing down, my treasured pen already in my hand. Adjusting my glasses on the long bridge of my aquiline nose, I offer her yet another muted smile, a silent invitation to begin the session; she appears flustered, blushing some more as I seem to have interrupted her train of thoughts —probably too vulgar for the image of herself she is desperately fabricating. I wonder if she is a virgin still, having spent the essential of her miserable life catering to her father’s needs and putting aside her own intimate desires; this would explain the subtle perfume of her throbbing sex floating in my office.

I find myself more than passively listening to her most uninteresting week in a way that freezes my nerves and makes me question my career choice, gently guiding her back to the heart of her confusing weaving as she wanders and rambles incoherently. None of her anecdotes are of importance to me, subtly urging her to open the can of her anxieties and core reason for her very presence on my couch; her recurring and unexplained nightmares. 

A couple of months ago, this patient reached out to me in an attempt to exorcize her most intimate thoughts and find a more peaceful slumber. When asked the nature of her night terrors, she confessed, with great difficulty and restraint at first, having this peculiar dream for years now in which she finds herself wandering around the unknown alleys of a surrealist city reminiscing of a dark and sterile-looking maze. She can never tell where she is, every window and every door looking the same, every turn sensibly similar to the next, the streetlights aggressively cutting harsh shadows against the smooth walls of the buildings. 

As her journey progresses, she notices a shadowy form following her every step and which does not make a noise aside from an ominous buzzing that makes the lights crackle; though it has not touched her yet, its presence alone is dreadful and suffocating enough to make her survival instincts kick in. She runs through the maze-like alleys in a vain hope to escape the figure, never successful in her doing; the shadow creeping at every corner, slipping through the cracks of the building like a liquid void, looming over her like a toxic cloud, and always watching her with empty eyes and whispering incomprehensible and otherworldly things in a gnarly voice resembling a sinister borborygmus.

She wakes up screaming, in tears and drenched in sweat before it can seize her.

There is an obvious answer behind her anxiety, one draped in the cloak of her oppressing father; and yet, despite the last few unproductive sessions and unfruitful attempts to take in my hypothesis, she rejects all and any idea of daddy dearest being the root of her misery. My poor sweet girl. Through her almost touching callowness if it weren’t laced with pungent naïveté, I find great intellectual pleasure in studying her profound fear; sometimes, when the moon hits and soaks my office in a creamy light, I dissect my numerous notes, each scribbled word reminiscing me of her giant doll-like eyes turning glassy with emotion, her painted lips aquiver with wretched anguish, her neatly cared eyebrows knitted in visible despair. She reminds me viciously of a newborn deer, frail and fragile; a sight so delicious it never fails to make my turgid sex throb in interest. I have learnt since to keep my legs crossed in front of her, of course.

Her fear is at the image of her personality; carefully crafted by her visceral fantasies which she struggles to control, as if her fabricated identity would cease and disappear if she knew how to confront it. There is something delectable in her innocent emotions, something exquisitely cruel in how laughable of a person she is, and I find myself morbidly curious to see her façade break and release her true self, dying and being born again. It is exhilarating really, the prospect of witnessing her weak mind shatter and rebuild itself, morphing into something pure and liberated, surpassing her ugly cocoon.

Fear is the most sublime emotion, a capricious mistress that transforms all beings into primal creatures; there is a beast inside all of us, I firmly believe, a döppleganger, infinitely mightier and profoundly fascinating, that only fear can free and liberate. I based my entire life on understanding the beauty of fear and how to elevate and transcend it, achieving our most glorious form; prying at people’s most intimate insecurities and feeding them the putrid fruits they truly do need to alter their mind irremediably, for their own benefit, I am certain. As such, it is past the clinical need but rightfully with a voracious desire and spiritual intention that I wish to see and unravel my Innocent’s breaking point. 

The sound of her trembled sob wakes me from my contemplative state, and I realize with great indifference that I missed her last couple of sentences, which I believe gave her yet another heartache. My occulted gaze devours the sight of her pained face, glassy eyes crying perfectly round and warm tears, her bunny nose reddening; I do not care much for her grief, an emotion I find particularly repulsive and grotesque and which she seems to feel quite frequently; this might be why I find her so unpleasant to be around. Instead, I hand her the tissue box that she politely accepts, wiping her tears and runny nose. 

The corner of my mouth twitches in disgust when I see her nervously touch her pearl necklace once again. This abominable pearl necklace that embodies everything about her that I hate; her child-like appearance despite being well into her thirties, her synthetic demeanor forged by an unyielding desire to be loved, her emotionally incestuous relationship with her undeserving father and her complete and total lack of self-esteem. 

Today’s session comes to an end and I am afraid we did not progress much, to my great dismay. I offer her the same frigid smile in which she always seems to find comfort when I open the door and shake her hand, a stark contrast to the warmth and subtle stickiness of her skin. She thanks me profusely and I nod in return, wishing her a pleasant rest of the day; I will be seeing her next week.

My simulacre of a smile fades as soon as she exits my office, a boiling irritation tinting the tip of my ears a crimson color, akin to a single rose in a snowy garden. I take an involuntary peek at my reflection in the window as I run a wiry hand in the dark feathers of my hair, silvering at the temples, a few gray strands adorning the generally brown mass. My thick eyebrows are knitted together in profound frustration, collecting today’s notes and sitting at my desk to study them. I cannot be satisfied with the glimpse of her unfledged anxieties, our exchanges do not nurture me professionally or otherwise ; slumping heavily in the leather armchair, a deep sigh swelling my tight chest, I lose myself in the labyrinthic corners of my mind, all the while ignoring the aggressive hardness of my sex, its throbbing feeling like the greatest treason in this precise moment.

