#with the same expression. in every portrait of him ever

[yoursinisforgiven]

I WANNA DRINK YOUR WORDS LIKE WINE ──

pairing: asriel x reader (pet)

cw: mentions of blood, direct mentions of sex, themes of obsession, mentions of death.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

You hadn’t meant to watch—stalk, some might say.

Though, was it really stalking if you lived in the same house? And could you even call Asriel’s manor a house? The very word suggested warmth, comfort, the presence of something akin to belonging. This place was neither of those things. It was vast, sprawling in a way that made you feel like an insect lost in an endless maze, swallowed by corridors that led to nowhere, doors that opened to rooms you had never seen before and would likely never see again.

There were places in this world so large they became liminal, where the air itself seemed weighted with something that did not belong to the living. Asriel’s estate was like that—too silent, too grand, a shrine to something unspoken. The very walls seemed burdened by history, memories clawing at their gilded edges. It made you anxious, the sheer scale of it, how you could walk and walk and never reach an end. And yet, upon very rare occasions, as if fate itself had guided your steps, you would stumble across her.

His mother.

In the six months of your stay with Asriel, you had been greeted by only a handful of people. The isolation was deliberate, carefully constructed, as though the world outside the estate had ceased to exist the moment you set foot in its halls. But there were still others who drifted in and out of his orbit, satellites to his sun, and in watching them, you found small glimpses into his world.

First, there was his personal assistant. A woman who carried herself like a ghost unsure if she was truly seen. The brunette of her hair was always tied in a messy bun atop her head, strands perpetually slipping free, as if even her own body resisted containment. Her presence was a whisper, her voice softer than the rustling of paper, and her gaze never quite met your own. Had she been different—more confident, more alluring, more interesting—perhaps you would have resented her. But Asriel had no interest in her. She was a fixture, nothing more than an extension of his will, and in trade, you had no anger for her.

Then there was Vic, his right-hand man. If Asriel was ice, Vic was fire, warm in a way that burned rather than comforted. He was too teasing, too familiar, an irritant and yet—useful. You hadn’t liked him, not truly, but you had enjoyed his presence for one reason alone: he made Asriel react. And that was all you craved, wasn’t it? Him. His voice, his gaze, the slight shifts in his expression that others might miss but you had trained yourself to catch. Asriel was fascinating in a way that no one else could be. Everything about him demanded attention.

The chef and a few maids made up the bottom of the social hierarchy, their presence fleeting, insignificant. They were the ones you saw most often, interacted with the most, and yet, they barely registered in your mind. You watched them the way a bored child might gaze at the sky, tracing the shapes of clouds without truly seeing them. They were nothing more than background noise, furniture in a house too grand to ever feel like home.

But his mother. She was different.

You had seen her only a handful of times, always from a distance. A shadow in the halls, an echo of perfume fading before you could place the scent. She moved like a woman out of time, her presence lingering just long enough to remind you she existed, but never long enough to be touched. And yet, as you watched her now, she was utterly still.

Her gaze was fixed on the painting before her—a portrait. You knew it well. You had walked past it countless times, felt its weight press against you even when you tried not to look. You didn’t need to ask anyone to know the portrait was of Asriel’s father. And yet, every time you passed it, your eyes lingered. Longer than they should have.

You hadn’t cared for the man. That was ridiculous—you told yourself. You couldn’t feel anything for a man you had never met. And yet, there was something in his face, in the structure of his jaw, in the way his eyes had been painted with a depth that suggested knowing. Something that unsettled you. Something that kept your gaze lingering when it had no reason to stay.

Asriel and his father looked deathly similar.

The thought sat heavy in your mind, an anchor in the sea of your restless thoughts. The resemblance was uncanny, almost unsettling. You wondered if Asriel ever stood here, staring at the portrait as you did now. If he ever saw himself in the lines of his father’s face. If he ever felt the weight of expectation press against him like a hand on his throat.

You didn’t realize you had been holding your breath until the woman moved.

Her footsteps echoed through the hallway, soft but certain. She didn’t look at you as she passed, didn’t acknowledge your presence in the slightest. And yet, as she walked away, you felt as though you had just witnessed something sacred. Something forbidden.

You let out a breath, slow and steady, and turned back to the painting.

The eyes of Asriel’s father stared back at you, unreadable.

And for a moment, you wondered if he, too, had once stood in this house feeling just as lost as you did now.

──

Spring had come and gone, slipping past like a whisper, unnoticed. Then summer followed, heavy and relentless, the air thick with heat that pressed against your skin, suffocating in its insistence. Fall was gentler, fleeting, a brief interlude before winter finally settled in.

You had never cared much for the turning of seasons. They had always been just another nuance of time passing, an inevitability, something that came and went without your notice.

That was, until Asriel.

It was under his care that you learned the cold suited you far more than the sweltering heat of summer. Winter was the only season in which he allowed you close.

It started simply, in small things. The way he let you linger near him, tolerated the way you sought his presence as though drawn by an unseen force. He would let you sit at his feet as he worked, his fingers idly running through your hair, a thoughtless gesture, but one that left you aching. Some nights, when the air was cold enough that even the walls of his grand estate could not keep the chill at bay, he would allow you in his bed—not for pleasure, not for anything so crude, but simply to be.

He was never a man of excess. Never indulgent, never careless. But in the winter, something softened in him, if only slightly.

And with time, when you had earned it, he gave you more.

The closest he could be to you, the only way he would allow himself to be.

There was no hunger in it. No frantic, breathless desperation.

Only something deeper.

It was in the way his hands traced your skin, slow and reverent, as though he were memorizing every inch of you, as though he feared the moment he let go, you might disappear. In the way he pressed against you, his warmth seeping into you, driving out the cold that had settled in your bones long before winter ever arrived.

There was a quiet sort of intensity in the way he held you—as if he was trying to make sense of you, as if he was trying to understand something neither of you could put into words.

For Asriel, it was control. It had always been control. Even now, even as he allowed himself this moment with you, he held himself with restraint so absolute it nearly broke you.

For you, it was something else entirely.

It was proof.

Proof that you were real, that you were here, that despite the vastness of the world and the emptiness you had carried for so long, there was something tangible in this.

You could feel it in the way his lips brushed against your throat, not in hunger, not in possession, but in something softer. In the way his fingers intertwined with yours, gripping so tightly, as though grounding himself as much as he was grounding you.

And when it was over, when silence fell over the room like a heavy snowfall, he did not turn away.

He did not pull back.

Instead, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing steady, grounding. A hand remained against your back, keeping you close as though reluctant to let the moment slip away entirely.

His grip tightened—just slightly. A silent acknowledgment. A quiet understanding.

The fire in the hearth crackled, casting flickering light across his features, illuminating the depth in his eyes, the weight he carried. He was unreadable, as he always was. And yet, here, in this moment, you felt him in a way words could never describe.

Not as a master.

Not as something untouchable, unreachable.

But as a man.

A man who allowed you closer than anyone else ever had.

And for now, in the stillness of winter’s night, it was enough.

──

Outside, the world had unraveled into a quiet kind of chaos.

Snow had fallen in relentless sheets throughout the night, layering upon itself in thick drifts, soft yet unyielding. It blanketed every surface, swallowed the earth beneath it, rendering the once-vast acres of Asriel’s estate into something uniform, untouched. It was as though nature had decided to wipe the slate clean, erasing the past with each flake, muffling the world into silence.

From where you sat, curled in the deep seat of the bayside window in Asriel’s study, it felt like watching the aftermath of something ancient. A cleansing. A rebirth.

You had claimed this spot months ago, a small corner of his world where you could sit and watch the estate stretch endlessly before you. The glass was cool beneath your fingers as you traced idle patterns against the condensation. The fire behind you crackled softly, a steady warmth against your back, licking at the air in gentle protest against the cold pressing in from outside.

The study smelled like cedarwood and aged paper, like something old, something that had seen lifetimes before you ever arrived. It was Asriel’s scent, too—subtle, refined, something that had settled into the very foundation of this place, seeping into the leather of his chair, the parchment of his documents. You inhaled it absentmindedly, as if it might somehow pull him closer.

But he was distant.

Even now, sitting at his desk, pouring over something in front of him, he felt far away.

He had been on the phone for a while. You hadn’t cared enough to listen closely, not at first, letting the low hum of his voice become background noise as you lost yourself in the snowfall. But certain words had pried their way into your consciousness.

Someone had died.

Calem. You believed that was his name.

It should not have mattered.

People died every day. Death was the only true constant in this world—indifferent, unrelenting, a hand that took without mercy and without hesitation. Everyone faded, in the end. Even those who thought themselves untouchable.

And yet, something in Asriel’s tone had shifted, just enough for you to notice. A fraction of a degree. A subtle weight pressing against the usual evenness of his voice.

You turned your gaze to him now.

He was still seated at his desk, fingers pressed lightly against the bridge of his nose, his other hand resting on a stack of papers, a signature half-written.

Then, as if he could feel your eyes on him, he lifted his head.

Your gazes met, and for a moment, nothing else existed.

His expression remained unreadable—neutral in the way only Asriel could manage, composed to the point of near perfection. But something flickered beneath the surface. Not grief, not exactly. Something else. A consideration, perhaps.

A pause in a mind that rarely ever paused.

Then, without warning, the corner of his mouth curved into the faintest smirk.

It was almost cruel, how effortlessly he could shift, how he could be on the phone speaking about death one moment and then look at you like that—as if the world hadn’t just taken something from him, as if he hadn’t just buried whatever reaction he might have had beneath layers of indifference.

And truthfully, it flustered you.

You shifted slightly where you sat, pressing your palms against the windowsill to ground yourself. The warmth of the fire suddenly felt too much against your back, an intrusive heat reminding you of how much you wanted to be closer to him, how much you craved something he only gave in fragments.

So you broke the silence.

“Can I ask you something?”

Your voice was quiet, but it cut through the space between you both like the edge of a blade.

He watched you, tilting his head slightly, as if weighing whether he should allow this.

“I can’t promise an answer.”

Of course. That was always the way of it.

You hesitated, then turned your gaze back toward the snow outside, watching the wind stir the drifts into phantom shapes that disappeared as quickly as they formed.

“What does it feel like?” you asked.

There was no need to clarify. You knew he would understand.

There was a long pause.

Then, slowly, Asriel leaned back in his chair, fingers interlacing as he regarded you with something almost akin to curiosity.

“You assume I feel anything at all,” he said at last, voice even, unaffected.

A well-rehearsed answer.

A practiced deflection.

You huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite anything at all.

“Liar.”

His lips twitched, but he did not refute you.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, eyes drifting to the fire, watching the way the embers shifted, glowing bright before settling back into their steady burn.

After what felt like a lifetime, he spoke.

“It’s like waiting for the cold to reach you,” he murmured. “You know it’s coming. You feel the air shifting, the warmth fading, and yet, when it finally touches you—*”

He paused.

”—it still surprises you.”

You watched him, heart pressing against your ribs in a way that felt too much like mourning.

You didn’t know who he was speaking of anymore.

Calem? His father? Someone else?

Or was it himself?

The thought lodged itself in your throat, sharp, painful, something you didn’t dare voice.

Instead, you asked, “And when it does?”

His gaze slid back to you, slow, deliberate.

“It takes everything,” he said simply.

The words settled between you, heavy, final.

And yet, despite that finality, you could feel the ache in them. The quiet admission buried beneath the carefully measured syllables.

He had lost things. Many things. Too many things.

And no matter how much power he wielded, no matter how tightly he held onto control, he would continue to lose.

Because that was the nature of all things, wasn’t it?

Nothing lasted.

Not the warmth of a fire. Not the feeling of skin against skin. Not even the illusion of invincibility.

One day, even Asriel would fade.

And perhaps, that was the cruelest truth of all.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The fire crackled behind you.

The snow continued to fall.

And between the two of you, in the space where words had always failed, something unspoken remained.

──

It was one of those nights again.

The kind where the world outside felt too much, where the air was too thick in your lungs, where the ache inside you had nowhere else to go but him.

Winter had surrendered to spring, its cruelty buried beneath the soil, softened by the gentle insistence of life pushing its way back into the world. The scent of blossoms clung to the edges of the estate, creeping in through the open balcony doors, carried on a breeze that was neither too warm nor too cold.

Mother Nature had moved on.

But you hadn’t.

The weight of the afternoon still clung to you, a wound that had not yet begun to heal.

Lilian’s party had stirred something raw inside you, something you had spent too long trying to ignore.

No, not the party.

Her.

It wasn’t hatred. You knew hatred well—it was sharp, consuming, a thing that burned hot and fast. But this was something else. Something slow and insidious.

Jealousy had no place in you—not when you had never allowed anyone to take what you wanted. Not when you could rip anything from this world as easily as drawing breath.

But there was one thing you could never take.

Asriel’s trust.

Maybe even something deeper than that.

That was the one thing that was beyond you, the one thing that could not be stolen, could not be forced. It had to be given.

And to her, he had given it freely.

His voice had been warm when he spoke to her—his usual cold restraint softened, his words lighter, effortless. It was unbearable to witness, that ease, that simplicity, when everything between you had been a battle, a war waged in glances and distance and the desperate pull toward something you could never seem to hold onto.

He had assured you, hadn’t he?

He had told you he liked you.

It had never even come close, close to what you truly craved.

And so now, when the weight of it became too much, when the emptiness threatened to devour you whole, you sought the only thing he could give you.

His body.

The feeling of him inside you, the slow, aching push of him filling the space that nothing else could. The way his hands gripped your hips, held you there, as if to remind himself you were real.

It was desperate without being frantic, intense without being rushed. Every movement was slow, deliberate, as if he was memorizing you.

As if this was the only way he knew how to give himself to you.

And for a while, this was enough.

For a while, the ache in your chest quieted, dulled beneath the press of his body against yours, beneath the warmth of him, beneath the way he let you take him in fully, completely.

But even as the pleasure crested and ebbed, even as your breath steadied and the room settled into silence, the ache remained.

Because you knew that soon—too soon—he would pull away.

He always did.

So before he could, before the inevitable distance returned, you reached for him.

Your claws pressed into his skin, too sharp, too deep, your grip tightening in a silent plea. You felt the slight hitch in his breath, the way his body tensed beneath your grasp. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, instead of retreating, he exhaled.

Slowly.

As if surrendering to this. To you.

You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, lips brushing over his pulse, feeling the steady rhythm beneath your mouth—warm, alive, utterly human.

And suddenly, that hunger returned.

Not for his body.

For more.

“Please,” you whispered against his skin, voice quiet, reverent.

He did not answer. But his hand curled against the back of your neck, fingers pressing into your skin in a way that said, Go on.

Your lips parted. Your fangs scraped against the tender flesh of his throat, a ghost of a threat, a silent question.

And still, he did not stop you.

So you bit.

The moment your fangs broke skin, his breath shuddered against you, his entire body going still beneath you. A sound—soft, barely there—escaped his lips, more exhale than voice, more reaction than control.

His blood spilled warm into your mouth, rich, intoxicating, sinking into your veins like fire.

It was him.

In his purest form.

You drank slowly, savoring every drop, every heartbeat that sent more of him into you. Your hand slid into his hair, gripping slightly, not to restrain him—he never fought you—but to keep him there.

With you.

His fingers twitched where they held you, his breathing uneven, the tension in his body not one of fear but something deeper, something darker.

This was the closest you would ever truly have him.

The closest he would ever allow you to be.

When you finally pulled back, your lips were stained dark, your breath shallow. His pulse still beat strong beneath your mouth, still steady, still his.

And you could not stop yourself.

“Do you love me?”

It came out as a whisper, but it might as well have been a scream.

His body stiffened.

For the first time, he hesitated.

The silence stretched long between you, thick and heavy.

Then, before you could break, before you could pull away, his hand found your face, tilting it up, forcing you to look at him.

His thumb brushed over your lips, smearing the last trace of his blood, his expression unreadable.

And then, slowly—so softly it hurt—he kissed you.

It was not rough.

Not demanding.

But lingering.

As if memorizing the taste of himself on your tongue.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven.

“Don’t ask me that.”

His voice was quiet.

Not a refusal.

Not a rejection.

But something far worse.

Something that sounded like an admission.

Something that felt like surrender.

And yet, he stayed.

His hand remained in your hair, his lips barely a breath away, his body still pressed against yours.

The world outside continued its dance.

The seasons would keep turning.

And maybe, just maybe, Asriel would stay just a little longer.

──

author's note: i accidentally deleted the ask but yes i will be continuing the vic x banshee series!

ps: im so sorry about how bad this came out, im currently working on another asriel fic as well, i didn't have much inspiration for this one :c

psps: thank you payton talbott 

tag list:

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

[historyartthings]

Description of the primary documents:

Image 9/document 1:

a book of hours. Thomas Becket's name is erased from the calendar of saint's days

Image 10/document 2:

Cromwell's arms in the book of heralds after his fall. 'X's show where they've been crossed out

Image 21/document 3:

'questions to be axid of thomas cromell'

in henry viii's hand, the heading to a list of questions regarding the Cleves marriage

Image 26/document 4:

Cromwell's letter to the king from the tower

Image 28/document 5:

His parliamentary attainder

[monotonesmile]

Damian Wayne Headcanons

————————————————————————————————

[General Headcanons:]

Damian knows a lot of languages so he can and will use them to confuse his siblings (and once on Bruce. Note: This did not work, Bruce started speaking the same language.) in arguments. He will fully switch to a completely different dialect in the middle of a sentence, he’ll go from English to fluent Latin.

Damian definitely isn’t a touchy-feely person or a praising man, so he usually expresses himself through quality time or acts of service. He does care, he’s just had the aspect of “showing emotions is weakness” so beaten into him that he’s just doing everything subconsciously.

I feel like Damian does take time out of his day to actually hang out with his siblings, whether by (begrudgingly) going out with Dick or hanging out with Jason in one of the many libraries in the manor in silence. He does want to be around his siblings, he just won’t admit it as stated before.

Damian is always happy whenever he gets to have authentic food from where he was raised before arriving at Wayne Manor, it makes him smile a bit when Alfred makes it for him, even if it has to be changed a little due to his vegetarianism.

Damian, as Robin, is both a strike first, ask questions later type but also a strategist at the same time. Nobody understands how.

[Romantic Headcanons:]

When it comes down to romantic relationships though, he will definitely not be any different in the first few months of dating, he’ll be cold and blunt as ever but there is a hint of softness to everything he does, plus you’ll find honestly beautiful portraits and drawings in your bag or room at times.

After a few months of dating he’ll let you actually hold his hand in public, although he definitely doesn’t look happy about it (he’s happy, he just has a resting bitch face).

Damian definitely doesn’t tell you about his night life as Robin for a long while, he’s afraid you’d look at him differently and be scared off by it. It takes him probably more than a year, maybe even two, to actually tell you of his secret identity, and even longer to tell you about his true past with the League of Assassins for the same reasons he was afraid to tell you about his life as Robin.

He absolutely has petnames for you in different languages.

If his multitude of pets love you, you’ve just become absolute wife/husband/spouse material in his eyes, especially if you also love animals.

Damian is low key really sweet towards his partner, but it really doesn’t look like that from an outside perspective, from someone else’s POV, Damian looks uninterested and cold towards you, but you can see the small things, the way his thumb runs across your knuckles as you hold hands and how he is keeping his eyes on you.

Damian would be hella embarrassed if you traced any of his scars, it is absolutely one of the best ways to get him to shut up or blush brighter than a tomato.

Damian likes listening to your heartbeat, it’s like he’s reminding himself that you’re real and actually with him. He’s afraid of losing the people he loves and cares for so he does certain things to remind himself that it’s all real.

To leave off on a soft note, Damian’s kisses are always soft and sweet, like he’s savoring every moment of it, he always involuntarily smiles into kisses as well.

[issues4him]

INTRODUCING... GHOST!RAFE x SHY!READER . *. ⋆

summary : you, a shy girl, grew up enchanted by the painted portrait of a war hero in your grandparent's mansion, unfortunately falling in love with him. at nineteen, you return to the mansion after a few years—only to realize he was never just a painting.

a / n : i rlly hope you guys like these two as much as i do :’) i think they're dynamic is really unique! i got thinking about 'all quiet on the western front' and it inspired this for some reason lol. pls lmk if y'all want to see more of them!

SHY!READER who… grew up visiting your grandparents’ massive, old outer banks mansion every summer, always enchanted by the grand halls, ancient furniture, and—most of all—the mysterious paintings covering the walls.

SHY!READER who… was particularly drawn to one painting: a war portrait of a young soldier, his expression stoic, his uniform pristine, his sharp blue eyes seemingly watching you no matter where you stood.

SHY!READER who… would stand in front of the painting as a little girl, tilting your head, whispering, “i think you’re the handsome-est.” before running away, cheeks burning.

SHY!READER who… would show off in front of the portrait—twirling in a new princess dress, holding up a sparkly necklace, or even practicing curtsies as if he were a prince.

SHY!READER who… would sometimes sit on the grand staircase next to his painting when you were sad, hugging your knees and whispering, “i wish you were real. i bet you’d know what to say.”

SHY!READER who… made a little habit of giggling when you passed him in the halls, blowing him a kiss and whispering “goodnight, soldier” before heading off to bed.

GHOST!RAFE who… had been stuck inside that painting for nearly two and a half centuries. he was a twenty-two year old soldier who died tragically in the american revolutionary war, by a gunshot wound to the chest.

GHOST!RAFE who… watched generations of people pass through the house, none of them ever seeing him—until you.

GHOST!RAFE who… was completely thrown off the first time you spoke to him, your little voice chirping, “you’re really handsome, you know that?” and then running away like you had just confessed the biggest secret of your life.

GHOST!RAFE who… started to look forward to your visits, watching you grow up year after year, listening to your late-night rambles, terrible jokes, and whispered wishes.

GHOST!RAFE who… felt protective over you in a way he didn’t understand. when you cried on the steps near him, he wanted so badly to reach out, to comfort you, to hold you—but he couldn’t. he was trapped.

SHY!READER who... got older but never quite grew out of your fascination with the painting. you stopped talking to it out loud, but you still lingered whenever you walked past, running your fingers along the frame absentmindedly.

SHY!READER who... would dream about the man in the painting—your soldier. would wake up flustered, shaking off the feeling of his eyes lingering on you.

SHY!READER who... never fully admitted it to yourself, but… you had a crush on him. a silly, childish crush, but still.

SHY!READER who... started visiting less as you got older, college and life getting in the way—until, at 19, you came back to your grandparents' for the first time in years, feeling that same pull toward the painting.

[siriuslovebot]

˖ ࣪⭑˖ ࣪𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒚 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑 ➸ 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒖𝒔 𝒍𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒏˖ ࣪⭑ ˖ ࣪

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑺 𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑬𝑫: more remus x mouse please!!! i adore them!!

𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺: mentions of insecurity, post full moon remus is a little snappy, the nickname 'mouse', insomnia, crying (this is all quite lighthearted i promise)

𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀: after remus snaps at the reader one day, some insecurities in their relationship come up.

𝑨/𝑵: hi loves! after the massive outpouring of love i had on mouse, i received this request and knew i absolutely had to write more of remus & mouse. this is written in the same universe, so to speak, but can be read as a standalone if you like. this one isn't nearly as long as the last, but it's just a little something that i wanted to write. if you'd like to see more of this pairing, just let me know and i would be happy to oblige!! as far as the warnings go, there's no real angst or anything just some insecurity on the reader's part. if that bothers you then please skip this one! as always, i hope you enjoy!

𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑻: 1.9k ��♡₊⭑

·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺

a slot of light slips through the curtains across the room, the faint moonlight shining directly over your eyes. a tiny huff leaves your lips as you flip the other way; sleep has escaped you for the past hour. you’d awoken, heart pounding, from a nightmare, and have been awake ever since. it’s a wonder you haven’t woken marlene or lily with your quiet grumbling and frustrated sighs. 

you curl into your bed, entangling your body in the duvet as you stare at the wall of your dorm. your eyes trace the cracks in the stone, the dim light illuminating their details just enough to distract you. you attempt to count them, hoping maybe it will help lull you to sleep. after what feels like hours, you give up. another annoyed grunt leaves your lips as you flop onto your back to stare at the canopy above your bed.

the problem is: you’ve been suffering from this insomnia for the past week now. ever since the last full moon, you’ve been worried sick. of course you’re used to dealing with remus’s touchy moods around the full moon; you’ve seen how short he can get with other people, how he becomes quieter and more reserved, how he sleeps more than usual. still, he’d never been that way with you, even when he was clearly at the end of his rope mentally and emotionally.

earlier in the week, you’d been excited to share the lesson he missed that morning in care of magical creatures. professor kettleburn covered mokes, displaying their remarkable ability to shrink themselves to near invisibility. it wasn’t unusual for remus to ask you what he missed in class– so you thought it’d be fine to volunteer the information. unfortunately, it seemed he was still on edge after his latest transformation.

you’d taken a seat on the end of his bed, placing a hand on his leg. you greeted him softly, knowing how exhausted he usually felt. he laid there, arm covering his eyes, and said nothing. you took this as an opportunity to begin speaking. there was no response from him for a moment, before he moved his arm, blinking his bleary eyes as he barely sat up.

a sickly-looking expression occupied his features. his sleeve rose a bit and you noticed another fresh wound.

“can you please just… leave me alone?” he said, voice cold, before collapsing back onto the bed. he shook your hand away from his leg and curled into himself.

“are you okay, rem?”

“go. away.” his words were punctuated sharply, turning almost venomous. you flinched, your entire morale crumbling to dust beneath the weight of his words. 

your stomach churned, and you cleared your throat. “o–okay,” you mumbled. you were out of his dorm in a flash, your feet carrying you as fast as possible downstairs.

“hey, y/n–” sirius tried to catch your sleeve, but you pushed past him, out of the portrait hole without a word. the tears were brimming already, your throat tightening as you made every effort to get as far away from everyone as possible. you hated how much it could upset you; remus was not mean, and you knew that. he would never hurt your feelings on purpose, and you knew better than to bother him when he wasn’t feeling well. still, it stung. 

even worse, you weren’t brave enough to bring it up when he finally returned to classes as normal. as he sat down beside you at breakfast, you wondered if he even remembered it at all. he greeted you amicably and bumped his knee against yours as he settled into his seat. but he didn’t wrap his hand around yours like normal. he wasn’t leaning in to whisper his witty remarks while the others were distracted. remus is not an obviously affectionate man in the first place, but you have grown used to him showing his fondness for you in quiet ways. brushing your hair behind your ear, carrying your books to class, holding doors open for you. 

now, moping in your bed, you feel even worse about everything. since that morning, you worried that you annoyed him to the point that he didn’t want you anymore. maybe he just preferred you as a friend. that idea hurt even more. blinking, you try to push the thought out of your head. alas, you are nothing if not an overthinker, and the pestering thought will not go away. your one remedy is exactly the person you don’t want to face. 

you realise you are in a predicament; being so obstinate, you don’t want to scurry off to remus’s dorm and pour your heart out after feeling so slighted. on the other hand, you’re afraid that your newfound relationship could fizzle out right beneath your nose. you’ve always heard that communication is key, but revealing your anxieties to remus feels too vulnerable. almost foolish. 

ultimately, you decide to choke down your pride. the floor is cold beneath your feet as you slip out of bed. you force your limbs to move across the room, tip-toeing to the door. you wince as a stirring noise comes from across the room, then the sound of marlene’s hoarse voice.

“y/n? y’okay?” her words are slurred with sleep, muffled by her pillow.

“fine, marls. go back to sleep.”

she does just that, her breathing falling back into its steady rhythm. you slip through the small gap in the door, padding downstairs as quietly as possible. 

by the time your feet hit the stairs up to the boys dormitories, you’re starting to question your decision. it’s stupid, you think. there’s no way remus would snub you on purpose; surely he would just up and say it if he was no longer interested… right? 

it takes every ounce of willpower in your body to force yourself up the stairs. you take them one at a time, breathing deeply to ease the growing anticipation. it’s a wonder no one can hear your pulse quickening, your shaky breaths. standing at the door, you stare at it for a second. you can turn around this second and pretend you were never there. but wouldn’t it only make things worse?

a second passes, and you raise your hand to knock. you stop yourself. it would be rude to knock at this hour; you’d wake all four of the boys slumbering peacefully inside. instead, you hope not to wake anyone as you gently push the door open, peering inside. four forms occupy their beds, their silhouettes rising and falling gently with each breath. the light from outside the window barely illuminates the room enough for you to creep around the mess on the floor. you grit your teeth as one of them mumbles in their sleep; your eyes find james’s form, rolling over lazily in bed. he’s still sleeping, thankfully.

you step over a pile of books on the way to remus’s bed, and try not to startle him. it seems you already have, as his sleepy voice comes muffled from his bed.

“y/n? is something wrong?” 

the sound of him calling you y/n sends a pang through you. as much as you complained about being called ‘mouse,’ it made you feel special whenever remus used your childish nickname. 

“can’t sleep,” you mumble stupidly, your knee bumping into the edge of his bed. “sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“of course y’did,” he says, voice thick with sleep. “y’weren’t coming in here just to stare at me…” he turns over, his bleary eyes finding yours in the darkness. he lifts the duvet, scooting over to make a spot for you. you climb onto the bed, but hesitate before laying beside him.

“what’s wrong?” he reaches for you, long fingers wrapping around your wrist. his thumb traces the inside of your wrist, gentle against the skin. he doesn’t tug you down, which you would appreciate if it weren’t for the full view he was getting of your upset face. 

“are you mad at me?” this whisper is quieter than the last one, if possible. your eyes shine with tears, and remus’s face falls into a heavy frown. 

“what are you talking about, m’little mouse?” 

your heart seems as if it’s going to explode for a second; you force your gaze away from his face. you can’t stand to watch the way his brows pull together, the way his lips drag down into a frown, the concern softening his warm eyes. a lump the size of the castle has grown in your throat, and you want to hide your face more than anything. 

“i just–well, after the last full moon, it just… seemed like you didn’t want to see me anymore. i know it’s a lot to deal with, and i shouldn’t have bothered you–”

“hey,” remus cuts you off, his voice soft. little choking breaths and sobs are interrupting your words, and tears cloud your vision to the point that you can barely see him in the darkness. “you never bother me. c’mere…” he sits up, pulling you into his embrace. he’s warm, his scent enveloping you in a blanket of comfort. it’s astounding just how much he’s soothed you already, your crying quickly calming to dull hiccoughs. 

“so you’re not mad?” you breathe, your face tucked into his neck.

he laughs quietly. the sound is barely audible, but you feel the rumble of his chest. “no, mouse.” his lips press against your temple, and you melt into him. you close your eyes, feeling more restful than you have in days. “‘m sorry i was short with you.” he holds you close, cradling your head as you finish calming down.

“can i stay here with you?” you ask, after what feels like forever. you look up at him hopefully, face flushing at the adoring look in his eyes. 

“‘course y’can,” he says, moving over even though there’s plenty of room for you already. “poor mouse, you look exhausted.” he brushes your hair out of your face, and you nod weakly.

“i haven’t slept properly for days,” you mutter, tucking yourself into his side as you settle beneath the duvet. one of your hands slips under the hem of his shirt, his skin warm against yours. 

“i wish you would’ve said something sooner.”

“i know. i just–” you huff “--i was embarrassed. i didn’t want to scare you off.”

there’s his laugh again, sweet and sleepy. your stomach does a flip.

“oh, it’d be hard to scare me off after i saw you turn into a mouse–”

“rem!” you say, voice sharp despite the quiet. his stomach rumbles with light laughter, and you shake your head.

“okay, sorry,” he says, grinning. “let’s not wake the guys up. think sirius’ll have my head for disturbing his beauty sleep.”

you mumble your agreement, closing your eyes. it’s about time you got at least a few hours of good sleep. the room is quiet for a second, just slow breathing.

then, from james’s corner of the room: “what about my beauty sleep, moony?” 

there’s an eruption of giggles from your bed, and you bury your face into remus’s neck to stifle the sound. 

“sorry, prongs,” remus says, sheepish.

“yeah, yeah, you old sap. go to sleep, or i’m recounting this whole thing to sirius in the morning.”

“oh, please don’t,” you plead quietly.

there’s a grumble from across the room. then, “what are you gits up blabbering about?” it’s sirius, his voice gruff.

“nothing, pads,” says james. “going to sleep.”

you say nothing, cheeks burning as you settle down, curling against remus’s frame. sleep finally finds you, sweeping you off into a dreamless slumber.

[chilling-seavey]

Lessons in Lust and Other Illicit Desires (gr63) —TEN

↳ A/N Thank you all so much for the growing interest in LLOID! You're always more than welcome to leave comments or send in asks about the universe...your thoughts, questions, and anything else <3 I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

↳ Series Summary: Sensible, wise, and a hopeless dreamer, Rosaline was used to men not giving her a second glance. She soon discovered it was merely those mundane college boys who were nothing more than simply intimidated by her intellect. What she needed was a man — someone who could impart knowledge beyond the Classics and guide her in discovering her own confidence as a woman. The thrill of sneaking around with the ever-so-charmingly handsome Professor Russell was certainly a bonus.

↳ Pairings: OxfordProfessor!George Russell x Innocent!Student!OC, Max Verstappen x Charles Leclerc (background)

↳ Chapter Word Count: 5.6k

↳ Chapter Warnings: 18+, nsfw, borderline exhibitionism/risky, oral sex (m receiving), dirty talk (with very minor degradation if you squint), slight hair pulling, spit, it gets a little messy...

George was wearing pleated grey dress slacks that morning. The expensive fabric stretched down the mile-long trail of his legs in a pristine straight cut that landed just at the top of his polished black loafers. They fit him like they were tailored right to his body, moulding around the muscle of his thighs and around the curve of his ass, sitting precisely around his waist by a black leather belt with a silver buckle. Rosaline wondered if he was wearing another pair of Tommy Hilfiger boxer briefs underneath. 

He addressed the class with his usual gravitas, arms moving in broad strokes through the air of the lecture hall, piece of chalk in hand, the fabric of his tucked-in plain white button-up creasing and wrinkling with his every move. Rosaline’s eyes flickered between him and her laptop screen as she furiously typed her notes, desperate not to let the fact that she knew what he looked like under all those clothes distract her from her studies. 

The sudden poke of her arm had her startling, turning to the classmate beside her with an expression she tried not to make appear so guilty. She wasn’t even sure when he had appeared since the seat beside her had been empty since class had begun. Probably yet another careless student sauntering in late…and now asking to borrow a pencil like he couldn’t show up to university prepared. Rosaline tried not to appear visibly disgusted when she watched him absentmindedly chew on the end of her pencil as the lecture progressed. 

College boys, she thought as she focused back on Professor Russell and his enticing maturity, they really were all the same. 

Rosaline’s second class of the day was canceled which allowed her to finally be able to join Tabitha and Max for lunch. She found them in the New College dining hall, situated at the far end of one of the lengthy communal tables. Gold framed portraits of scholars and headmasters past peered down at them from the wood trimmed wall at the head of the great room, likely judging Max’s neverending critique of British cuisine. 