I will not bring myself to completion tonight, for I find her fear vulgar and unworthy of my seed, a womb so barren it feels utterly meaningless. I will not even touch myself, I decide, denying her the attention and importance she desperately yearns for, refusing to besmirch my pride for such an insensitive mind. She is spoiling the sap of her soul in a way that is perfectly unacceptable to me and makes her look profoundly hideous; and I refuse to harvest the rotten fruits of a putrid heart. Instead, I will spend the night lost in my thoughts, with deep indignation for sole company.

It took me a complete day to recover from my turmoil and hatch a plan I deem satisfying, and four more to establish a detailed inventory of her nightly habits; following her at a reasonable distance in a now familiar fashion, carefully noting down any information of importance, I managed to know exactly when she finishes work, which Café she frequents, where she goes grocery shopping, which metro she takes home… During the day and in between two consultations, I conscientiously study the map of her neighborhood, carving in my memory every alley, every path, every building until I have a clear representation of my hunting territory. Victorious is a word that comes to my mind after such rewarding labor.

Tonight is the night. I am wearing my real skin, flesh made of burlap and soiled rag, fur made of dry straw and rotten thread stitching my articulations together. The used rope rolls like tendons around my throat, the noose loose enough to breath but not enough for it to be comfortable; a simple pleasure that will leave bruised memories on my neck like a passionate lover would. I caress my clothed form, the sensation unpleasant and rough to the touch and yet so deliciously stimulating, a sensation that never fails to make me hum appreciatively, heartbeat inappropriately lively for a Scarecrow .

It is ten hours and forty-five minutes on a Thursday night; she has been to the library tonight, devouring romance novels with her third cup of herbal tea –something horrifyingly fruity, I assume. An activity she indulges frequently, seeking refuge and comfort in the elegant place, something I cannot blame her for, considering the depraved state of the rest of Gotham, in stark contrast to the magnificence of the old architecture. This habit will also work in my favor, draping myself in the thickness of the night, my elongated figure barely noticeable in the corner of the street; at best, two glowing orbs pierce the obscurity, reminiscent of an animal of some sort, or better yet of an unsettling monster.

I hum the broken notes of an unknown song, a simple habit that feels right, lured in the dark and waiting for her to penetrate the first alley; I recognize her ghost-like footstep, short heels clacking subtly on the pavement, naive and unaware. Oh, my sweet girl.

She does not sense me for the first two hundred meters, her oblivious demeanor both entertaining and frustrating. There is something viscerally exquisite about seeing without being seen, teasing a very particular part of me; an almost erotic melange of power and impunity. I came to realize with age and experience that hunting is not dissimilar to foreplay, and therein lies my current problem; foreplay is not endless teasing, for I am neither patient nor interested in maintaining myself on the edge of my pleasure. And when I am being ignored for too long, I cannot help but feel somewhat insulted; ultimately, I want her to see me.

My fingernails tap and scratch the cold bricks, an abominable gurgling noise escaping my fatigued throat. She freezes instantly, and my sex twitches in sensible interest which I attempt to calm down, a feverish excitement pooling in my stomach. I distinguish the tremor in her silhouette and her breath hitching ever so slightly, a subtle perfume floating in the air, one that I know by heart now and makes my mind sing and mouth salivate. She does not look behind her, a wise choice I would say under more normal circumstances, her pace quickening in the narrow alley right between the first and third street of Gray Avenue. 

I inhale the acidic perfume of my body; I would like to say that my entire form is impregnated with the residuals of an old chemical toxin I’ve developed decades ago, but perhaps it is simply my own essence, now corrupted to its very core. I am certain that the delirious effects of these quasi pheromones will soon hit her as well and change her like I expect her to.

As she navigates through the almost pitch black alleys, fingertips grazing at the walls to help her find her way, I wheeze a wretched noise from within my ribcage, dreadful sounds I have been practicing since I was born and which never seems to get old. My poor girl is sobbing earnestly now, an arm wrapped around her middle section as if to seek comfort, almost running away from me, her short heels making a music akin to a typewriter in the night of Gotham. I am fully aware I have her complete attention, but I wish she would just look at me.

I run after her, vomiting more guttural gibberish from my distorted voice, fingernails hitting and scratching every surface in a pleading cacophony. She whimpers more frankly, I can tell how delicate her nerves are at this very moment. In her panic, she picks the wrong turn. Exquisite.

She looks around her with agony and confusion, persuaded that she would be welcomed by a bridge crossing the river of the Old Street; instead, she is met with a damp and sinister dead end. She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear . I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…

Her crystalline voice breaks and shatters, pure and visceral, high pitched and perverted with terror; I am so hard I could hammer a nail in raw wood. I move in a dislocated fashion, long limbs akin to spider legs, the nightmarish look making her trip and fall on her bottom and crawl back, fingers desperately digging in the cold pavement until a nail breaks, curling her form into a ball in a damp corner. She cries so hard her face turns ruby red, smeared mascara leaving dark streaks on her puffy cheeks, glistening saliva bubbling on her screaming lips – oh, how beautiful she is, my sweet girl. My cock feels heavy in my now awfully tight pants; under different circumstances, maybe I would have offered her a different fate. 

She hides her face in her arms, fingers grabbing ferociously at her hair as if trying to wake herself up, but she doesn’t, no, she doesn’t wake up, and the reality is sinking in, especially when I am standing not even five meters in front of her. There is a bitter, stinging smell in the air, and a recognizable warm golden puddle underneath her shaking body that glistens beautifully under the moonlight; I purr in between two groans, witnessing her weakest form dissolve and collapse into the void of her mind that I have conceived. I want to create her anew, an abomination made of flesh and terror, and she will recognize me as her cruel Creator. My low distorted voice echoes in the muted alley, inspired and impassioned.