His grumpy ramblings were interrupted by Rosaline’s arrival as she set her tray down beside Tabitha with a clatter, muffled by the sounds of the lively dining hall that echoed the students’ chatter right up to the rafters of the impossibly high peaked ceilings. Tabitha shifted herself over a little to give her room. 

Rosaline took her seat with a tired sigh and a breathy, “Hey. What did I miss?”

Tabitha answered for them, her arms folded on the edge of the table as she nodded her head towards a frowning Max, “He’s throwing a fit over today’s menu.”

Max looked over at her with an even deeper frown, the furrow between his brows strengthening as he pressed, “I am not throwing a fit. I am simply stating the obvious that British food is the worst cuisine on planet Earth and this sad excuse for lunch is proof.”

Rosaline was quick on the defence as she opened her can of soda, “I doubt Dutch food is any better.”

Max’s head nearly whipped in her direction, eyebrows so high in disbelief at her statement that they were nearly clean off his forehead, and his index finger raised from the table top as he said seriously, “Actually—”

“Okay,” Tabitha laughed, strained and tired, and pushed Max’s tray closer to him as if to encourage him like a toddler, “you’ve been on this for fifteen minutes now, mate, can you please just shut up and eat?”

Max grumbled under his breath but picked up his fork. Rosaline contentedly dug into her own lunch; thankful for something more than a bagel with cream cheese that she normally would scarf down between her classes. In the brief moment of quiet amongst their trio, behind the white noise of the bustling dining hall, her mind wandered back to her morning class and Professor Russell in those slacks. 

It was still hard for her mind to process that she knew what he looked like under them; every arch and valley of his muscle, the hair of his thighs, the mouth-watering shape of his cock. The sounds he made when she touched him still echoed in her mind even four days later. The worst part about this whole ordeal was not being able to talk to him outside of their scheduled office hours, not being able to throw herself over the rows of the lecture hall to kiss him when he spoke a particularly beautiful line of prose. Oh, God, his lips were so incredibly—

“Hello?” Max’s hand was suddenly in her line of vision as he tapped his fingertips against the table top in front of her to get her attention.

Rosaline looked up at him and then over at Tabitha, realizing both had been staring at her expectantly. She mumbled a sheepish, “Sorry.”

Max repeated himself, “I said: I can’t believe you made us wait until today to update us on how your night with the rich kid went.”

Tabitha spoke up, “To which I said: Charles isn’t here. We can’t get updates without him.”

“Sure, we can.” Max waved off her concern, “I’ll update him tonight.”

While Max picked at his subpar lunch, Rosaline updated her two friends on the goings-on from Friday night. As always, she kept the identity of her lover a secret, but spoke down to almost every other detail what had transpired. The drinks, the kissing, the exploring…making him come. She kept her voice low so as to not have her voice be carried through the peaked ceilings and to every other student in the dining hall, the trio leaning towards each other across the table as if in a top secret meeting in broad daylight. 

Rosaline found herself rambling on about how she couldn’t stop thinking about Friday night, how she craved him more than ever before. It was a feeling unlike any other; all encompassing and infuriatingly unquenchable. She hadn’t done much of anything yet but the sureness she felt in wanting more made it feel like she was already miles ahead of where she was. 

Max had a simple solution, delivered with his usual deadpan expression of sincerity, “Go and surprise him then.”

Rosaline was taken aback for a moment, blinking at him, before finally, “Just like that? What if he doesn’t want it?”

“He’s a guy, is he not?” Max pressed like it was obvious, “He’s gonna want it.”

It wasn’t like Rosaline to so willingly accept Max’s unwarranted advice but maybe it was the lust that was still hot in her veins that had her thinking that he might have had a point. What did she have to lose?

At 1pm sharp the very next day, Rosaline knocked on the frosted glass of Professor Russell’s office door. She held her usual file folder in her arm, housing another short story written in haste the night before for his eyes only. She stood for the few seconds it took for the door to open anxiously anticipating their meeting and the progression she hoped it would take thanks to the meticulous plan she had crafted from Max’s little idea. 

The door swung open, and to Rosaline's surprise, it wasn’t George on the other side. Instead, there stood a man slightly shorter than him, donning an awkwardly obvious half-bald, half-grey wig and a poor imitation of a Shakespearean costume—right down to the puffy breeches, tall white socks, and heeled black boots.

Rosaline blinked at him, momentarily speechless.

“Good morrow, fair maiden,” he announced in a theatrical tone that sounded oddly more Australian than British, despite his best efforts. With a sweeping bow, he bent at the waist, arm draped across his chest, completing the ridiculous image.

Rosaline didn’t know what to say, staring wide eyed at him.

“Daniel.”

Rosaline’s eyes flicked past the strange man to find George standing behind his desk, smoothie bottle in hand, an unimpressed expression on his face. 

“Please stop traumatizing my pupil.”

The unfamiliar man stood up straight again and turned to George with a playful huff and a finicky readjustment of his fake salt and pepper wig. Despite his feigned exasperation, his face housed a wide toothy grin framed by a tidy and very real salt and pepper beard. In a voice that was solely Australian and no longer housing that horrid attempt at an old-timey British accent, he chided his friend with a, “Ah, come on, mate. All in good fun.”

With a pointed glance in the direction of Daniel, George then turned to Rosaline and gestured her in with a calm smile, “Come on in, Miss Kent.” 

Rosaline—who had not anticipated someone else in the room and thus was incredibly caught off guard—shuffled past Daniel and took a few steps farther into the office. She naturally gravitated towards George with her folder clutched protectively to her chest.

“Is it the breeches?” Daniel looked down to the puffy pants he was wearing, pinching the excess material between thumb and forefinger and giving it a little ruffle, “Are they intimidating?”

“They’re ridiculous.” George corrected him smoothly with a peak of his brow, setting his smoothie bottle back on his desk, “Don’t you have a class to teach about now?”

Daniel lifted his arm up to check his watch, “Mm, I have a few minutes to spare but I should probably head out. I have things to set up still.”

“Alright. I’ll see you around, Danny.” George waved him off, lifting his smoothie bottle from his desk again.

Daniel pulled another dramatic bow, one pointed boot crossed behind the other and everything, “I will bid you both adieu.” 

And then he was straightening up with a beaming grin at his own hilarity and turning for the door.

“Close the door behind you, Shakespeare.” George called after him, his voice light and amused and only slightly exasperated. 

In silent agreement, the office door was shut but they could still hear Daniel’s boisterous laughter fading down the hallway, his loud voice greeting some other faculty as they passed by. George smiled to his desk and took a sip of smoothie before capping it and setting it back on his desk as he settled in his chair. 

Rosaline must have still looked a little dumbfounded and a little confused as George explained to her casually, “Daniel teaches History of the English Language. Apparently it’s his Shakespearean English lecture today…hence the ridiculous getup.” 

“I see.” Rosaline chuckled softly.

“But enough about him,” George folded his hands together on the top of his desk and looked up at her still standing on the other side. He gestured to her usual seat across from him, “shall we get started?”

He was so good at pretending nothing was going on; so easy to fall into the routine of professionalism in these meetings. Rosaline appreciated his dedication to his craft but, at the same time, as a woman, she yearned to see him outside of their Oxford bubble. Friday night was a taste of what it would be like. She wanted more. She had to somehow tell him that she wanted more. 

“Well,” she cleared her throat and looked down at the folder still clutched to her chest, “I actually brought a short piece of writing for you to review today, if that’s alright.”

“Oh, of course.” George agreed, leaning back from his desk to relax into his chair more comfortably and he held out his hand towards her to accept the pages. 

The smile he offered her as she passed over the thin stack made her heart skip. He rested back in his chair and opened the blue file folder to reveal the first page, always meticulously laid out in a proper MLA title page format with her name, date, and his name as recipient. Rosaline pulled over one of the chairs to sit beside him. He didn’t bat an eye; their closeness was familiar now. 

George turned to the next page, immediately put into the heart of the smut within the very first line. His eyebrows raised in surprise at the content but his eyes didn’t leave the page, finishing the first paragraph before glancing over at her with a sly smile.

“Someone’s been busy.” he noted playfully.

Rosaline merely shrugged, leaning towards him with a matching bashful smile, “I’ve just been feeling inspired…since Friday.” 

“Mmm.” George offered a half nod as he looked back to the open file folder in his hand to continue to read. Without tearing his eyes away from the narrative, he moved forward to rest the pages down on top of his desk. Rosaline moved with him, scooting her chair a little closer too. 

She just stared at his profile for a moment as he read, his chin in his hand, fingers resting against his lips, elbow balanced on the arm of his desk chair. His eyes flitted across the page in consistent strokes chalked full of concentration and, when he flipped the page to the next one, he continued right where he left off. Rosaline drifted her gaze from his handsome face to his angular jawline and, finally, down to the collar of his pressed button up shirt. He was wearing a tie that day—he didn’t often—and she caught herself staring at the way he hugged his thick neck snugly.

Max’s words echoed in the back of her mind: “He’s gonna want it.”

Rosaline leaned closer and, in a fit of bravery, pressed her lips to the line of his jaw in a soft kiss. She could feel his surprise intake of breath at her action—and maybe it was her imagination but she could have sworn he shivered a little too. 

“Rosaline.” George nearly purred, a small breathy chuckle laced in his tone.

“What?” she replied sweetly, pressing another kiss just under his ear. 

“Mm, are you trying to take advantage of me here?” he teased, dropping his hand to rest on her knee as he turned his head to look at her. 

The look in his eyes was intoxicating; full of desire. She leaned in again, this time to press a kiss to his lips. George reciprocated almost right away, pushing back against her kiss with need of his own, his hand moving to cradle her face. Their lips met and parted in practiced ease, the office welcoming the quiet sounds of their kisses, Rosaline growing more and more familiar and comfortable every time they found themselves in such a position.

“Okay,” George chuckled warmly after a few seconds, pausing just long enough between thoughts to kiss her once more, “that’s enough.”

Rosaline licked away her smile and watched him turn back to her writing still laying open on his desk. His hand lingered on her knee. 

Her eyes skimmed down his body as he sat beside her in his office chair, the crisp ironed material of his slacks hugging his thighs tight and almost pulled snugly over his groin, creased and drawing her eye in. The same thoughts from the previous day returned to her, thoughts of his body and what she knew he looked like beneath those classy and expensive clothes and, specifically, how much she wanted to get him out of them again. 

Without a word, she slowly slipped off her chair and sank to her knees on the floor in front of him, hidden slightly by the shadow of his desk. 

George’s eyebrows raised astronomically and he sat back from his desk in shock at her unanticipated move, “Rosaline.”

She smiled sweetly up at him, resting her hands on his thighs as she situated herself between them. 

“Rosaline, darling—” George stammered, a nervous laugh slipping from his lips as his eyes flicked over to his closed office door. But the feeling of her hand resting purposefully against the front of his slacks had him looking back down at her with a shaky warn, “Rose-”

Her palm rubbed slowly over the front of his pants, her eyes focused upwards at his face, asking an innocent, “What?”

George let out a heavy sigh through his nose, slouching back in his chair a little more as his eyes dropped to her hand. He didn’t answer her at first, as if he were torn between right and wrong for an uncountable time since they had solidified their agreement. But he didn’t need to say anything because Rosaline could feel him getting hard under her hand. She would never outwardly admit it but Max was so right.

Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip to bite back her smile as her fingers started working at the buckle of his belt, unpinning it and sliding the leather out. George didn’t protest, merely shifting his chair to get more comfortable and giving her room to do as she pleased. Rosaline watched carefully as she unbuttoned his slacks and tugged the little zipper down, rising up onto her knees a little more to see.

George tuttted as he lowered a hand from the edge of his desk to gently stroke her hair, “You want to explore a little more? Friday wasn’t enough for you?”

Rosaline’s gaze flicked up to his face with a bashful smile and a shake of her head, “No.”

“We shouldn’t do this here though, darling.” George reminded her in a breath that sounded entirely unconvincing, “Too many variables…”

Instead of being deterred by his warning, she tugged open his fly some more and then pulled down the front of his underwear. He didn’t make any move to stop her. With a careful hand, Rosaline reached in to carefully pull his dick out all the way, her gentle fingertips on the shaft feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her touch and the way he was stiffening up little by little. 

Her eyes—wide and wondering—were locked on him, her tongue darting out to dampen her lips. George stroked her hair again, his other hand resting aimlessly on his desk, his attention easily having moved from her short story to her the moment she dropped to her knees in front of him, hidden away salaciously under the shadow of his desk. Rosaline gently moved her fingertips up the length of his cock and back down. 

“Darling…” he exhaled, his body succumbing to her ghostly touch against his will. 

He stiffened up even more under her barely-there touches until he was entirely hard, his dick standing up from his body and pesteringly needy for more. With a strained huff, George shifted in his desk chair again, hips faintly rising off the seat barely a millimeter before reconfiguring. Rosaline watched his every movement in near awe. Then, in some sort of lust-stemmed bravery, encouraged by his lack of stopping her, she reached into his slacks again and gently lifted out his balls too. 

George let out some surprise noise that sounded like he tried to cover it up by a breath. His hand tangled into her hair just a little. His thumb caressed the base of her scalp and her eyelids fluttered at the feeling. With a hum, she slowly moved her fingertips over the length of his cock a few more times, barely touching him, before her hand drifted lower to graze over the flesh of his balls. Dotted in coarse brown hair, her fingers traced the shape of them, taking note of every shudder of his breath. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her every move. He wasn’t stopping her.

Rosaline shifted on her knees in front of him, leaning a little closer towards his lap. Her eyes never wavered from his cock right in front of her, angled out of his open slacks and so deliciously hard. Her heart was racing, feeling like the room was spinning with how badly she wanted this. With one more lick to her lips, she dropped her tongue out and ever so cautiously, pressed the tip of her tongue to the tip of his dick. 

George took in a sharp gasp in surprise, legs flinching slightly on either side of her, huffing out a strained, “Rose-”

The foreskin was still pulled over the soft pink tip, leaving only the slit of his cock peeking out the top. Her eyes were trained in on it, the thrill filling her veins, desperate to get more of a reaction out of him. She leaned down again, giving him another barely-there lap of her tongue over the thin protective flesh over his dick. 

“Holy shit, baby.” George exhaled, “Are you sure you want to—”

Rosaline leaned in again for another little lick, then another, and then dragged the flat of her tongue right over the slit in his cock before sitting back on her haunches again. She licked her lips, trying to taste the ever so faint salty taste of precum that her tongue had touched. It was not a lot—only the tiniest amount—but enough that she could taste something. It was thrilling. Her hands caressed his parted thighs over the fabric of his slacks, eyes trained in on his dick and balls pulled from his open fly. 

When she leaned back in tentatively for another little lick, his dick involuntarily twitched away from her mouth almost instinctively, as if her teasing had been far too much to bear. She glanced up at him in surprise but then they both shared light, breathy laughter. George’s hips flexed slightly as if chasing her touch.

With a cautious hand, Rosaline reached out to take his dick in a gentle but sure grasp so it couldn’t flinch away when she leaned in again to give it another testing lick. When she pulled back, a small string of spit connected her tongue to the tip and it broke almost as quickly as it was formed. George pet her hair again, comfortably lounged in his office chair and letting her explore as she pleased. It was their agreement, afterall. 

Rosaline started to gently move her hand downwards, carefully pulling back the thin foreskin away from the smooth head of his dick. She could feel her mouth watering at the sight of it, a pathetic ache growing inside her, an ever-present need to discover everything he had to offer. So she leaned in again, gingerly dragging her tongue along the underside of the head in another testing lick.

George pulled in a tight breath and his fingers tangled into the roots of her hair at the back of her head. When she glanced up at him after another little lick, she soared with pride at the sight of his long eyelashes fluttering over lust-blown eyes. His bottom lip was momentarily caught by his perfectly straight teeth as he stared down at her and when he released it, it was a slightly pinker shade that made him all the more alluring. 

Rosaline kept those sweet little kitten licks to the tip, just underneath, along the slit, until he was almost squirming in his chair. His hips discreetly pushed up against her hand, chasing more of the warm wetness of her tongue…her mouth. She knew he’d never push her for it and that everything she did was of her own free will even if his natural instinct to chase that pleasure was causing his body to move towards her. He was offering himself up to her. 

Her hand stroked him slowly, moving with the ease of his foreskin beneath her soft palm, and she spoke to him in an angelic voice, “Don’t you want to keep reading?”

George blinked at her for a moment, his eyes hazy, trying to recall what she was talking about for a moment. Then, his brain waves finally connected and he glanced over to the top of his desk where her short story was left open, his mouth forming a soft ‘o’. He cleared his throat, shifted a little, “Right, of course.”

As he focused his attention back on her salacious story she had written for him, Rosaline kept up the timid strokes of her hand and those incredibly taunting kitten licks. But, this distraction she offered him was enough to allow her a moment to gather her racing mind into a coherent thought. Finally, she leaned down towards his lap once more and wrapped her lips around the head of his cock. 

George flinched so hard in surprise he almost knocked his knee on the underside of his desk, gasping out a tight, “Jesus—”

Rosaline kept her lips around him, her eyes raising up to his just as he looked down at her with unmissable shock all over his face. The look in her eyes was so unintentionally innocent, staring up at him with his cock in her mouth like she had no idea what she was doing. On the contrary, she had written plenty enough to know exactly what she was doing. 

To hell with reading, George’s entire attention shifted down to her instead as his body slouched down a little more in his office chair to spread his legs wider to welcome her closer. Rosaline, with a watering mouth, leaned in and sank lower down his dick with her tongue gliding along the underside before pulling back just as slowly. Tentatively, testingly. The shudder of his breath had her heart soaring. 