Are you afraid, child?

She screams louder, screams for help, screams for her life. But no one will save her, not here, not in Gotham, not this pathetic piss soaked girl . I mock and taunt her, towering over her as she chokes on her own sobs, desperate and painfully lonely. Why won’t anyone save me , she must be thinking. Why did Father lock me in this cell, she must be thinking. Why did Father abandon me in the cornfield. My laugh sounds more like a croak, sinister and penetrating, while she begs me for her life. 

Do you know who I am, child?

She does not. I blame it on her delirious state, on her body pumping her full of adrenaline, and most probably the toxins my body produces and which she’s been inhaling. This will not do, however; I want to ruin her in a way that matters, and for that to happen I need her to know who I am, what I represent. 

I crouch in front of her weaker form, barking her name and demanding she looks at me, which she does, obediently so; I reiterate my question, my hands hunched like claws scratching the walls around her. She cries harder, but her body produces no more tears, exhausted and drained; she screws her eyes shut and so I have no other option but to grab her hair viciously, forcing her to look at me.

And she does, oh she does , giant glassy eyes that lost their innocent spark and instead glow with a fury only trauma could forge and terror could sublimate. She sees the humiliation and the absence, the neglect and the judgment; she sees what she could have been if it had not been taken away from her. She does not say it but she mouths it, the two syllables of her misery.

Father.

My cackle is nothing short of demoniac, entire body jerking wildly enough to remember my turgid sex still leaking its filth in my ruined pants, heartbeat frantic as I am slowly but surely reaching my peak; release is not only needed but deserved , I believe, as my hand crawl inside my pants and free my cock, seizing it in a vicious grip that is mostly pain under her terrified and disgusted gaze. I take in her beautifully wrecked face as I pump myself with vigor and intent while croaking heavy moans, my eyes devouring every single wrinkle, every tear and tremor, swallowing the sight of the tense tendons of her throat choking on her sobs until I hiss in disgust at the repugnant pearl necklace. 

She does not need it anymore, I believe. And so, in a movement aquiver with lust and desire, my knotted fingers slip under the chain akin to a snake closing its embrace. She shrieks in pain when I pull tightly, a most needed evil I am afraid although ephemeral, the horrendous necklace eventually giving in to my brutal punishment and breaking. I hear the clattering of the pearls falling and rolling on the pavement, hand still tightly locked around my cock as I fuck my fist earnestly in deliciously wet noises; she caresses the skin of her bare neck, as if understanding something, her terrified eyes turning back at me and begging me to let her go. Oh, my sweet child, be certain that I will miss your honeyed pleas…

My orgasm comes quickly, long spurts of milky cum spilling on her throat, the soft flesh now adorning a unique, more appropriate and beautiful set of pearls. A generous gift, one she will remember fondly, I am certain. Her lower lips tremble as more tears roll down her cheek, although not a sound comes out of her mouth. I understand, it is a lot to process. Therapy can be difficult sometimes.

I left her alone to collect herself. Once home, and after a quick yet invigorating shower, I became busy writing down in great detail tonight’s experiment and, one must admit, its most triumphant outcome.

The day before our scheduled appointment, she informed me that she would not be able to come, pretending to have a cold. I understood, of course, and asked her if I would see her next week then. She said that she wasn’t certain, and that she would call back. She never did.

[hulhudhonado]

Petty Crimes

Synopsis: Wriothesley just can't seem to get a certain journalist off his back. But to his surprise this journalist is very thorough with their work and it seems they aren't willing to give up just yet.

CW: -

HC: Reader is gender-neutral and uses They/Them pronouns, Reader does not have a vision. Reader is a journalist working at The Steambird.

Characters: Wriothesley, Sigewenne, Mentions of Neuvillette,Furina, Traveler and Paimon

Note: Ok, I promise I'm writing the Neuvillette one, it just is much longer than I expected so I apologise for that. Instead have this one which is shorter but I am still proud of it. I love Wriothesley's design and attacks and LORE but had to skip the banner because I wanted Furina so badly. So think of this as me coping with that. There are going to be some Fontaine spoilers but honestly, it is so little I don't think most people would notice it. As always please make sure to interact with the post, I love seeing the tags or comments I get in the posts, and I'm glad people like my silly ideas about characters I like. Enjoy!

The first time you ended up in the prison was by accident. You just happened to be with a kamera at the wrong place and time and ended up being accused as a stalker. Since the judgment was decided by the Iudex and the court now, the easiest solution was to throw you in prison until the actual perpetrator had come to light. At the time you were cussing and throwing hands with the guards but the minute the Duke came into your vision you couldn’t help but halt.

You couldn’t believe it, this was every Steambird employee’s dream. To be able to meet the Duke and have a proper interview with him would reach the headlines in an instant. However, to no one’s surprise, he had rejected your proposition. Before you could make any more moves to convince him, the actual culprit was found with the help of the traveller and his flying partner and you were forced to say goodbye to the Fortress of Meropide. Just like you had entered, you were kicking and screaming when they threw you out.

So you had to make a plan to somehow enter back inside. Being an esteemed journalist at The Steambird, it was no surprise they refused to let you in and casually stay in the prison. Most criminals tend to stay there even after their term is over but you didn’t have an actual reason to be there. But if you wanted to get a scoop before Charlotte could beat you to it, you needed to take some desperate measures.

- - -

“So, you were sentenced to 30 days in the Fortress of Meropide for taking a picture of Lady Furina while she was chasing her hat that was blown away by the wind?” Wriothesley could only raise an eyebrow at the statement. It wasn’t a surprise that some people ended up here for ridiculous reasons, but the amount that you had accumulated over one year was just unbelievable.

There was the time you decided to release a bunch of birds inside the Opera Epicles. It wouldn’t have been an issue to get them out, but somehow you managed to train them so they could coordinate their movements to somehow re-enter the Opera Epicles after they were thrown out.

 Then there was the time you filled all the water fountains in the district with Fonta and to this day people still cannot figure out how you got your hands on such a large shipment without any suspicions arising. 

To put it simply, the list was endless and at this point, you had probably been in and out of jail more than any citizen he had met. He honestly would not have cared the slightest about you if it wasn’t the fact HE was the reason you were acting like this.

You beamed at him in glee, notebook and pen ready in your hands. He could also see the kamera peaking out of your satchel, probably filled with a brand new film. He tried not to scowl. He couldn’t help but be a bit annoyed by your persistence.

“You know with a track record like this, everything you have done up to now is going to sound more interesting than whatever comes out of my mouth.” He sighed, dropping the papers onto his desk and to no one’s surprise, you immediately began to write down everything he said.

“Maybe for another journalist, but what point is it for me to write about my own stories? I write scoop about celebrities, not my memoirs. ” You answer, pen on your chin trying to figure out which category his statements could fit.

Wriothesley could only sigh. Every time he did all he could remember was Sigewinne’s words. 

‘ Don’t sigh too much, you’re going to end up sighing away all your happiness!’

It was a shame he couldn’t keep his promise, but honestly, the only one he could blame was the columnist who sat right across him. “ I am no celebrity. My answer remains unchanged. No interview.” He reached over for his cup of tea, which had turned cold at this point. He didn’t realise that time had passed so suddenly. It seemed you were just capable of taking over a person’s life just like that.

He tried to stand up to make a new cup only for you to halt him. “Oh did your tea get cold? Sorry, let me make you one.” Before he could react you already took his cup and made your way to the kettle. He blinked in confusion before settling back into his chair. “Are you even sure you can make it right?” He decided to humour both you and himself. He knew you were just trying to suck up to him so he might change his mind, he wasn’t dumb though. Maybe he could use it to his advantage and kick you out of his office. As he tried to wrack up another reason to kick you back outside, a fresh new cup of tea was placed before him. 

And it was perfect.

The tea was infused almost too well. It was pure black with no random additives that Sigewinne insisted were better for his health. No sugar, creamer or milk. There weren’t even any tea leaves left in the brew.

He took a sip, surprised with how it wasn’t boiling since you had just prepared it. A suitable warmth reached his lips as he took a sip of it. He had to stop himself before he could chug it down. He wasn’t an animal, he knew proper tea etiquette.

“Are you a fan of tea, Journalist?” He asked unconsciously. He wished he had shut his mouth, you already write down everything that comes out of his mouth and he didn’t need to give you any more leverage. To his surprise, you didn’t immediately go and reach for your notebook once again.

Instead for once, you looked away from him, refusing to meet his eyes. “I do partake in tea sometimes but I wouldn’t say it’s my favourite. I prefer sugary drinks usually.” You answer, sheepishly brushing your hands together, continuing to look away. Wriothesley squinted at you, unsure whether you were acting shy due to embarrassment or because you were a bad liar. “This tea is steeped far too well for you to be saying that.”

You almost immediately beamed up, your shy demeanour leaving in an instant. “Oh! That’s because I learnt how you liked to brew your tea!” Your eyes reached his and he wondered if you realized what you had just admitted to.

“Isn’t it a bit suspicious you know that?” He asked, taking another sip, it was certainly good tea. You again turned embarrassed. “Well, you tend to pick up some things when you stay around a certain place often.”

“Oh?” His curiosity getting the better of him, leaned towards the desk to fully take you in. “Please do tell me what you have collected thus far.” 

“Well, a journalist can’t show everything they have gathered, unless it’s properly published.” You mumble, trying to slowly back away from his desk. For once you were trying to get away rather than him trying to get rid of you. It intrigued him a bit, what else were you hiding? “Well, unless you do have permission, I doubt you will be going around publishing articles. That is unless you were a scandalous reporter?”

He was shocked to see how wide your eyes grew, for once your usual reporter nature had gone from your face, now looking like any normal citizen living in Fontaine. “I would never! It is unethical!” You defended yourself, you would never dare to publish articles without people’s permission. “Then you wouldn’t mind me reviewing what you have unless you have something to hide?”

And that was how Wriothesley ended up with all your documents, which were now scattered on the desk alongside your prison testaments. You only handed him the documents relating to him but he was surprised to see that you have accumulated quite a number of them. It made him wonder why even bother with an interview if you already had so much knowledge about him.

“This is everything? You have been working hard it seems.” He said. His teacup was now empty, but he needed a new brew if he had to sit all day just to read through everything that was left. You had already collected his entire existence on these papers. His best and his worst moments.

“You know, now I’m starting to doubt that your first imprisonment was a mistake.” He chuckled to himself, which only made you feel red hot with embarrassment. “This is all public knowledge. Sure some were a bit harder to find but if you know what you’re looking for it gets easier” You mumble, fidgeting with your hands. He wondered why you were so embarrassed.

Everything written here was all about him, but you acted as if you were the one on full display. He continued to flip through what you had written. The words you had articulated were quite intriguing, if you did write a scoop about him he was certain he would have had his nose in the papers as well. All your points had thorough evidence with the times and dates it was recorded. There was even certain information he completely forgot about himself.