She lowered her hands down to the hardwood floor to help steady herself as she let her mouth do the work, starting to find a cautious pace up and down along the length of his cock. George had one hand resting atop his desk and his other resting on the arm of his chair, clutching onto the leather as if to hold himself back from doing something to brash in the face of lust. She could feel his eyes on him and for a moment she kept hers closed as if meeting his gaze would be too much to bear in such a situation. 

“Ohh, my God, Rose—”

George’s thick voice was like heaven to her, forcing a moan from her throat to vibrate around the shaft of his dick where her lips were wrapped. His hand dropped from his desk to rake through her hair, pulling some of the strands away from her face to grasp back in his fist, sharing in her sounds of pleasure with a shaky groan of his own. 

Her eyes finally raised to his, her insides swirling with lust as she watched the pleasured expression on his handsome face; the heaviness of his lashes, the flush on his cheeks, the tightness of his jaw between panted breaths past swollen lips. As if by its own mind, her mouth moved faster, bobbing her head into his lap a little more insistently. 

George tightened his hand in her hair, staring down at her and the way her face was in his lap, his cock snug in the warm wet confines of her mouth. Her movements were fueled by physical inexperience, unfamiliar in the motions with just a bit of teeth getting in the way, but with an underlying knowledge of exactly what to do like she was doing it by the book. A clever girl, well read and well written in all the most salacious of texts. 

“That’s it, darling,” George all but purred, his voice as rich as velvet, hip hips ever so faintly bucking up towards her mouth, “Ohh, yeah, that’s it.”

Rosaline lifted a hand to rest on his leg, fingers pressing into the flesh of his thigh, while her other wrapped her thumb and forefinger around the base of his dick. She kept her eyes up his body and trained in on his face as she kept going, her mouth only growing wetter as she drooled around him and the lewd sound of every down-push of her mouth filled the air around them. 

“Look at you…” George exhaled, guiding her motions by his hand in his hair, “Beautiful girl on her knees…knowing just how to suck dick…don’t you, my delightful little contradiction?”

Rosaline’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment as the heat that burned within her sent an unbelievable ache right between her legs. She pulled off his dick with a small whine that she hadn’t even realized was brewing in her throat, spit trailing from her lips and connecting her to the head of his cock. Her eyes felt heavy, dreamy, her mind hazy and almost out-of-body. She licked her lips free of spit but only pursed them as George guided the head of his cock along her cupid’s bow, back and forth. 

She blinked up at him from her spot on her knees between his legs, opening her mouth and sticking out her tongue to let him rub his dick all over her. George groaned low in his chest, watching her just sit there and take it even as he smeared her spit and his pre-cum over her lips and cheeks.

“Look at you,” he repeated breathily, “such beautiful eyes behind those pretty glasses…fuck, I want to cum all over those glasses…cum all over your face.”

Rosaline audibly withered, clenching her thighs together on the floor in front of him, absolutely drunk on lust. She had never felt so erotically pathetic before; completely void of thoughts except just wanting his dick back in her mouth, to give him what he wanted, to make him come as much as he wanted. 

Before she could, however, a sharp knock sounded at the office door, followed by its immediate opening—too quick for George to react. Rosaline froze, still on her knees, mercifully shielded by the large walnut desk, her heart hammering. George barely had time to shove his chair forward, concealing the fact that his entire cock and balls were out of his pulled open trousers, before Daniel strode in, fully dressed in his Shakespeare costume, utterly unfazed.

“Hey, Georgie.” Daniel greeted him casually, the door closing behind him as he surveyed the room, seeing that it appeared George was now alone, “Sorry to bother you. You’re done with your meeting with your mentee already?”

George cleared his throat and tried to look as casual as he could as he shuffled the loose pages of Rosaline’s erotica across his desk to hide them back in the file folder, “Yep. Yeah, she’s not here.”

“Clearly.” Daniel snorted, traipsing closer to help himself to the single remaining chair across from his desk. He stated, “Fast meeting. You’re that good of a mentor, huh? Just in and out.”

With a snap of his fingers to finish his lighthearted point, Daniel let out a laugh.

George’s laugh sounded almost painfully strained but perhaps that was just because Rosaline knew he was hiding something. He was hiding her. In desperate need to help Daniel with whatever he wanted that made him just let himself into his office, George asked, “So what do you want?”

“Ah, nothing particular, mate. Just wanted to chat. My class loved my Shakespeare getup, by the way. Was a complete show-shopper, really.” 

“That’s great, Danny.” George replied, fiddling with his pen in his hand as if to make it look like he had been doing something important.

While Daniel went on about how his lecture had gone—entirely clueless as to what had been going on milliseconds before he barged in—Rosaline could see George’s leg bouncing restlessly under his desk from where she was frozen. She barely breathed, barely moved, still tucked half under the large desk right beside George’s chair. Her knees were starting to burn from how she was kneeling on the wood floors in one spot for so long, an uncomfortable ache radiating up into her thighs.

Moving as cautiously as she could, she set her hands behind her on the wood floor to shift off her knees and onto her bum. The old floorboards creaked under her movements. She froze and glanced up at George. He didn’t acknowledge her, simply shifting a little in his chair to play it off like it was him who caused the sound. Perhaps Daniel was too busy talking to even realize anyway. They couldn’t be too careful. 

When Daniel had finished his story about his class and George had responded with required pleasantries to make him feel heard, George followed it up with a, “Always lovely to chat, mate, but I am swamped right now.” 

He shuffled a few papers on his desk to sell it a little more, fiddling with his pen in his fingers. 

“Alright, I get it. How could I forget; you always put your work first before anything or anyone else.” Daniel sighed dramatically, although there was no real heat behind his tone. The old chair creaked slightly as he rose out of it. “Are we still on for tonight though? Drinks and the Bills game at mine?”

George let out almost a reluctant sigh.

Daniel jumped right in again, “You can’t cancel on me! You’re coming.”

“One of these days can we watch proper football?” 

“Mate, what are you on about? You can’t—” said Daniel, his voice nothing short of exasperated as he let out a huff, “We are not having this conversation again. Just come over, alright? 8pm.”

“Okay, yes, okay.” George relented.

“8pm!”

“8pm. Got it. Thanks so much.”

The office door closed with a click. George physically and audibly eased into a heavy sigh, his head dropping back against his chair for a moment, raising a hand to press against his heart. Rosaline shifted in place still hidden behind his desk, peering up at him from the grimey floor.

“Holy shit.” she breathed out in relief. 

“Okay, that was too close.” said George seriously, pushing the chair away from his desk a little so he could tuck his now pathetically soft dick back in his trousers and zip them up, “We can’t keep doing this on campus. The library was close enough but this?”

Rosaline’s racing heart and her veins filled with cortisol had her agreeing without argument from the floor.

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[yumeka-sxf]

Thoughts on Spy x Family: Family Portrait

I finally got around to reading the SxF light novel, Family Portrait...and I mean "finally" because it's literally been sitting in my shelf since it was first released in English back in December of last year! I was distracted by Code White and the SxF video game which came out around the same time, but even long after that, I was having trouble getting motivated to read it. For some reason, experiencing SxF in novel format instead of in anime/manga just didn't appeal to me, plus the fact that it's not written by Endo himself (these weird preferences of mine are also why I'm not into reading fanfics either). Don't get me wrong, in general I love reading stories in prose form too, but for a series like SxF that already has such an established visual identity, it doesn't feel as "authentic" to me if that makes any sense. But I did want to read it eventually, since it is an official part of SxF media and Endo did the illustrations and does acknowledge the book (he wrote a nice afterword at the end). So I finally sat down and read it in sections over the course of this week! I'll share my brief thoughts on each of the contained stories:

Novel Mission 1

Since this was the first story in the book, it took me a while to get used to experiencing the world of SxF in novel form. There were some things I felt would have been better conveyed in anime/manga, for example, one of the very first gags about Yor misinterpreting Anya's nature class as some sort of hardcore outdoor survival trip. As I was reading that part I was like "I get the joke, but it would have been funnier if I actually saw these images and the characters' expressions with Endo's comedic illustrations." It was also a bit jarring to hear the characters thoughts and feelings from third-person narration, but I got used to it. As for the story itself, it was Damianya focused, something I'm not particularly into, but I don't mind it either. I liked the rare, soft Damian moments, and the thing with the squirrel eating Anya's peanut trail was funny. I also liked the scene at the beginning where Loid and Yor feed Bond together while Anya watches.

Novel Mission 2

Oddly, this was my favorite of the stories! Of all the characters, I think the author nailed Yuri's unhinged thoughts the best - as I was reading, I couldn't help but hear every cringe thought in his voice, which is a good sign of how well the author gets the character! I actually chuckled at a few parts too, both from his insane Yor-obsessed and anti-Loid musings, as well as from his banter with Anya. The police interrogation scene was great and would be even better if it ever gets animated! I also found it interesting that this story has the first instance where we find out what Yuri thinks about Bond (that he's fat and useless - rude!) Also his first time hearing about Franky apparently...makes we wonder if Endo will make him feel the same way if these things ever come up in the manga.

Novel Mission 3

I liked this story a lot too! I think it worked the best in novel format out of all of them, probably because it was more focused on drama and emotions than comedy. It's ironic that the two official SxF stories that feature the deeper side of Franky's character - this one and the omake chapter from volume 13 - are both not even part of the main canon! Alessa would have definitely accepted Franky's job as an informant, but he felt that someone like her should only be surrounded by "beautiful things." The poor man really needs to see that inner beauty matters too, and he has that! I also think he should have swallowed his pride and told Loid the real reason why he wanted the disguise...not that it would have changed the outcome. Poor Franky.

Novel Mission 4

This was a cute Forger-focused story, but like the first one, I felt it had parts that would have been more effective in anime/manga form, for example, "hair monster" Yor and whatever hideous painting Felix ended up making! But despite that, it was still funny and cute. Though I do think the author went a tad overboard with Yor's flustered antics...they just kept going and going, lol. Also, like the movie, we have another scenario of Loid getting flung into the air by Yor but landing gracefully on his feet (though this instance was much tamer since she wasn't drunk and only pushed him instead of hit him). Again, maybe I would have appreciated the humor in this story better if I saw it in anime/manga with Endo's hilarious designs and expressions, but for what it was, it was enjoyable enough.

Short Novel

This extra short story would be perfect as a reintroduction story for a future anime season...maybe one day!

-----

Overall, the Family Portrait novel is a nice addition to the Spy x Family universe. Even though I feel the humor in the series is most effective in illustrated form, it's still nice to have more stories in the canon, especially ones that show new sides to the characters, like the Franky and Yuri stories. Like the movie, it's debatable if this novel should be considered true canon or not, but personally, I don't find anything in it that contradicts canon, at least not yet. So yeah, definitely check out the novel if you haven't already! 😁

[dioslesbianwife]

ur headcanons are BANGERSSSSSS as always!!!!

what about the jofoes with an artist partner who loves to draw them? :3c

THANK UUU, that means za warudo to me! (im sorry i had to). here are the headcannons and i hope you enjoy!

Dio

Absolutely adores being the subject of your art- after all, perfection should be immortalized.

"You're truly fortunate to have me as your muse," he remarks smugly, though there's genuine satisfaction in his voice.

He enjoys watching you work, lounging nearby with a book, occasionally glancing up to see the progress.

The first time you showed him a portrait of himself, his expression softened ever so slightly. "You’ve captured my magnificence perfectly."

He'd want to hang your work in prominent places in his house, not just as decoration but as a reminder to himself of how deeply you're captivated by him.

Kars

Finds your creative process fascinating, especially your ability to translate his form onto canvas or paper.

"Your mortal hands produce something so enduring," he muses, watching as you capture the sharp lines of his face.

He silently appreciates how meticulous you are in your craft, as precision is something he respects deeply.

If you ever painted something abstract inspired by him, he’d spend an unreasonable amount of time analyzing it, trying to find meaning.

He secretly treasures your work, though he’d probably not openly admit how much it moves and affects him.

Santana

Santana watches you work with silent curiosity, fascinated by how your hands translate his form onto paper.

"Why do you choose to do this?" he asks softly, not out of disdain but genuine wonder.

He remains completely still (to the point it almost looks like he’s turned to stone again), making it easy for you to capture his likeness.

When you show him the finished piece, he might give you a rare, soft smile. "It is... remarkable."

He keeps the artwork carefully, considering it a precious connection between your worlds.

Esidisi

Is patient when you ask him to sit for a portrait, though he’s prone to fidgeting and moving around.

"Is this how you want me to model? Should I look fiercer?" he teases, flexing his muscles dramatically.

Despite this, he’s genuinely touched that you find inspiration in him.

When he sees the finished piece, his eyes shine with warmth. "Ah, you've made me look even better than I imagined"

He'd proudly display your work, calling it a masterpiece whenever anyone asks. He sees you as nothing less than a professional when it comes to your art.

Wamuu

Wamuu sits perfectly still when you sketch or paint him, treating it like a show of a warrior’s discipline.

"Is this position acceptable?" he asks earnestly, willing to follow your every direction.

He admires your dedication, understanding the importance of honing one's craft.

When you reveal the final piece, he bows respectfully. "You honor me with your skill."

Wamuu keeps your artwork as a personal treasure, seeing it as a symbol of your bond. He’ll look at it whenever you’re not around as a reminder of your connection.

Kira

Kira is flattered but also nervous about being your subject. "You find... me worthy of your art?" he asks, a bit bewildered.

He watches you work with quiet fascination, appreciating your meticulous attention to detail.

"Your dedication reminds me of my own pursuits," he admits quietly.

He secretly cherishes the first portrait you made of him, keeping it hidden away where no one else can see it.

If you ever gifted him a sketch, he'd handle it with the same care as his beloved hand models. Speaking of, if you draw some hands for him, he’d treasure them forever.

Diavolo

Diavolo is suspicious at first- he wonders why you'd want to immortalize him in art.

"What do you see in me that's worth painting?" he asks, his voice low and guarded.

When he finally allows it, he watches you with an intensity that makes it hard to concentrate. Borderline glaring.

He’s quietly moved by the finished product, though he struggles to express his feelings. "You’ve captured more than I care to display."

He'd keep your work in a private space, away from anyone else's eyes. Your artworks of him are very private to him.

Doppio

Doppio is both thrilled and nervous when you ask to draw him. "Really? You want me to be your muse?"

He fidgets a lot while posing but does his best to stay still. "Am I doing okay?"

When you show him the finished piece, his eyes light up. "That's amazing, I didn’t think I could look so nice."

He keeps your sketches tucked away carefully, glancing at them whenever he needs a confidence boost.

"Boss will love this too," he mutters to himself proudly.

Enrico Pucci

Pucci is intrigued by your devotion to art and how you see him as worthy of being captured on canvas.

"God grants us gifts, and yours is remarkable," he says thoughtfully.

He sits still with a serene expression, making it easy for you to work.

When you present the final piece, he smiles faintly. "You have seen something within me that I scarcely recognize myself."

He considers your art sacred and would never let harm come to it.

Funny Valentine

Valentine is genuinely honored by your desire to paint or draw him. "It is a privilege to be your muse," he says sincerely.

He sits patiently, regal and composed, appreciating the care you take in your work.

"You have captured not only my likeness but my very spirit," he praises when he sees the finished piece.

He ensures your art is framed and displayed prominently, calling it a display of your talent.

"Your devotion to your craft is as admirable as your heart." (he might even have you do his presidential portrait if you want).

Diego Brando

Diego is immediately intrigued by the idea of being your subject. "Well, of course you'd want to paint me. I’m practically perfect."

He enjoys the attention, posing dramatically just to mess with you.

"Make sure you get my jawline right," he teases with a smirk.

When he sees the finished piece, his arrogance falters. "You really captured me."

He keeps your work proudly, seeing it as proof of your admiration for him.

Tooru

Tooru grins when you tell him you want to paint him. "Wow, I must be pretty special to you?"

He flirts half the time you're working, making it hard to concentrate. "You sure you don’t want me to take my shirt off? For artistic accuracy?"

While you’re painting he’s making you listen to music from his playlist. Hope you like Elvis.

"This is amazing," he says softly when he sees the final product. "No one’s ever done something like this for me before."

He keeps the painting or drawing safe, showing it off to anyone who'll listen.

[dearmrsawyer]

no year in review because it was all horrible really so instead i'm gonna take this chance to share a pile of incredible soc fics because they gave me somewhere else to be

these are all amazing stories and they made me feel a variety of things, and i've been compelled to return to all of them more than once. there are honestly more but this was getting very long. all fic authors thank you so much for putting such beautiful things out into the world ✨

To Everything There Is A Season by @basicbard, @ace-kaz-brekker

When times on the farm get tough, Jesper decides to make use of the old temple in the woods. Almost coincidentally, he meets a strange boy in the same woods shortly after. Are his prayers truly being answered? And why does the stranger seem to know so much?

Incredibly incredibly lovely little mythical fic that i am so enchanted by, this is a type of story that i'm always looking for and when someone who shares your interest happens to create it that is a gift from god, frankly

out of the forest (into a home) by stillthestars

Wylan is adrift in the city; Jesper and the rest of the Crows take him in. Daemon AU.

I have read this fic so many times, every couple of months at least, and the comments are turned off so i can never tell the author how much I love what they've created and i literally lie awake at night haunted by this (i do mean literally).

A Shot in the Dark by alex_kade

The Crows are on a treasure hunt, but when Wylan gets seriously injured the mission becomes one of saving their friend. OR yet another fic where Wylan is the bravest of brave little toasters.