“You know, with such extensive research you have done, you can pretty much write a whole article about me. Hell, you could even fake an interview with me and I would honestly think I did an interview with you and forgot about it.” He said, placing down your work on the desk once more so he could fully take you in.

He wasn’t one to pay attention to the little details if he wasn’t interested but when he took another look at you, it felt as if he was seeing a completely new person. Your notebook was tucked into the little front pocket of your shirt, and he could see scratches and marks on the visible part that stuck out. Some corners of the pages were dog-eared while others had little sticky tabs poking out from them. Your pen was now tucked behind your ear, it was blue, the colour that usually was smudged on the palm of your hands which you were currently fiddling with. Lastly, your Kamera, the film may have been brand new but the Kamera was fairly old, a dent was visible on the top and he could see a sticker of a Melusine on its side, the same one he would see stuck on his gauntlets from time to time.

You suddenly didn’t seem like the annoying tenacious reporter on his back. You were a journalist, a writer. You had something you wanted to work on. A passion which seemed to exceed expectations. You were not worried to ask questions over and over until you got an answer but you were embarrassed to showcase your work, afraid of the judgment that others give. 

“You know you don’t need to have an interview with me? You can just write whatever it is here and get it done.” He answered, collecting all your research together to hand it back to you.

You shook your head, sighing. You finally turned to look at him. The prison was not known for its lighting but the way the light reflected onto your eyes made it shine with a passion he couldn’t seem to grasp. It almost distracted him from your words.

“It isn’t the same. I want it to be authentic. All of this-” You pointed at your work, which was a full stack at this point. “ was just from the ‘grapevine’ as some may say. I want to hear about your experiences and thoughts from you.”

He thought about your words. It bounced in the walls of his head, like an unstoppable echo. No one up to this point had ever bothered to go directly to him to ask about certain things. It was always the rumours. 

The Duke bought his title. 

The Duke would snap your neck if you looked at him wrong.

The Duke is under a permanent sentence in the Fortress of Meropide.

And here you were, asking him directly, even though everything written in your documents was fully true with proof, whether he could give some time of his day just to ask the same questions all these papers could answer.

He could only chuckle, one that wasn’t in a joking tone. “You like me quite a lot don’t you, Journalist?”

He watched as your sincere reporter's face morphed into what he could only describe as pure embarrassment. He was only shocked with his words but your expression completely delayed his bashful reaction. Instead, he smirked, a bit satisfied for once you weren’t on your high horse.

You grabbed the documents, stuffing them into your satchel and shutting it so quickly he could hear how crumpled they were getting.

“Well, it seems since you aren’t willing to do an interview today I’ll come again another time.” You almost yell, trying your best to close your bag so none of the papers would slip out.

“You’re right, aren’t you glad you have more than 30 days to ask me again?” He retorted, only to see your eyes grow wider. He was certain if he could touch your face, it would have been burning up with how much blood had rushed to your face.

Before anything else could have been said, you turned around rushing yourself out the door. He watched as you scattered down the stairs, making sure not to fall before finally hearing the door shut loudly, the metal clamps echoing in his office. However not a second later the door hinges squeaked once more, and you peeked your head a bit from the staircase.

“Um, goodbye, for now, Sir.” 

And with that you rushed back down once more, door shutting as loud as it did the first time you left. And Wriothesley could only laugh, he wasn’t sure if he had laughed so much before his entire life. Who would have thought that the pure journalist might have a slight crush on him? It intrigued him a bit.

You were here but the only proof of your essence was in your prison statements and the teacup which you brewed tea for him. You were careful not to leave any of your documents or items around, it prevented Wriothesley from coming after you because technically he had nothing to hold against you.

However, he knew he probably would not be able to see you for some time unless you finally got the courage to come to him again. He fiddled with the empty teacup once more. Well, who knows, maybe he would finally come around to doing that interview with you, perhaps he will answer one question at a time while you brew him another cup or for a change of pace he could brew a cup for you instead. You would like sugar in yours, wouldn't you?

It seemed now he had to do his little research on you and maybe, just like you, be a little petty just to be able to see you every day during your 30-day prison sentence.

[running-in-the-dark]

I ordered a lot of ink samples recently, and one of them was a limited edition ink. I really liked it from the pictures I saw online but thought I should be responsible for once, so I bought a sample and not a bottle (sometimes ink looks really different in pictures, or I could have not liked the flow or something like that)

well, I absolutely love this ink. it's the perfect green - green is a colour that's very difficult to get exactly right for me, and this one is really just perfect. it also matches the colour of one specific fountain pen that I have exactly and I love that.

unfortunately, I just found out that this ink is now sold out everywhere. and they can't buy more from the manufacturer because it was limited and they've sold all of it. 🙃🙃🙃

[misc-obeyme]

hiii 👋 may i request #28 (wish) for lucifer? i'm not sure if anon can send a request, so if not, please feel free to ignore mine~ thank you so much and warmest congratulations on your milestone! 💙

Hi there! You're good, it's totally fine to send a request on anon!

I must admit that this one got a liiiittle suggestive at the end, but only a little! Anyway, I think it turned out okay, so I hope you like it!

Thank you for participating!

GN!MC x Lucifer with prompt Wish

Warnings: slightly suggestive at the end, but it's so little that I don't really think it needs a warning lol putting it here just in case

It was a nice cool evening in the Devildom and you were walking through the streets with Lucifer. The two of you had managed to leave the House of Lamentation without any of his brothers noticing and tagging along. You didn't necessarily mind when that happened, but it was nice to be alone with Lucifer.

He had simply come to your room and asked you to go shopping for a new fountain pen with him. You were certain that this was just an excuse, but you didn't question it.

Now you were walking along the streets, stopping here and there in random shops. Lucifer didn't seem especially interested in any pens you came across.

Eventually you came to a little plaza with a beautiful fountain at its center. The plaza was devoid of people, only filled with the light splash of the water. The fountain had a large basin and three smaller basins, all decorated in engravings of dark roses. The bottom of the main basin was a beautiful mosaic featuring more dark roses. You couldn't help but notice that it was completely clean - nothing littered the bottom of the fountain basin.

You turned to Lucifer who was standing by your side. "Don't demons make wishes in fountains?"

Lucifer looked at you quizzically. "Wishes? Why would they?"

You turned back to the fountain. "I guess it's just a human thing. We throw coins into fountains to make a wish, so human world fountains have a lot of different coins on the bottom of them. I didn't see any here, but that makes sense now."

Lucifer grimaced momentarily, no doubt thinking of the trouble Mammon would get into if he knew about this human tradition. Then he said, "Would you like to make a wish in this fountain, MC?"

You laughed. "It's a little silly," you said.

Lucifer placed a shiny Grimm coin in your hand. "I would like to see this human tradition."

You studied his face. He didn't seem to be making fun of you. In fact, his expression was quiet serious. So you closed your eyes, made a wish, and tossed the coin in. When you heard the soft ploosh of the water, you opened your eyes again.

You watched as Lucifer followed your example, throwing his own coin into the fountain. He turned to you, a gentle expression on his face as a soft breeze ruffled his black hair. "And so? What did you wish for?"

You smiled. "I can't tell you. It won't come true."

Lucifer laughed softly, putting his hands on your waist and pulling you to him. "Humans have such silly notions."

You let your hands rest on his arms and shrugged. "We wish on shooting stars and birthday candles, too."

"Ridiculous," Lucifer said, but his tone was light. He leaned in to kiss you, one of his hands reaching up to cradle the back of your head.

You couldn't resist opening your mouth for him as your hands gripped his arms hard, your bodies flush against each other.

Just when you thought things were getting a little too heavy for you to be in public, Lucifer pulled away to look at you. He kept his arms around you and said, "I see. Your coin in the fountain method is quite effective. My wish has just come true."

You almost laughed at how serious he was. You grinned at him. "I guess it isn't as silly as you thought."

"And your wish, MC?" he asked.

You shook your head. "I told you, I can't tell. But let's just say it won't come true here."

Lucifer smirked. "Then I must insist you come back to my room so I may fulfill your wish by morning."

the original prompt list

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

[mitsvriii]

LETTERS SENT WITH LOVE ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

a 400 event

this is a short event that includes collaboration, matchups, and a mixture of requests! i wanted to put something out there for 400 as to help me get back with some activity on tumblr. i don't except this event to get a ton of attention as this is majorly just for fun, so if you don't want to join then don't stress it! please be sure to check out who i write for here, and my rules which are here before you continue on. this event will be strictly fluff and romantic for "characters x reader" so please keep that in mind! This event will extend to May 21st until further notice.

NO.1 : SENDING OFF LETTERS

for this section of the event i'm going to take requests until 15 slots have been filled up. if there are more than 15 requests that have been submitted i'll put your ask on que. please tell me how you'd like your letter sent to a certain character with the guide below.

pick out a lyric to sneak onto the letter's contents.

‎♡‧₊˚ "another version of me, i was in it." - childhood friends to lovers

‎♡‧₊˚ "ikaw at ikaw" - an unexpected proposal

‎♡‧₊˚ "so can i call you tonight?" - late-night calls with your crush

‎♡‧₊˚ "you got some soft lips and some pearly whites" - making them smile

‎♡‧₊˚ "by saying somethin' stupid like 'i love you'" - saying "i love you" for the first time

pick out a pen to write out the letter's contents with.

ballpoint - drabble

fountain - one-shot

rollerball - headcannons

pick out an accessory you'd like the letter to have. this is optional.

a ribbon - modern au

a lipstick print - reincarnation au

a hint of perfume/cologne - fantasy au

and lastly, pick out the type of paper your letter will be written on.

notebook - female reader

couché - male reader

manila - gender-neutral reader

NO.2 : SCRAPBOOKING

although this section is not for just mutuals, so if you want to join just do so! a list of prompts and scenarios will be listed and you can pick one out of your liking with the character you like, just keep it sfw. when you're done, post it under the tag "🔖- scrapbooking memories" and i'll reblog it and add it to the event's masterlist! the fandom list for this section is not limited to what i write for.

"can you hold my hand? just because it's cold! don't get any other ideas."

kissing them to stop their rambles of anxiousness

kissing you to stop your rambles of anxiousness

"would you love me if i was a worm?"

babysitting a friend's kid for a day

they catch you from falling as you trip

giving you a gift

doctoring a cut on your hand

"do you think we're together in every life?"

getting jealous over an animal

"i'm so sorry please forgive me" "'sorry' isn't going to bring back my cupcake (name)"

falling asleep in their arms

"you look pretty"

person a who gets warm easily and person b who gets cold easily

"you're a mess" "i'm your mess"

NO.3 : MR./MRS. RIGHT

this is a matchup section! all you have to do is send me information about your personality, your love languages, and who you wouldn't like to be matched up with. this is a romantic pairing but if you'd like it to be platonic just let me know. if you're participating in a matchup please don't use your real information, ex: your real name. i cannot promise you that the matchups will be extremely accurate or that the results will be the ones you want! right now this section is open to mutuals only.

© MITSVRIII 2024. stealing, translating, reposting, and feeding my works into ai or onto other platforms is not permitted.