The first in my love affair with fics where Wylan gets shot lol. "bravest of brave little toasters" lives in my head rent free always.

A Measure of the Sum of Parts by @kindness-ricochets

Wylan is trying to improve Kerch and Jesper is trying to be happy with his life. After an accident he heads for the Little Palace to learn how to control his abilities, and Wylan uncovers yet another dark family secret. Reunions in Ravka, political machinations, and the beauty of a strange little family.

The other fic i am biologically compelled to reread every couple of months. So so many fics by this author touch me, but this one is seriously everything to me.

Musée des Beaux Arts by @oneofthewednesdays

Six portraits of life and death in Ketterdam featuring the interwoven stories of Wylan Van Eck and Kaz Brekker.

One of the best fics i've ever read in any fandom, an utterly perfect character analysis fic about the Wylan/Kaz parallels

the handmaid by MaudeAlise

It’s a relatively straightforward job: Jesper will pretend to be the handmaid to the withdrawn and sheltered Van Eck heir, and convince him to elope with another mercher. That’s all Jesper has to do on his end, and then the Crows will walk away with 45 million kruge. It’s a simple task. Or it would be, if not for the fact that there seems to be more to Wylan Van Eck than meets the eye, and Jesper can’t help but be intrigued—and maybe a bit charmed, too.

Me reading this fic channeling whatever energy those instagram romantasy readers possess, like ok i get the feeling you guys are trying to express i really get it now. what on earth could be better than Jesper employed to be Wylan's handmaid. maybe nothing? SO compelling

under a merciless white light by @feelinglikecleopatra

Jesper decides to grow out his hair.

one of the most moving fics i've ever read ever, idek how to express it

Love is War (And War is Hell) by @silverbirching

Jesper and Wylan face their biggest challenge as a couple to date: dealing with a houseguest. (and that houseguest has done war crimes)

WIP. Nothing could've prepared me for how completely smitten I would be with the concept of Jesper and Wylan taking care of a wounded Ivan. Like i'm head over heels for this fic, its hilarious and sweet and emotional, it is just way too delightful, i can't handle it

Flight of the Butterfly / Symbiosis by @jazzythursday

travel time between Shu Han and Ravka. Jesper wanders onto the deck of the Hummingbird at night, restless and looking for… something, and finds Wylan instead. Conversations about sensitive topics ensue, and even Crows need sleep.

my fav missing scene fic inspired by SAB!!!! I was DESPERATE for more time on that ship and this fic gave me everything i wanted. the characterisation in this fic is flawless

If you hold me without hurting me, you'll be the first who ever did by gglow

Jesper and Wylan's first times at the Van Eck mansion, because we all need closure.

i can't get enough of fics set immediately after CK exploring how Wylan and Jesper settle into the mansion, this might be my favourite one i've read, its just so tender

somewhere full of bright colours and beautiful sounds by @jackwolfes

A Marya Hendriks Van Eck character study, aka Marya adjusts to life back in Ketterdam.

So many fics by this author, but i think about this fic all of the time. Its the fic i've always wanted and its everything i could've hoped for.

We're Gonna Need a Bigger Pentagram by @emmy-everafter

Nina Zenik is a vet med student who's almost done with her clinical rotations… but she's also secretly a very powerful witch. When someone brings a cursed, injured werewolf into the animal hospital, Nina decides to try to save his life, despite the bitter hatred that exists between wolves and witches. She enlists the help of her housemates, Jesper (who's also a witch), Inej (who's fae), and Kaz (who may or may not be a vampire). But breaking this curse requires more than Nina bargained for, and time is running out. Can the Crows save the werewolf before it's too late? More importantly, can they do it under the nose of their all-too-human housemate, Wylan? And--perhaps the most important question of all--will Nina finally get some decent waffles?

PURE joy, just made me so happy??? extremely delightful, fun, also super touching. Just so so so rich. One of my fav AUs, making all the crows a different creature and then putting them in a house together, A+.

To Live in Color by @sixofcrowdaydreams

As a child Wylan Van Eck was told by his father that domestic labor is all he will ever accomplish since he cannot read. He’s grown up cleaning his own family’s home. It’s not easy work, but it’s gotten easier over the years. If only he wasn’t so lonely. But now that his father has remarried and a has a new heir on the way, Wylan has the suspicion that he won’t be kept around much longer, even to clean. So for once in Wylan’s life, he decides to live for himself. Just this once. He’ll attend the King’s Masquerade Ball whether his father wants him there or not. However, his plan the night of the masquerade goes sideways when he meets a handsome sharpshooter and the criminal crew he runs with carrying out a heist at the palace. Wesper Cinderella AU

one of those perfect storm fics where not only is the writing wonderful, the characterisation on point, but the story itself is just SO engrossing. this was heartbreaking and uplifting

The In-Between by @sparrowmoth

Born into a world where a highly stigmatized and exploited series of genetic mutations can completely strip you of your humanity, Wylan has known since childhood that something was different about him. The same something different that is said to have killed his mother. Now, abandoned by his father, and his world shrunk to a cage, he must decide if to accept his fate or risk everything to change it.

WIP. The.... worldbuilding..... magnifique. this fic has me exclaiming GOD at least once a chapter lol. I haven't read many hybrid fics in my time but i fear i am now spoiled and no one can live up to this

Crows of the Saintly Days by Allthebestpeopleare

A very chaotic Inej, Nina and Jesper go to Ketterdam University. Things start to get interesting when Nina catches the eye of a cute jock in psych class, a very shy and sweet Wylan stumbles into their friend group, and a past associate of Inej's makes more and more appearances.

Prob the longest fic i've ever read, but genuinely would not sacrifice a single word. Weaves textfic and prose, and altho imo textfic can be kinda vapid/ooc what starts out as v light fun spirals into a wonderfully well developed story that really deeply moved me, and i loved the style!

Blood in the Water by hopeisbloody

Kaz Brekker runs the Barrel, his Wraith, and his Sharpshooter at either side for eternity. Jesper Fahey, ten years into his immortality, still a fledgling at heart, feels lost, alone, empty. Kaz and Inej have each other, and they have had each other for centuries. Even in their inner circle, he’s excluded from the millennia of memories they share. Their rule is disrupted. Bodies appear, drowned, drained of blood. Wylan is back, but what for?

This is one of the coolest Wylan characterisations i've ever read, such an incredibly engrossing story, I literally could not stop reading

We Keep This Dream Together by @magicandpizza

An entirely self-indulgent, vaguely chaotic, mostly sweet Six of Crows coffee shop/university AU, based (largely) on my experiences of the UK university system. Mostly focused on Wesper, but with sides of Helnik and Kanej too.

The most comfort fic ever, its not technically a Christmas fic (altho it does appear in a chapter) but feels like a Christmas fic to me because it makes me feel a sense of warmth and comfort that time of year embodies

a path to normal by seimaisin

Home is a difficult concept for Wylan and his mother. Jesper makes it easier.

so delicate and lovely, another fic set in the direct aftermath of CK focused on Marya returning home, which i can never get enough of <3333

In a Full Life, All Hearts Break a Little by alcove_words

Two years after the end of Crooked Kingdom, Jesper finally visits Novyi Zem and the father and life he left behind. But he isn't alone; Wylan comes, as well, determined to be supportive. Neither of them expects it to be an easy trip, but Novyi Zem holds more for both of them than they are prepared for.

Selling my soul for all fics set in Novyi Zem, but this one...... so SO beautiful. So conversation-based but full of story, so BIG hearted, such unbelievably beautiful writing.

Of Bronze and Blaze by amagicbeyond

This is a Wesper-centric reimagining of Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdom, through the lens of the Shadow and Bones TV canon.

WIP. Oh my god????? Oh... my god. I don't even have words for this one, its just unbelievable

[the-kr8tor]

Katy…. For the 1 year anniversary

Garlic cloves and 💧

Vampire hobie and some angst

Vampire hobie and a human where other vampires find out hes in love with a human (maybe they cause him to purposely goes mad, to where he will attack and be the cause for rs death. Possibly?)

Then when he snaps out of it, he realize what hes done. To the person he fell in love with (can totally see him trying to make R into a vampire while sobbing choking out apologies while trying to get them back) 😭

I dont know i thought youd like this possibly, you have full control over the ending or how anything goes or could go. Some of its just a small ideas to give your brain maybe to help give you ideas for how you want to go. But i know you love angst and you are amazing at it

First thing i requested for your Apothecary. Do whatever you want with this idea. Just knew itd give a lot of angst potential for our favorite punk

Hehehhehe vampire! Hobie angst 👀 thank you for requesting, bestie!!

Pairing: Vampire! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except her clothing), TW death, CW blood and gore, CW violence, vampire AU, Angst.

Katy's one year celebration 🎉

Blood coats his tongue like a thin film of gore and death. It sticks to his fangs, red dripping off his unhinged maw where his fellow immortals’ crimson flows out like your own blood spilling from the numerous bites marring your precious skin. Skin he used to hold and love, skin that is now littered with specks of rubies as if a constellation of stars has touched you in your dying breath.

He heaves in place, adrenaline coursing through his veins like the raging rapids. Sharp claws still red and dripping, rage filled eyes roaming around the violence he did not start but had to finish.

Hobie never thought that he'd be betrayed by his immortal kind that he has spent centuries with. Vampires they used to call friends, even family. He never thought that being called upon by a trusted friend would result in you lying in your own pool of blood in the same house he left you, in the same dress he last saw you in, in the same floors he danced on with you holding on to him as he glides you around the home he once built for you.

Home, it doesn't look like it now. The oak walls that you've painstakingly painted that resemble tree branches stretching across the abode like a warm embrace are now coated in every shade of red. Numerous portraits of your life with him now lay scattered by his feet, glass crunching under his footsteps like dry autumn leaves. The pretty candles that you always light on the same hour every night are nothing but wax melted upon the ashen skin of fellow vampires. His hands are coated in the same ashes, grey amidst dark red, dark red among his skin, skin that he thought he has washed away from a millennia of sin— skin that he thought was worthy of your sacred touch.

As he walks closer to your limp body, his eyes bore into the river of red left in your wake. His expression is akin to an empty, apocalyptic look— dangerous, yet, a tragedy lies underneath his wine red eyes. He's starting to hate his eyes now that you lay in a pool of the same colour. You used to tell him that his eyes were like the purest of crimson, similar to a stirling ruby no king or emperor could ever possess. With your words he vowed to keep you close to him until your skin has etched into his own, until his own ribs rip apart to embrace you and take you into his very being. Now that he gingerly holds you close to his chest, he should've done that to protect you better, now it's too late as you gasp, fending off death itself from taking your soul before you could say goodbye.

Your eyes no longer show the light he once admired, light akin to the sun that would burn and turn him into ash— but he could not stop looking at them, even if it could possibly be his demise, because it'll be worth it to feel the righteous sun kiss his skin once again.

“‘m sorry,” Hobie cried as his tears from his own blood dripped down across your cold cheeks. “I can still fix this.” With a shaky inhale, he feels mortal when your freezing hand taps his long dead heart. You don't speak nor blink at him. He wishes you could but with your life seeping out of you, it's impossible for you to do so. He feels it, how your life is being drained from the numerous bites along your body. He also wishes he doesn't feel you slip away. “Please, l–let me bring you back.”

With your last strength, you curl your lips to a soft, weak smile. Hand weakly gripping his shirt, mouth mouthing the words— “not your fault.”

Hobie chokes on a sob, shaking his head, he cannot, will not let you go. You're the only person who truly knows him, the only person who has seen the real him that he hasn't shown to anyone since he was turned. He loves you, and he'll continue to love you until his dying breath, whenever that may be. Ten years from now, twenty, a hundred— he'd love you until he steps out of the shadows and back into the light of the sun that reminds him of your eyes.

He feels your heart slow down, the blood rushing out of your veins are like drums in his ears. Opening his jaw, fangs in full show, you let out your very last mortal breath.

But he's too late, you have no blood left, drained until the last drop. No spark of life left to be brought back to earth with. Without a flicker of light, there's no embers to set fire to. Yet, he still tries in despair. Teeth sinking into you, a hungry bear to a corpse of a rabbit, he bites and sips into nothingness. Not even a glimmer, a hope lighting a fire in you brought by the kiss of death— nothing, absolutely nothing can bring you back to life. He cries, sobs wracking his body, a hurricane of emotions flooding through him that he has never felt in his immortal life until now.

Calling your name, he cradles your cold body, hand behind your head, lips upon your neck. He doesn't bite this time, he knows better. But if it does work, will you hate him for it?

The door creaks open, a familiar face he just saw a few hours ago enters the sheer violence Hobie left in his vengeance. His face contorts into sorrow but it quickly turns contorts to disappointment.

“You should've listened.” He utters, mouth dripping with venomous words. “Was she worth it? Breaking our law?”

Hobie slowly glances at the man without leaving your side. His once pure ruby eyes have turned into a flurry of bright red fury. “She was.” His claws dig into your lifeless body, lips shaking from sheer anger.

“I still cannot understand you.” He scoffs, “and you even tried to turn her. You're a fucking disgrace.”

Hobie slowly brings you back down, carefully laying you and closing your lifeless eyes. He looks at the man, someone he used to call a friend, someone he once trusted. Vampire blood and ash coats his very being, staining his soul, but they don't compare to your blood on his hands.

“Then I'll make you understand.” With a pounce, Hobie will drench his hands in more ichor until it's enough for him.

[stellarnightstalk]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐕𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐀 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞!

pt. 1

I think I took a little too long to upload

The smell of ink and paper enters your nostrils, the balled-up sheets scattered around your mattress as you keep writing in your journal, or, her journal.

To cure the boredom you've been attempting to write down ideas to get him to divorce you, but always end up with scribbled pages or the paper balls you have around you. You placed the bottom of the fountain pen on your pursed lips in thought, and started writing.

Idea number 14: Beg him so much to divorce you to the point he just feels pity and accepts.

Idea number 15: Murder him and keep the insurance mo— “Yeah, no.” You tear the page apart and crumple it into a ball. Standing up from the mattress, you walk to the fireplace that you have installed in your bedroom and toss the paper ball into the blaze. "Can't risk being framed for something I only thought of doing."

Two weeks have passed since the conversation you had with Cedric. The king's daughter had already made herself comfortable in the estate about a week ago. Ever since then, you've made it your mission to avoid any problems between the two protagonists.

But, in addition to the heroine living with you, ever since you asked for a divorce, he has taken the liberty of “not neglecting you” and has attempted to arrange that every single day the both of you meet up in the garden for some quality tea time. An hour, every day. Which made the whole situation more difficult than it had to be. So naturally you refused him, which in return made him bring you expensive jewelry and dresses every day, the room was practically piling up.

You felt yourself trip on a diamond necklace that you had forgotten you had thrown on the floor and you fell head first on the cold ground with a yelp. Speak of the devil. Standing up from the floor, you grabbed onto your forehead and hissed, “Shit, that burns.” You glared at the necklace below your feet, angrily clutching the expensive item and stomping toward a window. You unlocked it, flinging it across who knows where. “Stop sending me gifts that aren’t money!”

“Gah!” A startled yelp echoed. Peering outside, you caught a glimpse of a messenger boy rubbing the back of his head, then you quickly closed the window. “Oops,” It probably didn't hurt that much. You made your way to the bed and retrieved the journal, flipping to the very first page. There revealed handwriting that clearly wasn't yours, the cursive letters written neatly and precise, with each letter flowing smoothly into the next. The villainess used to write a lot in this journal, seems like she didn't have anyone to speak to. It’s mostly just angry banter, as you'd expect from a villainess.

A piece of paper peeked out from one of the pages, out of curiosity you pulled it out and were met with a small portrait of the villainess. She looked young, probably in her teens. Her face was serious, expressing how she obviously didn't want to be there. Quite adorable. You flipped the tiny image, checking if there was a date on the backside. Instead, there was writing.

You still hold the same expression to this day. Don't forget to write letters, I'm here if you ever need me. - With Love, I.A

"IA? What kind of code name is that?" If you remember correctly, the villainess never had any friends, so whoever wrote this letter is beyond your knowledge. Could this be a background character? It doesn't seem that important if he was acquainted with the villainess. But the words stuck with you—could you ask this person for help? They did say they're here if you ever need them. But you don't even know who they are. Did the villainess trust this stranger?

Someone knocked on your door gently. “Your Grace?” You quickly hid the journal under the bed, grabbing all the paper balls in your arms and throwing them into the furnace to dispose of them fast. Out of breath, you sat on the bed, “Um… Your Grace?” The person repeated and you cleared your throat. “Come in.” You straightened your posture, as if you had just woke up.

The door gently opened, revealing a young maid. She bowed, her light brown bangs were covering her eyes. You hadn’t been in this place for long, but you think you knew all the people that worked here. She was new, you were sure of it. But why does she look so familiar?

“Good evening, Your Grace. The Duke has sent me after you for tea time,” she said with a slight tremble. Gosh, of course. “Tell him I won’t be there.” You stood up, striding to a luxurious vanity next to your bed, you looked at the mirror and touched your face. You never get used to the face. Changing your stare to the maid you noticed her narrowing her eyes from your gaze. You raised an eyebrow, “I'm sure that won't be a problem.” She gripped the handle, “Well, um, the thing is—”

She opened the door completely, revealing a variety of boxes stacked on top of each other. “He instructed me that if you disagreed, to hand over all of these.” You deadpanned. Of course, he’d do the same shit. “Should I… Bring it in?” She asked nervously but you raised a hand, rubbing your temple with the other. “No, there’s no need.” You sighed, getting to your feet and walking towards her, “Take me to my husband.” You mentally cringed at your words. “Of course, Your Grace!” She made her way around the boxes and placed her hands in front of her, accompanying you to Cedric, but you couldn't shake off the feeling that you recognized her.

“I have a question for you,” you started, making her slightly flinch at your words, ”What is your question, Your Grace?” She gulped, it looked like she was nervous. You're sure by that reaction that the rumors of the villainess had reached her ears, they all enjoy gossiping. “What is your name?”

“My name?” She tilted her head, confused by the sudden question but then she shook her head, terrified once more. “Apologies. My name is Edith,” She managed to stutter out.

Edith? That was the name of the villainess's most loyal maid. You examined her from top to bottom, earning a gulp from her. She was nothing like the novel described, she was squirmish and timid, while in the novel she was serious and brazen, which was the reason the villainess was interested in her. No wonder you didn't recognize her, she's a completely different character. But how?

“Which residence did you come from?” You decided to keep prying her with questions, if she was the villainess's most loyal servant you’d like to get her on your side. The correct answer on her part is that she came from a residence that the Duke conquered and that she was practically born to be a servant her whole life.

“I came with Her Highness, Your Grace.”

What? No, she didn't. You've read that novel like five times you practically have all the details memorized. There's no way in hell that she came with the princess, she still has the rights of a commoner. Since she hasn't been crowned, she didn't come with maids, she got appointed them after. Did you forget? Are you slowly losing your old memories, including the novel?

You bit your nails anxiously. One thing is for the course of the plot to be changed because of your actions since you reincarnated, but the land the Duke conquered was long before you came here. You couldn't have changed it because you weren't even there to alter it, it should have been like the story described it to be.

“Are you… Sure?” She looked at you perplexed, the question was dumb, and you knew that, but maybe she heard you wrong. “Um, yes, Your Grace.” Her voice cracked, so she cleared her throat, “I'm positive I came with the princess, I was with her in the carriage on her way here.” You shouldn't have been!

“You two must be close for you to ride in the same carriage as her.” Deny, deny! You thought, instead she looked away sheepishly. “Well, me and Ann— I mean, the princess and I have been close since childhood.” Childhood? You don't have a childhood! Edith was born into work and didn't have time for friends, which was why she kept to herself.

This situation was worse than you had anticipated. Edith was a significant asset to the villainess, and you needed her to be by your side. You opened your mouth to speak, but stopped when you realized that you had arrived at your destination. The place you were in was a greenhouse that belonged to the Duke. It was beautiful from the outside, and you wouldn't be surprised if it was just as stunning on the inside. Cedric always spent his time here; it was his safe place, but he never let the villainess enter. What had changed now?

Edith opened the gates of the greenhouse and went inside, you followed suit, taking in the view. The flowers looked beautiful, it was apparent that they were being taken care of very well. As you looked around your eyes were met with Cedric, his signature serious expression on his face made you sigh in response. It looks like he didn't notice you were here yet.

“Duke Ironheart, the Duchess has arrived.” Said Edith, bowing with a slight tremble. His head turned to you quickly, you swore you heard a slight crack when he did. Cedric cleared his throat before speaking, “Good, you may leave us be. Stand outside with the others.” He said to Edith, which she in return quickly nodded and walked at a fast pace outside the greenhouse.

Before you could say anything, he spoke up, extending his hand at the chair in front of him. “Have a seat.”

You gulped in an attempt to get rid of an anxious lump. “Right, of course.”

——➻

Grabbing the teacup in front of you, you sipped it carefully. As you did, an overwhelming taste of bitterness invaded your mouth, making you cough at the unexpected flavor as you placed the teacup down.

“This tea,” You began, clearing your throat, “is it a new blend? I've never tried it.” You looked at the male in front of you. “Is it not to your liking?”Cedric spoke.

“It’s a bit bitter but nothing I can’t handle.” You replied to the man, grabbing the teacup to sip from it once more. He stared at you and suddenly clasped the top of your teacup, slightly bumping his gloved knuckles into your nose. The hell?

“I reckoned you liked this kind of tea.” He took the tea from you and sipped it himself. His eye twitched. “My mistake. It appears that it is too bitter for the intended taste.” He glared beside him, making the maids flinch and look the other way, then he looked back at you. “Do not force yourself to drink something you dislike. Throw a tantrum as you did, or anything.” He declared sternly, which made it seem like he was ordering you to do it. He says that so easily but whenever the villainess threw tantrums he’d always put her on probation or give her the silent treatment.

“Take the tea away, fetch something less bitter.” He said to the maids without a look, pointing at your cups. They took it, eagerly nodding and going their merry way. You watched them leave the garden with a sigh, “Your Grace, I was just fine with the previous tea.” Your words came out with a twinge of irritation, he simply crossed his arms.

“You don't address me by my name anymore.” He said, changing the subject. “Is that a problem?” You feign innocence, tilting your head to display your confusion. A hum could be heard from him due to your response, making you shift uncomfortably in your seat. The exchange ended there.

As you both sat beneath the shade of a weeping willow, the space between you two was now crammed with an uncomfortable silence. You tapped your finger on the table anxiously, looking towards the flowers on your left. Does the duke have a staring problem? You've been sensing his gaze ever since the maids left as if he's analyzing your soul or something.

"The flowers are in full bloom," you said, just to break the uncomfortable stillness. “It looks quite beautiful.” He hummed at your words, "You've noticed," he said with a subtle smile, which surprised you. "How could I not?" you chuckled, stopping when you felt his piercing gaze once more. "You weren't one to notice these kinds of things." Damn, you forgot about that. "I suppose I'm catching a glimpse of the more beautiful things in life." He gazed at the flowers and then at you. He stayed like that for a few seconds. "I suppose I am too," Cedric responded and you gave him an awkward smile, and once more, there was now uneasy silence.

As you glanced sideways, a cluster of vibrant daffodils caught your attention. You weren't lying when you said that the sight of the flowers was beautiful, especially against the environment of spring.

“The King is planning to hold a grand ball,” Cedric spoke up, choosing to break the silence, which came across as out of character for him. “Is that so?” You answered back with a hum, crossing your legs. “You will attend, of course. It would be unseemly for the Duchess to absent herself from such an important event.”

Right, the villainess was known for skipping out on balls that she thought held no interest for her. And when she did go, she’d always somehow be the center of attention, in considerably nasty ways.

Now that you recall, in the novel, the princess was exceptionally skilled and was able to learn etiquette at a fast pace, but since she was raised as a commoner she didn't know how to read or write, which caused her to stay for longer. Thus Cedric stepped in to help her, and she was able to learn quickly as well, which caught his attention more and made him develop deeper feelings of curiosity. Since the kingdom did not know yet of the princess's existence he decided to organize a ball to introduce his heir to the throne, which would also be her coming-of-age ceremony.

“Is there a specific reason for the decision?” You questioned him, seeking closure if your suspicions were correct. Your eagerness to continue the conversation appears to please him.

“The Princess has learned sufficiently.” He explained, earning a look from you, intrigued. He held a subtle smile when you did. “His Majesty has made the decision to ultimately make it known of his heir, it is also the Princess’s coming of age as well. He has sent us an invitation to attend.” So you were right. When he concluded his words, he handed you the invitation, which you snatched quickly. It held a golden lion engraved on its side, confirmation that it was sent from the royal household.

The grand ball exists as a monumental scene from the novel, that’s where the villainess tosses wine on the princess’s gown because Cedric asked her to dance instead of the villainess. When questioned, she cried out that the princess was a harlot who sought to steal her husband. Which resulted in Cedric lashing out at the villainess and taking the teary-eyed heroine to the royal garden. This is where they have a moment to exchange their feelings in silence, when the cold-hearted duke finally learns to trust another.

“When is it taking place?” You questioned, switching your stare from the invitation to him, placing the envelope on the table. “In three days.” He simply said, resting his cheek on his hand.

Your eyes widened, In three days? It’s only been a week. In that time the princess hasn't even learned how to read, let alone write. Cedric noticed your reluctance to speak, “Is that a problem?” He questioned, raising an eyebrow. “No, not at all. Just a bit surprised is all.” “Why so surprised?” Why so many questions? You mentally scowled. “It’s only been a week since the princess has been staying in the dukedom, yet she's already leaving.”

It’s just too sudden, you don't think you're mentally prepared. Maybe you could call in sick? Knowing Cedric he’ll probably call a thousand physicians and when he finds out you were lying he’ll put you on probation in the same ways he did to the villainess, or even worse, execute you for daring to disrespect him.

“I am the one who recommended the king to do it as momentarily as possible.” So you can cut off my head sooner?! “May I ask why you suggested that?” You asked sincerely, holding the ball in two days means that the princess will leave earlier than intended. That's not supposed to happen.

Some really important scenes were supposed to happen before the ball. The random count who was trying to court the female lead hasn't been introduced, which means he hasn't had confusing feelings of jealousy yet. That's why he asked the princess for a dance at the ball instead of the villainess. Or the slip-and-catch trope where she slipped while walking and landed on his massive chest creating unresolved tension for 3 whole pages.

Could it be that the plot is moving on faster than intended? Or not even happening at all?

He gazed at you with a blank stare for a moment without uttering a word. His expression became murky as he crossed his arms and leaned his head back onto the chair. “No particular reason.”

“Why? Are you jealous?” He questioned with a tilt of his head, his gaze boring into you. You deadpanned.

"What? No, of course not. Why would I be?" you replied bluntly. “It brings me joy that the princess has been able to learn quickly actually.” You smiled, “She must be a very clever lady.” Too clever, can't she slow it down a bit? You're trying to get you both a happy ending.

“You haven't met her, yet you are here praising her.” The furrowed eyebrows he had caught your attention. “Is there a problem with me complimenting the princess?” In the novel, Cedric is a very jealous man. But does he really feel jealous of another woman complimenting the female lead too? Weirdo.

“No, forget I said anything.” Gladly. And for the third time, again, silence. But it was for the better, you didn't want to speak for longer than you had to. This conversation was long enough for you to ignore him for about two weeks, it's draining to speak in such a royal matter, you always confuse your words.

But it made you anxious, the silence. Almost like he was scheming something, planning your execution right in front of you without your knowledge. What you would give just to have a look inside his mind, to know what he's pondering. Couldn't the villainess have powers? They debuffed her character just for the protagonist's plot armor.

Cedric was about to speak, but he was interrupted by the opening gates of the garden, which you assumed were the maids bringing out the newly brewed tea. "Thank you for the tea," You declared, making yourself more comfortable in the seat. "You're free to excuse yourself." You added, then changed your gaze to look at the person in front of you.

“Your Grace,” the maid bowed, her voice trembling slightly, a tray of tea resting in her hands. “Princess Annabeth has arrived. She has brewed you both some tea.”

Your eyes widened at the sight before you, the lady in front of you was in fact, a maid as you thought it had been, but she was accompanied by another. “Your Highness.” Spoke out Cedric, his stare now fully concentrated on the girl. “Good evening, Your Grace.” The young girl said with a radiant smile, the dimples on her cheek in full view. Her golden curls lay neatly on her face, confirming that she was the king's daughter since blonde hair was a sign of royal blood. Her emerald eyes looked directly at Cedric, and your eyes looked directly at her. The descriptions of her beauty in the novel were not exaggerated in the slightest.

Thump.

Grabbing onto your chest, you suddenly felt a familiar pang of jealousy. It was the same jealousy she had felt in the novel, shit. This must be the villainess's body reacting to her presence. You took a deep breath and tried to control yourself. This body had reactions that you couldn't control at all, when you reincarnated it didn't just come with her looks, it came with everything intact. Causing you to have out-of-control emotions, her emotions. This could be difficult to manage.

The female lead, Annabeth, was right in front of you, her hands behind her back. She looked like a young teenager, which made you remember that in the story she had just turned 18.

"I appreciate your help, Belda. You may excuse yourself," Annabeth said to the maid, whom you now know as Belda. “Of course.” She nodded, placing the tray on the table. Then made her way out of the room, closing the door with a bang, leaving the three of you alone. Cedric spoke up, not wasting a moment of silence.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were practicing your writing, as I had told you to do.” his words made Annabeth chuckle. You saw her tuck a curl behind her ear, placing her hands behind her back. “It’s my break time from practicing so that I can regain my focus,” She paused, slightly glancing at you. “In the meantime, I wanted for you two to try my new blend of tea.” She admitted, shifting her gaze from you to Cedric. Her eyes widened.

“I’m sorry, did I interrupt something? I can leave.” Annabeth said as she exchanged stares with the both of you. Cedric instantly spoke up, “Yes, actu—” Getting to your feet, you left his words unfinished, “Of course not, would you like to join us?” He looked at you with widened eyes, furrowing his eyebrows. ”I'm sure the princess has more significant things to do than tea.” He said it to you, but he was probably directing it to the princess as well. Damn, this slow-burn novel is burning good, too good. Fall in love already!

“She brewed us some tea, it's only natural to let her try some with us. It's proper manners," Cedric clenched his jaw at your words and then sighed. "Fine, as you wish." He ran his hands across his hair with a huff, crossing his arms afterward. Well, that was quick. You didn't even have to repeat it. You sat back down in content and patted the space beside you. His eyes narrowed at your gloved hand. "Take a seat, Your Highness. It's big enough for both of us.”

Annabeth raised her eyebrows, tightening her lips as she stared at the plush that lay below your hand. She looked as if she was lost in thought. “Your Highness?” You called out to her, which snapped her out of whatever thought she was in. “My apologies, yes, I'll sit. Thank you.” She gave a warm enigmatic smile. You squinted your eyes as a sudden radiant glow beamed around her. Damn, why is it so bright! She only just smiled!

“It’s no worries, no need to thank me.” You returned the smile, which resulted in a scoff from a neglected Cedric. Is he jealous or just annoyed? Maybe the plot is on its course after all, just differently.

“Allow me to serve you the tea I've brewed, my father sent me these tea leaves.” She said as she grabbed the teapot, standing up and pouring the tea for the three of you. Your cup being the last she poured. “I hope it’s to your liking.” She said with a smile directed at you. Cedric sneered and grabbed his cup, taking a sip, and so did you.

“Too sweet.” “It’s pretty good.” You and Cedric both looked at each other. It wasn’t a lie, the tea was good, just made your throat a bit itchy.

“I thought you weren't fawn of such sweet things.” He commented with a stern look, you gulped. “Change of heart?” You chuckle nervously. Damn, you forgot the villainess hated sweet things.

Annabeth covered her mouth and laughed, “Guess I put too much lemon verbena.” Cedric's eyes widen and he snatches your cup, throwing it on the ground. It shatters from the impact. You both look at him in shock and he slams his hands on the table, glaring at Annabeth. “What’s wrong, Your Grace?” She asked with furrowed brows, fidgeting with her hands.

“Are you trying to kill my wife?” Annabeth’s eyes widen and she looks at you, and then at him. “Wh-What do you mean? I would nev—” “Don’t lie to me!” He cuts her off, standing up abruptly, making her flinch.

“Cedric!” You called out, standing up and putting your hand in front of the princess, blocking her from him. He stares at you and raises his eyebrow, you see him gulp. “What do you mean kill me?” “How could you not—” He stops himself, staring at Annabeth and then at you. He grabs your wrist and with no word drags you out of the garden, leaving Annabeth behind. You try to object but to no avail. You look back for a split second to see the princess teary-eyed, and then the gates closed.

“Your Grace!” You call out to him, pulling your arm back from him, you two are already far from the garden. He turns around, “We need to get the doctor, quit resisting!” You cleared your throat, the itchiness of your throat was getting worse.

“Doctor? Why would I need a doct—” Before you finished, you suddenly got a pounding headache, making you wince and trip towards Cedric's chest. Now that you realize it, ever since you drank that tea you have been having difficulty breathing. You wheezed, your throat suddenly feeling much tighter than before. He grabbed your shoulders and you vaguely heard him yell something to the maids who were positioned outside. Resulting in them running to your side with terrified glances.

Your vision was getting blurry and you were sweating bullets. The hands that were on your shoulder gripped harder, making you wince. Your eyes were starting to get watery and itchy, you decided to close them to ease the pain for a bit.

And then there was silence.

from, your admirer

tags: @ohnoivefallen @julietdelamare @scotchhopin

credits:

neutral heart + star divider made by @cafekitsune

[ace-of-amaryllis]

okay actually NO I WILL say words about the new portraits now. just my thoughts on the art, feelings going into t3, and all that.

YUNO: icier than ever. as much as she's completely innocent and forgivable to us as the audience and most of us are voting based on that, I think each innocent verdict is just sinking her deeper into believing we only like her for being a pretty girl. however cold she was last trial, she's worse this one!

FUUTA: oh BOY. I love fuuta so this sort of hurts to see. I think we first need to note, obviously, amane's cult's symbol on his eyepatch. so I guess that theory was correct! beyond that, though, his facial expression and pose also just give me the creeps. He seems almost manic, like worse than haruka in AKAA and trial 2, and I'm starting to regret every verdict I've given this guy.

MUU: so, obviously she's really restrained, seeing as she got a guilty vote. she has the net over her face and restraints on her legs. her facial expression is mostly what I'd like to talk about here. she has that same sort of smirk as she had in her trial 2 portrait, so I believe that the guilty verdict hasn't gotten through to her at all (as it never seems to do in milgram!) she seems primed and ready to do some manipulating, and I don't doubt that haruka will be a big conversation topic with her.