[igotsnothing]

—OCS as OBSCURE ASSOCIATIONS

I got tagged by the very cool @agena87, one of my original moots who I am so glad is still going strong! ❤️

We're going to do this with...Lawrence Saint-Germain

Lawrence: Look! We're doing this tag game thing!

Julian: YOU are. I am just here for moral support.

ANIMAL: Bat.

Julian: Sounds sus.

COLORS: I like a subdued, somber palette: blacks, greys...

Julian: Think funeral chic.

MONTH: October

SONGS: "Every Other Freckle" by alt-j

Julian: (Grins and looks away.)

NUMBER: 7

PLANTS: Camelias

SMELLS: Tuberoses

GEMSTONE: Onyx

TIME OF DAY: Sunset

SEASON: Fall

PLACES: A bookstore

FOOD: Rarely...But: creme brûlée.

DRINKS: Must you ask?

ELEMENT: Of surprise

ASTROLOGICAL SIGNS: Scorpio

SEASONINGS: Freckles?

(Julian snorts)

SKY: Moonlit

WEATHER: Stormy

MAGICAL POWER: Apparating

WEAPONS: My wit?

Julian: It's a blunt object.

(Some indignant huffing and wrestling ensues.)

SOCIAL MEDIA: (Looks confused) I have the...the Instant Messenger, right?

Julian: Yes, my love. (Nods head resignedly.)

MAKEUP PRODUCT: I am perfection and need no additives.

Julian: (Shrugs) But a perfect what?

(More wrestling.)

CANDY: JUJUbees.

Julian: HA! I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE!

METHOD OF LONG DISTANCE TRAVEL: Carried by my vassals-

Julian: Nooo! Come on, Lawrence! That wasn't funny seven hundred years ago and it's not funny now.

Lawrence: (Sighing) Ship or train.

ART STYLE: Baroque.

FEAR: That's...too personal.

(Julian squeezes his hand reassuringly.)

MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE: Jairo, on time for anything...

Julian: I am going to tell him you said that.

Lawrence: The irony is that he'll be so pleased.

PIECE OF STATIONARY: Fountain pen

THREE EMOJIS: Ok- these are fun: 👻🦇🧛‍♂️

Julian: The Elvis emoji?

Lawrence: Is it? Damn it! I thought it was a vampire! (Squints at phone screen). You're messing with me, aren't you?

Julian: Only since the night we met...

CELESTIAL BODY: Julian's...

Julian: (Kisses Lawrence on the nose) Time to stargaze.

Tagging: @damseljamsel, @alinelie, @lynzishell, @izayoichan and...wait for it... @greighish! (All optional, bleep bloop...)

[cinnamontails-ff]

The incredible @kittenintheden tagged me for this, so I'll give it my best shot!

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

Four.

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

224,051 - which, honestly, is insane because that means I've written (and edited) pretty much two entire novels over the course of last 12 months. The vampire elf is too powerful, guys.

3) What fandoms do you write for?

BG3

4) What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

I'm a fandom newbie, so I don't even have 5, but here are my babies:

Accountant's Guide - Pre-Canon Astarion teams up with a human accountant to frame Cazador for tax fraud. It's exactly as whacky as it sounds.

Magistrate's Advocate - The Magistrate Astarion longfic someone had to write.

Vampire Stay-at-Home Trophy Husband - Reverse Isekai EA oneshot

An Empirical Science - My contribution to the Holy Rolan Empire

5) Do you respond to comments?

Always. Obsessively so. Love responding to comments and chatting with readers.

6) What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

My fics have a good bit of angst and tension and heartbreak, but I always strive for an overall "warm" feeling in my writing, so those moments tend to get resolved at some point. No angsty endings in my portfolio (yet).

7) What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Accountant's Guide is where I gave Astarion everything I wish he could have. Zero regrets.

8) Do you get hate on fics?

Occasionally, but it's pretty rare. Not to make excuses for people hating on fics (because that is despicable; we're working for free here), but I don't think my fics are controversial enough to attract a lot of hate. They're cute. They're wholesome. They don't take themselves too seriously, so I think it's pretty difficult to hate on them.

Although someone once called Scarlett a b**** and sometimes I remember that and I become wrath.

9) Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Explicit smut is something I've really only started doing when I got into fanfiction this past year. I like incorporating it into my longfics to emphasize key moments for my characters and their development, so it's part porn, part plot.

It can get kinky, but it will always be consensual. Dubcon/noncon is a big no for me, personally.

10) Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

No crossovers, but An Empirical Science is where I have a lot of fun butchering adapting Pride & Prejudice lines. I mean, it's a Rolan fic. How could you not?

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know, but I have seen coincidences of very similar concepts and ideas popping up after I've introduced them in my fics.

12) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, there's an ongoing Ukrainian translation for Accountant's Guide! I translate the comments every now and then and readers are really praising the language skills of the translator, so that's awesome!

13) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, but we chat a lot about my stories on my Discord server, so that's often a little like writing together.

14) What’s your all time favorite ship?

Shalladin (Kaladin x Shallan from Stormlight Archive). I love Brandon Sanderson with all my heart, but for this, I will never forgive him.

15) What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I get very hyperfocused on my stories and rarely work on more than 1 project at a time, so I tend to finish what I start.

16) What are your writing strengths?

Look, my social anxiety makes me a pretty rizzless person to talk to in real life, but my writing is funny. It's charming. I am great at character voice. I keep things real. My OCs don't need to be perfect flawless beauty goddesses to woo the guy; they recite a few paragraphs and swing their fountain pen and the guy is on. the. floor.

Sometimes literally.

17) What are your writing weaknesses?

According to a rather charming public bookmark on my fic, I struggle with "pacing issues" and "questionable narrative choices". Clearly, this person knows what they're talking about, so let's accept it as fact.

18) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I think this is generally really difficult to pull off without being confusing (check out "The Wee Free Men" by Sir Terry Pratchett for a really good example how to do it). So unless I had a very specific reason for it, I would prefer to write around it as I've done with Infernal in An Empirical Science.

19) First fandom you wrote for?

Still BG3. First and last? Who knows.

20) Favorite fic you’ve written?

Accountant's Guide. It's the story I wrote when I hit rock bottom and thought I couldn't write anymore. It's the story that made me believe again. My first story in English and by far the easiest thing I've ever written. It's the story I reread when I'm sad, when I'm happy, when I want a hug that reaches all the way into my soul. I am never happier than when people tell me this is a comfort read for them, just as it is for me.

I'm tagging @thedreamlessnights, @purdledooturt, @larvasmoon, @karinamay and @davenswitcher if they feel like sharing their answers!

[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

Familia mea mea est domus – My family is my home

I loved @mistydeyes medical checkup thingy here and got a little inspired, so thanks for that, hun

Unedited because I wrote this on a whim

Tagging my usuals that asked, just because: @glitterypirateduck @letsreadallday @jamesrifftapes @sofasoap @mmyrrhh

A soft knock on his office's door made Price look up briefly.

''Come in''

The door opened swiftly, even before the last word was uttered, and Riot stepped inside, closing behind her hurriedly. Then, without asking, she all but collapsed on the chair in front of him.

''Oh, good you're here, I need clarification on what this means, my German is a bit rusty...'' Price leaned back in his chair, leaving his fountain pen and looking up again, but the slight grin on his face disappeared when he saw her eyes.

Her haunted, wide eyes.

''Kid''

Riot's blue-gray eyes - no, Christine's - looked straight into his, unblinking, and he noticed that just as she sat down, her right knee had started bouncing wildly.

''I have my physical checkup'' Even her voice sounded lower than normal, strained, controlled. ''In half an hour''

''I know'' Price nodded, still lost about what could have happened. ''What's the matter, kid?''

''Can you come with me?''

''... what?''

She moved slightly in the chair, visibly uncomfortable, but her eyes didn't waver and still stared at him, desperate, pleading.

''In my file there's specifications that say I only want female personnel in the physical checkup'' When Price nodded again, Christine tried to overcome the knot in her throat. ''I was just there. There's only male personnel working at the moment. They told me Dr. Benítez was on break and wouldn't be back till noon''

''Can't they move your appointment to when she's in?'' Price was already shutting down his laptop, knowing where this was going, and feeling the exasperation boiling inside. Fucking idiots everywhere.

''They said I could either do the checkup now with the personnel that was in or they would put in my file that I refused to do it'' Christine's voice was even lower now, her fingers tapping furiously on her thighs, and her right knee still bouncing. ''Price, I can't...''

Half an hour later, Price was sitting uncomfortably right in front of the door of the room where Dr. Benitez and a female nurse were performing the physical exam on Sgt. Vega. It had cost him only five minutes of raising his voice at the incompetent idiot in charge of the clinic for the day, and a personal call to Dr. Benitez's phone (who had been appalled by the situation and cut her break short, God blessed that woman, and told off herself the idiots at the reception).

''I know. I'll fix this'' Price stood up and walked around his desk to offer his hand to her. ''Come on, kid, we're gonna give them a piece of our minds''

*

To pass the time, he had sent a text to Heather, explaining the situation, and her answer had been almost instant, and indignant.

I personally put in her file she was NOT to be examined physically by any male presenting person. I'm going to raise hell at whoever is ignoring the personal notes in people's files.

Great, now Heather was in the warpath too. Sighing, Price was about to put his phone away when he got a message from Nikolai, some stupid short video of something he had found on the internet.

For a second he considered telling him, but decided against it. There was no need to have an angry Russian mercenary storming into the base demanding to behead someone for upsetting his solnysh... solhn... his sunshine.

Price also wondered why she hadn't asked Soap or Gaz, or Ghost, but was still musing over it when the door opened and Christine stepped out, talking with Dr. Benitez.

It was like night and day. Now she looked her usual self, or at least her usual masking self, chatty and bright, confident and brilliant. Dr. Benitez nodded at Price and then went back inside, and Christine walked over to him as he stood up.

''All set, kid?''

''All set, sir'' She smiled, and then offered him a lollipop. Price stared at it for a second and then at her eyes, unable to avoid grinning when he saw the usual mischief in there. How in the world he had ended with two Soap in the same unit was beyond him, but it made him feel thankful everyday.

''Really? A lollie?''

''She gave me one and I asked for another one for you'' Christine shrugged, with a cheeky grin. He noticed with sadness how the left corner of her lips was uneven, twisted due to the scar, but he admired her 'fuck it all' attitude about it and her refusal to wear her mask most of the time.

''Oh, thank you then'' Price accepted the lollipop and both unwrapped them as they walked to the exit. ''I'm glad I was still around to come with you. I bet if Ghost, Soap and Gaz had arrived sooner from the drill with the rookies they would have been happy to accompany you''

Christine hummed quietly, enjoying the lollipop, but when he finished talking she looked up at him.

''They were already back when I asked you''

Price opened the door for her, and stared at her hair as she stepped out. She had gone to him, for support and safety, even when she could have chosen any of the other Sergeants or Ghost. Price was well aware of the something brewing between the Lieutenant and her, and that her and Soap were practically siblings, and that Gaz and her were thick as thieves too... but still, she had sought him out instead of them... His heart swelled.

''Alright, sunshine'' Price ruffled her hair playfully, grinning when she protested. ''I think we've earned a coffee. Let's go find the rest of the muppets. My treat''