KAZUI: he's just normal??? wtf??? everyone else is losing it and this man is just being normal??? love you kazui

AMANE: oh man oh stars oh blinding hell we have astronomically screwed ourselves over. as an amane t1 innocent believer, honestly I think she was too far gone after that t1 guilty. she's already more of a murderer than she was before-- having killed shidou and caused mahiru's death--, she's recruited fuuta to her cult, and she has the most shit eating grin alive. she's not listening to any reason we give her. we should have voted her guilty.

MIKOTO: augh, seeing him like this makes me want to cry. he's still disheveled like he was last trial, but he also looks so sad and scared. if john is really gone, there's probably massive amounts of stress and trauma and fear piled up on mikoto now. plus, if the writers actually did research on DID and plurality, john being gone could entail mikoto' amnesia of the murders disappearing. so he might remember now. that'll be fun!

KOTOKO: yeah I don't think any of us are surprised by this. the light yagami kinnie is not going to be accepting of a guilty verdict. won't be shocked if she's openly hostile towards es and even more adamant on wanting to be in their place, judging people. she's just going to get more stubborn.

ES: there's absolutely some symbolism here that I'm too stupid to figure out with the cloak falling off and the keys being in their hand. though, a friend pointed out something interesting! the square key isn't there. is it es' key? is es prisoner 011, then?

JACKALOPE: god we should kill him. jackalope soup.

HARUKA, SHIDOU, AND MAHIRU: the staticy portraits and their ghosts make me want to cry. hopefully something still happens with them...

[charliedawn]

Hi Charlie. I was wondering why the Hannibal family doesn't have anything about Hannibal Jr's mother? Imagine someone (Kevin, for example) accidentally found a photo of her and he was curious to know who it was. How would Hannibal Jr feel about her? Does Hannibal Sr still love her? Maybe Hannibal Sr there are drawings where he depicted her, or maybe she used to sculpt from clay or make wax figures and has one left as a keepsake? How would they all react if she came to visit them? It would be interesting to read

Hannibal Sr. : "…Do I still love her ? I do not think I have ever loved any human being the way I loved my…Clarice."

Hannibal Jr. : "I have always known who my mother was. When I was 5, my father painted her from memory and hung her portrait in our great hall—so I would never forget her. He talked about her every night until I knew everything about her—everything to her very scent. My father made sure to honour her the way she ought to be. Every year, we go to her tomb and put some flowers down on her cherished grave. She was beautiful. And my father adored her in a way I never quite understood until I met…Will. In some way, my father and I seem to share the same…taste…when it comes to our companions. They knew who we were, but they never feared us the way the world does…Unfortunately, Hannibals are not allowed happiness. We are cursed. And in some way, I think my mother knew that…and yet, she chose my father. She chose me."

The portrait of Hannibal Jr.'s mother, Clarice Starling, hung in the Lecter family's great hall like an enigma—her beauty preserved through Hannibal Sr.'s memory and brushstrokes, as vivid and haunting as the day it was painted. Every detail was imbued with reverence and sorrow, from the delicate lines of her face to the depth in her eyes, as if she were looking out, eternally watching over them.

Morgan was the first to break the silence, stepping forward with a quiet reverence as he studied the portrait. He seemed captivated, as if he were in the presence of something sacred. "She’s…stunning," he murmured, his usual stoic expression softening. There was a hint of wonder in his voice, mingling with something deeper—perhaps a respect for the woman who had left such an indelible mark on both his father and his uncle. "It’s strange," he continued, "to think that she once stood where we are. That she was loved so deeply, so permanently." He fell silent, his gaze lingering on her image, trying to absorb the traces of her presence that remained within the family.

Peter, unable to keep his emotions hidden, felt his eyes sting as he looked upon her face. There was a warmth to her expression, a kindness that made his heart ache. "She looks gentle…like she understood," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I wish I could have known her, or…at least seen how happy she made them. She seems like someone who…could bring peace." He glanced at Hannibal Jr., his expression one of quiet yearning. For Peter, Clarice represented a love and acceptance he feared he would never find—an ideal almost too precious to exist in their dark, twisted world.

Kevin, always a bit defiant, couldn’t help but approach the portrait with a mix of admiration and a flicker of challenge. He studied her features with a critical eye, as if trying to understand what made her worthy of such devotion from the Lecter men. "She was brave to love him," he finally declared. "To stand beside father, knowing what he was. That’s rare." There was a hint of jealousy in his voice, as if he resented the bond she had formed with his father, a bond that somehow defined his family even in her absence. "I wonder…if she would have loved us too. Me, Peter and Morgan…" he muttered, almost to himself, his gaze lingering on her serene expression.

Hannibal Jr. turned toward Kevin, his usually composed face softening as he took in his nephew’s words. "She would have loved you," he said, voice quiet yet filled with conviction. "Perhaps not in the same way she loved our father, but with her own kind of warmth. She was…generous. She had a way of finding beauty in places most would fear to look. I believe that, given the chance, she would have seen that beauty in each of you as well." He paused, a rare smile gracing his lips, almost tender. "In some ways, you carry her spirit more than you realize."

Hannibal Sr. stepped forward, his presence commanding as he regarded his grandchildren, his gaze settling on Kevin. "Clarice was indeed brave," he said, his voice carrying a quiet reverence that was rare to hear from him. "She chose to see beyond the man I was, and in doing so, she chose a life that held both darkness and devotion. It was not a choice she made lightly, but one she embraced fully." He paused, his intense gaze unwavering. "Had she known you, I have no doubt she would have loved you. She would have seen the strength in your passion, Kevin, the compassion in Peter’s heart, and the ambition in Morgan’s mind. Each of you would have been cherished, just as you are cherished now."

Kevin’s expression softened as he listened, his resentment replaced by a solemn appreciation. Hannibal Sr. laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. "Do not resent the bond we had; rather, honor it by embracing the bond we now share. You are each her legacy as much as you are mine."

For a brief moment, the great hall seemed to hold a sense of peace, as if Clarice’s spirit had indeed found a place in each of them, uniting them in a bond that transcended time, love, and even loss. Clarice had died, but her spirit remained in the Hannibal legacy forever.

[l0standn0tf0und]

(I'll be honest, I don't really remember what the book says about this. And it’s also important to note that canon and fanon got mixed up in my head so much, so I can`t separate them)

But!

Just hear me out! Ok? It could be painful but anyway

Think about how Sirius came to Grimmauld Place for the first time since Azkaban. Firstly, he didn’t just come there after 12 years in prison. He came there for the first time since he was 16! But that's not the point.

The portrait of Walburga! I'm sure Sirius spoke to her!

Walburga couldn't just remain silent when she saw Sirius. She screamed at him, how he dared to come there, tried to kick him out of the Grimmauld. So Sirius immediately ordered Kreacher to cover the portrait. He tried to remove her from the wall… many and many times, but it was unsuccessful. So he had to accept that his mother would continue to grumble from under the cloth. Every time Sirius passed by, she continued to mutter, sometimes scream, and insult her own son. She called him a disgrace to the family, a blood traitor and said that he was not her son, not Black, and had no right to be here, she wished him death a lot of times. Walburga wanted to get him, to hurt him, and Sirius knew it. He knew he should ignore her. He tried, tried very hard to ignore insults from the woman who gave him life. It happened that several times he stopped in front of the covered portrait, but after a second, he gathered his strength and kept walking. But at one particular moment, something broke inside of Sirius. He furiously pulled the cloth off the portrait.

Just think about that conversation, if you can call it a conversation, that happened next.

Please, I'm begging, someone write extremely angsty and heartbreaking fanfic about it.

And also a few things that, in my opinion, happened then:

No matter how emotionally Walburga had screamed before, but the moment Sirius tore off the cloth, shouting “enough!” his mother sat there calmly with the coldest expression on her face, and the first thing she said was: “I’m not surprised that you betrayed Potters. You've been a wimp since childhood". And it was the moment they both new it, she got him, it was the point of no return.

It also seems to me that Walburga would blame Sirius for the death of his brother. Not because she thought so. Because she was hurt by the loss of Regulus, and she wanted to hurt Sirius the same way.

When Remus entered the Grimmauld Place that day, the first thing he heard was Walburga`s grating voice, resonating through the house in insults. She kept exclaiming all those awful things about family betrayal, Regulus`s death, and Potters, she even mentioned Remus. The next thing he found was Sirius on the floor in the very corner of the room, in complete darkness, because Sirius got used to this after 12 years. To the darkness and cold floor. Sirius sat there looking as miserable as never before. He was hugging his knees and rocking back and forth paranoidly. His eyes were red, tears were streaming down his cheeks, and all Sirius could say was a quiet and repeated "enough" mixed with sobs.

And also think if there was a portrait of Regulus in the house and if Sirius ever spoke to him.

this pics was created by Ai. I couldn't choose which one is better, that's it

[jhugas]

‘I OWE HER MY LIFE’- Jeon Jungkook

Masterlist

✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

Genre: angst, fluff

Pairing: comforting, idol!Jungkook X sad, 8th member!F!Reader

Summary: You love Bts and Army, but you don’t think you’re made for this lifestyle. So you’ve been considering leaving the group. But how will Jungkook, the one that loves you the most, react?

Warnings/tags: mention of sasaengs, and death threats (only mentions, no details), reader feels depressed, Jungkook is extremely attached, Jungkook comforts you, sad Jungkook, crying, hugs and a lovely Jungkook.

Word count: ~1,2k

✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

It’s been a long time you’ve been in BTS, the biggest band in the world… maybe around 5 years? You’ve had tours, fan meetings, collaborations, invitations… but also had death threats, sasaengs, people ringing at your door, and harassing you in the streets.

You’re a strong woman. Very strong. But you had limits, and limits got crossed over. This wasn’t the life you wanted; you just wanted some money to help your family. But now, you have the money without your family. You had to leave them from a young age, and with so much work and pressure, your relations with them got damaged. You believe that they won’t come back no matter what. But then, what was all of that for? Working so hard day and night since you’re 13, for nothing but money and fame.

Realizing how much better your life would’ve been without fame… tears form in your eyes. You love Bts, and you love Army, but maybe you weren’t made for this.

‘They‘ll understand. They love me too’

you reassured yourself, scared of expressing the decision you’re considering more and more; leaving Bts. Leaving the cameras, fame, and infinite money for an easier life. You try to imagine how Bts will react…

Namjoon, the one that you grew up with, that made you who you are today, comforted you every needed time and that considered you as his own sister.

Jin, that considered you as his very own daughter, bringing you to school and cooking for you.

Yoongi and Hoseok, bringing you to your bed when you fell asleep on the couch and went to the school reunions for parents.

Taehyung and Jimin being your closest friends you ever had, your big brothers, teasing you and bickering each other all the time. But always being there for each other.

And Jungkook that… loved you deeply. Very deeply. More than anyone else.

He always gave you lovely gifts, like portraits, drawings and paintings of you, and even tried sculpting you. Once, he gave you an album full of pictures he took himself of you, to prove you you were beautiful at your most insecure time. He gave you letters all the time, and was the type to write “Jungkook, you’re not so secret admirer :) ” as a signature. And always gave you the best Netflix and chill nights. Buying popcorns, letting you chose the movie, buying channels just for you, making his bedroom cozy with cute lights and more.

You were hung up on his walls. Said you were his love, passion and happiness as a person. And said he’d be your guardian angel the day he leaves.

“I’m not scared of dying because I know we’ll never really be too far from each other. In our next life, we’ll meet again, and love each other like we always did.” he said…

Tears roll down your cheek. How are you going to tell him? Will he get mad? Sad? Tons of questions go through your head as you blow your nose and throw the tissue. Will he hate you? Understand you? Does he feel the same thing? You blow your nose once again and throw the tissue. Suddenly, the door opens.

‘Y/n!! Why are you crying?!’

Jungkook comes in running and gets in front of you making sure to close the door behind him. He looks at you with worried eyes as you wipe away your tears, acting like nothing happened.

‘Y/n Im not joking! Please baby, tell me what’s wrong. You can talk to me you know it.’

He whispers the last part, taking care to not frighten you and to make you feel safe, protected. As you look at him in the eyes, you sitting on the edge of the bed and him crouching down to talk to you, he cups your face in his big hands, gets closer and kisses your forehead.

‘Jungkook… I… I’m not sure what to feel about being in Bts anymore… I’m scared, and lost… It’s not like I really want to leave but it feels like it’s the only way out…’

You look down, scared of how he’ll react. He’ll think you’re a traitor, you think…

There’s a silence. A long one. You wouldn’t be able to tell how long it was nor if it was uncomfortable or not. But it felt like hours. You hear him taking a deep breath in before saying in a weak voice:

‘Y/n… you can’t be real. You’re not thinking about leaving Bts right? You’re joking?’

He asks, sounding like he was about to cry. You slowly nod, making him understand that yes, you were indeed, considering it.

‘What’s wrong? What made you think about this? Y/n Im ready to do anything for you. Anything! Tell me what do you need I’ll do it! I’ll give it to you!’

He sounds desperate. You finally look back at him, tears still rolling down your cheeks but he gently wipes them away with his thumb. He gets on the bed and hugs you tight. His chest moving irregularly, strongly. And his arms holding you extremely close to him.

‘Im just… I’m tired! I’m tired of everything. I’ve tried having breaks, I really did! But nothing have worked…I’m exhausted Jungkook…I really am… and I’m sorry…’

You say. Your nose gets even redder. You almost can’t see due to the amount of tears your shining eyes are holding.

‘Put the blame on me. Put all of your worries in me. Give me all of your stress, fears, pressure. I’ll take it. I gladly will.’

He gets back.

‘Give me all of your pain. I know you’re suffering so put it all on me. Please.’

He yells in a whisper. He doesn’t want to scare you and he meant everything he said. He’s ready to do anything for you, even if it meant dying, or getting tortured till the end of his days.

You saved him and always comforted him when he wasn’t feeling good. So that’s what he told himself: ‘I owe her my life’. From the moment he realized how important you are to him, he knew he’d dedicate his whole life to you. There wasn’t any point in doing anything without you. And in fact, you were his whole life. He always did the most for you. He hugs you again…

‘It’ll be all right… I’m here… I’m right here.’

He whispers onto your neck, slightly laying a few kisses on it. You hold tight onto his hair and let your body rest in his strong arms. Tired from crying so much, you fell asleep. He laid you down on the bed, changed your clothes for pajamas, and stayed beside you. He spent the whole night cuddling you and whispering good things in your ear such as ‘you’re strong’, ‘you can do it’, or ‘I’m right here’.

He let you sleep as much as you needed and instead of not leaving until you wake up, he decided to make your favorite breakfast then decorated and cleaned the whole apartment.

He was right. It’ll be all right, he’s here…

Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you liked it please like or reblog ^^

@dolliecat @icyllic ^^

[poisonedace]

How to Lose a Kingdom in Ten Screams

5001 words | Teen | One-Shot AO3: Poisoned Ace Story Link: How to Lose a Kingdom in Ten Screams

Lucifer expected a prophecy. Instead, he found royal incompetence, stolen thrones, and a peacock with delusions of grandeur. Determined to restore order, he reinstates Stolas’s power—and lets him handle his traitorous relatives however he sees fit. Cue one eldritch horror, two screaming nobles, and a chase scene so humiliating it makes the headliner for 666 News. Meanwhile, Blitzo mouths off to the King of Hell, Loona gets in a final roast, and Stella and Andrealphus learn the hard way why you don’t mess with Stolas. Royalty has never been more dramatic… or more embarrassing.

😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈

How to Lose a Kingdom in Ten Screams

😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈

Lucifer paced the length of his suite at the Hazbin Hotel, irritation flickering across his sharp features. The dim glow of the infernal city outside cast jagged, shifting shadows as he moved. Frustration gnawed at his patience, consuming his thoughts so much so that he barely noticed when his foot struck something small and rubbery—

A loud quack echoed through the room as a cherished rubber duck shot across the floor, hitting the wall with an indignant bounce.

Lucifer exhaled slowly through his nose, pinching the bridge of his nose. Today was already testing him.

It had been too long since he had received a prophecy—far too long. He had tolerated incompetence from the Goetia bloodline before Stolas, dismissing their supposed gifts as laughable at best. But Stolas was different. Stolas had true celestial sight. He had foreseen Alastor’s fate only a year after the boy had been born. And while Lucifer hadn’t been able to prevent the inevitable, that vision had given him a chance—a rare opportunity to try and save Alastor’s soul. No other had done as much since his own descent into Hell.

And yet now, now, the owl dared to neglect his duty.

Lucifer’s fingers twitched, the air around him crackling with suppressed power. He would not stand for this level of irresponsibility. If Stolas would not come to him with new visions, then Lucifer would go to him.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, a portal tore open before him, its edges lined with crackling, fiery light. Without hesitation, he stepped through, prepared to remind the Goetia prince exactly where his priorities should lie.

When Lucifer emerged into the grand halls of the Goetia palace, his gaze immediately narrowed at the sight before him. He stood outside what was once Stolas’s lavish office. What had been a thing of beauty filled with celestial texts and personal portraits was utterly transformed. Gaudy, self-indulgent decorations now overshadowed the regal blues and silvers that once adorned the space. Every single portrait of Stolas, even those with his daughter, had been removed—replaced instead with portraits of Andrealphus, well, the same portrait of him over and over again.

Lucifer’s gaze swept over the room, his irritation cooling into something sharper, more dangerous.

Seated comfortably in the spot that once held Stolas’s desk were Stella and Andrealphus, lounging as if they owned the place. Stella smirked at Lucifer’s arrival, clearly relishing in whatever power she believed she now wielded.

Lucifer’s voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade. “I demand to see Prince Stolas. Immediately.”

Stella let out a delighted, mocking laugh while Andrealphus merely smirked, idly flicking open his fan. “Oh, dear King,” Stella purred, her tone dripping with false sympathy. “That won’t be possible.”

Lucifer’s expression did not change, but the air in the room grew heavier. “And why, exactly, is that?”

Andrealphus, ever the smug fool, leaned forward. “By royal decree, Stolas’s powers have been transferred to me until Octavia comes of age. It seems my dear ex-brother-in-law made the foolish mistake of giving his grimoire to a lowly imp.”

Lucifer let the words settle like dust, his gaze dragging over Andrealphus as if assessing something spoiled beyond redemption. Then, raising a single brow, he asked in a voice full of unimpressed boredom, “Do you even know how to read prophecies?”

Before Andrealphus could sputter out a response, a voice from the hallway scoffed.

“I know more about reading prophecies than he does,” Octavia muttered as she walked into the room, arms crossed. She barely spared the gathered group a glance before continuing in a deadpan voice, “And I only started really learning about a year or two ago.”

Lucifer turned to her, intrigued. “And?”

Octavia sighed, taking out her headphones. “And they aren’t very accurate. Sometimes, they’re vague or completely off the mark. The ones that actually wind up being true? Maybe an hour into the future. If we’re really, really lucky."

Lucifer exhaled sharply through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. He turned back to Andrealphus, his unimpressed expression deepening. “Utterly worthless,” he muttered under his breath before fixing the peacock with a pointed stare. “I’ve seen lesser imps with more capability.”

Andrealphus bristled. “Now, see here—”

Lucifer cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Enough. You’ve wasted more than enough of my time already.” His crimson eyes flicked back to Octavia. “Where is your father?”

Octavia hesitated for only a moment before sighing. “He’s in Imp City. Living with his boyfriend and his daughter.”

Lucifer’s brow lifted slightly. “His boyfriend?”

Octavia nodded, crossing her arms tighter.

Lucifer studied her for a moment before pressing further. “What happened?”

Octavia sighed heavily, as though she’d had to repeat the story too many times. “Blitz was put on trial to be executed because they,” she made a gesture towards her mother and uncle. “claimed he stole Dad’s grimoire, but Dad got there and stopped the execution, telling them it was him who was at fault. As a result, he lost custody of me, and the council stripped his powers and royal status for 100 years.”

Lucifer’s gaze darkened, the weight of his displeasure pressing down on the room like a physical force. “They accused an imp of stealing what was freely given?” His tone was unreadable, but something was simmering beneath the surface. Yes, Stolas shouldn’t have given the grimoire for use to lower hell-born beings; that was a given, but Lucifer had a feeling it was a petty move by Satan that really was the cause behind this more than anything else. He could never let a chance go to get one over on Lucifer, and he knew how much Lucifer had come to rely on Stolas. 

Octavia nodded as she gestured around the office, her lip curling. “And this is what they replaced him with.”

Lucifer muttered to himself, shaking his head. “I really need to start keeping abreast of what is happening in the court system and royal circles…” He exhaled sharply before waving a hand dismissively at Andrealphus. “Get dressed and meet me back here.”

Andrealphus blinked in surprise but, after a glance at Stella, left the room in a huff. Lucifer took a slow breath, rolling his shoulders as he steeled himself for the inevitable headache to come. He did not enjoy handling incompetence, and the fact that it had infected the court to such a degree was maddening. He tapped his fingers against his arm, waiting impatiently as the minutes dragged on.

When Andrealphus returned, dressed in something more presentable but no less ostentatious, Lucifer didn’t bother hiding his impatience. He gestured at the grimoire with a flick of his fingers. “Let’s see if you’re as incompetent, sorry, as competent as Satan seemed to think you were.” 

Andrealphus hesitated before flipping open the book, his fingers twitching as he mumbled incantations under his breath. The process was slow and clumsy. He fumbled through the words. His voice lacked any conviction. With each failed attempt, Lucifer’s expression darkened. The portal remained stubbornly closed.

Lucifer’s patience wore thin. His lip curled, and with an exasperated sigh, he finally snapped, “Completely inept.”

Andrealphus’s feathers bristled, and he straightened indignantly. “This is—”

“A complete waste of time. I agree.” Lucifer cut him off, his voice colder than before. He turned toward the grimoire, eyes flickering with frustration. “If you were even remotely competent, a portal would have been open ten minutes ago.” He pinched the bridge of his nose before stepping away from the desk. His gaze flicked to Octavia. “You try.”

Octavia stepped forward, taking a steadying breath before focusing on the book. Unlike Andrealphus, her motions were careful and deliberate. Within moments, the portal flared to life, shimmering with celestial energy.

Lucifer tilted his head slightly, observing her work. “Acceptable,” he murmured, though there was the faintest trace of approval in his voice. He glanced at Andrealphus once more, unimpressed. “Perhaps you should take notes.”

Andrealphus scowled but said nothing, his feathers ruffling in agitation. Lucifer, however, had already lost interest in him. His gaze returned to the portal where Octavia was stepping through, following her. She led them to the location Stolas had instructed her to go to read prophecies. However, as she gazed at the space before them, confusion crept across her features. 

“I… I don’t understand what I’m seeing.”

Lucifer took in the sight, silent for a long moment. Though gentler with her than he had been with Andrealphus, he finally admitted, “You have potential. But you still have much to learn.” His gaze flicked over to the stars and planets above them, calculating. “This will not suit my needs.”

He rubbed his temple as though he’d been dealing with an endless headache. The weight of incompetence and betrayal pressed down on him, and he was quickly growing weary of it. He exhaled sharply before straightening his posture, his imposing presence filling the space.

“Take me to your father. We will be fixing this immediately.” His voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable edge of authority that left no room for argument.

Octavia nodded without hesitation, stepping back through determinedly and putting the grimoire back on its stand with a sense of finality. The weight of the book settled heavily, as though acknowledging that its rightful owner would soon return. 

She lifted her hands, channeling energy as she began to open a portal to the I.M.P offices, the swirling magic crackling in the air. But before it could fully solidify—

A sharp, indignant voice pierced the chamber.

“You can’t just—” Andrealphus began, pushing himself forward, his feathers puffed up in false bravado. His fan trembled in his grip, the delicate fabric crumbling with agitation. But the moment Lucifer’s crimson gaze landed on him, the peacock demon faltered.

The room seemed to shrink around them, the very air pressing in like an invisible weight. Lucifer hadn’t spoken a word, and yet his very presence radiated an unspoken command—one of absolute, unchallenged dominance.

Andrealphus’s voice died in his throat, a pathetic strangled sound escaping as he instinctively took a step back, almost tripping over the lounge chair he had put in place of Stolas’s desk.

But Stella was not so easily silenced.

“She is not to see or have contact with her father! This is completely unacceptable!” Stella hissed, her heels clacking furiously against the polished marble floor as she lunged for Octavia. Her talons closed around Octavia’s wrist, gripping tightly as she attempted to yank her away from the portal.

Octavia hissed and tried to pull her wrist from her mother’s grasp, but before she could wrench herself free—

Lucifer moved. Faster than a shadow. With a mere flick of his wrist, an invisible force seized Stella’s arm mid-motion, freezing her in place.

A heavy silence fell over the chamber, suffocating in its intensity. The very walls seemed to tremble as though Hell itself was holding its breath.

Lucifer turned slowly, his gaze now fixed solely on Stella.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes… His eyes burned. Red, deep, and unrelenting—like an inferno trapped behind glass, waiting to be unleashed.

The force pinning Stella in place wasn’t painful, not yet, but it carried an unmistakable message: One more step, and she would regret it.

Stella’s breath hitched. For the first time in her wretched existence, she hesitated.

Lucifer hadn’t laid a single hand on her, yet it felt as though a blade was pressed against her throat.

“Release. Her.”

The words were not shouted. 

They were not a request.

They were law.

A slow, strangled growl escaped Stella’s lips, but she had no choice. The invisible force constraining her limbs tightened ever so slightly, a subtle but unmistakable warning.

With a furious sneer, she let go.

Octavia immediately stepped back, rubbing her wrist as she shook off her mother’s touch. Her feathers bristled, but her expression remained composed. If anything, there was something like satisfaction in her sharp violet eyes.

Lucifer exhaled slowly. The oppressive energy in the room eased just enough for Stella to stumble backward. The moment she was free, she clutched her arm as if Lucifer’s mere presence had burned her.

She dared to glare at him.

Lucifer simply smiled. A slow, knowing, thoroughly unimpressed smile.

“You think you’re untouchable,” Stella sneered, rubbing her wrist. “Enjoy your little victory, King Lucifer. Because when you least expect it, I’ll be there to take it back.”

Lucifer gave her an amused glance. “Oh, Stella,” he sighed, so very bored, “I already had enemies. You, however, are becoming less relevant by the second.”

Stella’s feathers bristled, her talons curling into fists, but no further words came. Andrealphus, still lingering near the chair, seemed to shrink under the weight of it all, eyes darting between his sister and the King of Hell.

Lucifer adjusted his cufflinks as though nothing had happened and casually glanced in their direction. “Don’t get comfortable,” He finally said, his voice smooth yet foreboding. The quiet power behind it sent an involuntary shudder through the room. “You two won’t be here for much longer.”

Andrealphus swallowed hard, his feathers ruffling in pure, unfiltered anxiety. He had seen many nobles fall from grace over the years, but never had he felt that same fate creeping toward him.

Stella clenched her jaw, but the fire in her eyes had dulled—she knew she had lost.

The portal flared brighter, the arcane energy solidifying as it showed the I.M.P reception desk on the other side. Octavia, not sparing her mother another glance, stepped through without hesitation.

Lucifer followed right behind her.

~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

The reception, usually buzzing with activity, fell into stunned silence at the sight of their unexpected guests.

Loona, who had been lazily scrolling on her phone, nearly dropped it, her eyes widening in alarm. Moxxie and Millie froze mid-conversation, exchanging wary glances.

Blitzo, who had been rifling through a stack of papers by the filing cabinets, tensed immediately, his tail flicking behind him in sharp, agitated sways. His crimson eyes darted between Octavia and Lucifer, his entire stance shifting into something defensive before he even registered what he was doing.

Without thinking, his hand instinctively reached out, fingers grazing Octavia’s sleeve—a protective gesture, an unspoken stay behind me.

Octavia’s eyes wandered down to him, freezing on his tail. She had been around him and other imps enough to recognize the movement for what it was—not just agitation but unease. The sharp, restless flicks were the telltale sign of someone ready to lash out or bolt.

She moved past his hand, stepping lightly toward Loona. The hellhound barely spared her a glance, but the flick of Loona’s ear was all the acknowledgment needed.

Now positioned just behind him, Octavia looked around and frowned when she noticed her father wasn’t in the room.

Blitzo, reassured by her movement, squared his shoulders and planted himself firmly between Lucifer and the others. His arms crossed over his chest, his stance widening ever so slightly—not backing down, not bowing.

“Well, this is new,” Blitzo muttered, his voice dripping with snark, though there was an undercurrent of tension beneath it. “What’s the King of Hell doing slumming it in Imp City?”

Lucifer barely acknowledged the imp’s hostility, his gaze sweeping the office before landing back on Blitzo. “I’m here to speak with Prince Stolas.”

Blitzo quirked a brow, unimpressed. “Well, he’s not here.”

Lucifer’s gaze narrowed slightly. “When will he be back?”

Blitzo gave a dramatic shrug, feigning ignorance. “Dunno, he—”

The sound of approaching footsteps caught his attention, and Blitzo’s expression changed in an instant. “STOLAS!” he called in an exaggerated tone, dragging out the name.

Stolas, who had just walked in holding five cups, paused mid-step, his expression puzzled. Before he could react, Blitzo quickly snatched the drinks from his hands and ushered him behind the reception desk, keeping himself firmly between the owl and Lucifer.

“Back so soon?” Blitzo asked, flashing Stolas an overly cheerful grin.

Stolas blinked in confusion, looking around until his gaze landed on Octavia and Lucifer. His expression immediately softened, and he moved past Blitzo without hesitation toward his daughter.

“Sire? Starfire?” Stolas’s voice was laced with concern. “What are you doing here?”

He barely gave Lucifer a second glance before pulling Octavia into a tight embrace. He pressed a firm kiss to her forehead before he began to look over. “Are you okay?” he murmured, holding her close once finished.

Lucifer, however, was not one to waste time. He cleared his throat, drawing Stolas’s attention back to him before Octavia could answer. “I tracked you down because I noticed you’ve been neglecting your duties,” he said plainly. “I need some things looked into.”

Blitzo scoffed loudly, his tail flicking. “How the fuck do you expect him to do that when he lost his powers?” he snapped. “He’s about as strong as a run-of-the-mill imp now.”

Stolas sighed, casting Blitzo a side glance. “Thank you, Blitzo,” he muttered before turning back to Lucifer. “He isn’t wrong, however, Sire. I can no longer perform my duties. That responsibility has been passed to Andrealphus—for the time being.”

“Yes, and I’ve deemed that completely unacceptable.”

Octavia snorted beside him. “He couldn’t even get the portal open.”

Stolas hooted, clearly amused by that turn of events. “Well, as sorry as I am, Sire. There’s, unfortunately, nothing I can do. I can perhaps try to read the stars, but without my powers, I can’t promise their validity.”

Lucifer folded his hands behind his back, his crimson gaze locked onto Stolas. His voice was smooth and measured yet carried the weight of absolute authority. “I am willing to overturn the ruling and restore your powers and status.” The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. 

Stolas gave a wary glance downward at Blitzo, his feathers ruffling in mild agitation. He knew Lucifer well enough to understand that nothing came without a cost. His talons flexed slightly against the floor.

“At the cost of his life?” Stolas asked, his voice firm. “Absolutely not.”

Lucifer let out a small, amused breath through his nose, his expression unreadable. “No. All I ask is that you continue to read prophecies for me, although I’ll be happy to see how Octavia progresses. She’s not quite there yet, but she will be soon enough under your tutelage.”

Stolas’s talons tapped lightly against his arm, considering.

“Sire, respectfully,” he began carefully, “if this is about Alastor or Lilith, I haven’t seen much since her disappearance.”

“That is part of it,” Lucifer admitted, inclining his head. “But I also wanted to check in on the sinners in Charlie’s hotel.”

At that, Stolas visibly stiffened. His grip on Octavia’s shoulders tightened, and his usually composed expression faltered for just a second.

Charlie’s Hotel. The rehabilitation project.

He was no fool—he knew what Lucifer really meant. He wasn’t just checking in. He was assessing a threat.

Blitzo, sharp enough to catch the shift in Stolas’s demeanor, narrowed his eyes and stepped forward.

"Alright, alright, enough with the cryptic power-trip talk," Blitzo muttered, stepping directly between Lucifer and Stolas, his arms crossed. "Listen, Your Shiny-ness, Stolas has been through enough without you piling on.”

Lucifer raised a single, curious brow at the imp’s audacity. He glanced at Stolas as if waiting for him to correct this blatant disrespect.

Stolas didn’t.

Lucifer’s smirk deepened slightly, entertained by the boldness.

“You may have the prince wrapped around your finger, but don’t think for a second you’re untouchable.”

Blitzo rolled his eyes. “You’re not the first royal to tell me that, and you won’t be the last.”

Lucifer exhaled, not annoyed—more amused than anything else. He honestly did not know what Stolas saw in this crude little imp, but he had to admit: he had nerve.

“What do you think, Blitz?”

Blitzo, seemingly unbothered by the literal King of Hell, casually took a sip from his coffee and muttered, “Well, if this means fewer royal messes for me to clean up, then whatever. Just don’t let him boss you around too much.”

Stolas smiled at Blitzo, a genuine, fond expression crossing his face. “I’ll do my best, my love.”

Lucifer, watching the interaction, tilted his head ever so slightly. His smirk faded just for a second.

Not out of anger.

Not out of disapproval.

But because he saw something he hadn’t expected. Something that shouldn’t exist in Hell between two Hellborns.

Or so he thought. 

Lucifer’s gaze flickered back to Stolas, studying him for a long, contemplative moment. The old Stolas would have never spoken to him this way.

He smiled to himself as he adjusted his cuffs. Then, at last, he inclined his head. “As safe as he can be in Hell,” he finally said.

Blitzo scoffed, dismissing the statement. Stolas, however, understood the weight of that statement. Lucifer wouldn’t step in if they found themselves in trouble again.

With a dramatic gesture, Lucifer summoned a burst of infernal energy, restoring Stolas to his full glory. Stolas was lifted into the air. His body was engulfed in a swirling maelstrom of dark and celestial energy. His feathers shimmered with renewed vibrancy as the power surged through him, his form momentarily glowing with an ethereal light. Magic crackled outward, sending tremors through the room before retracting back into him in a final, controlled pulse. His aura intensified, commanding and formidable, visibly intimidating everyone in the room—except Blitzo, who merely raised an eyebrow.

Stolas landed gracefully, rolling his shoulders as he tested the power coursing through him. He had forgotten how it truly felt—magic thrumming through his veins, his body humming with restored strength. For the first time in months, he felt whole. 

“It’s good to be back,” he murmured, glancing toward Lucifer with a smile. “What would you like me to look into, Sire?”

“That can wait,” Lucifer said smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. “First, let’s get your palace back.”

~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

Later, in the Goetia palace, Stolas, now in his full eldritch form, cackled as he chased Stella and Andrealphus through the halls. The two screeched in terror, fleeing in nothing but their robes as Stolas’s glowing eyes and writhing shadows sent them sprinting through the corridors of his reclaimed palace.

The once-pristine marble floors were now scuffed with clawed footprints, the tall gothic windows rattled with the sheer force of his booming laughter and the once-mighty noble heirs of the Goetia line? Reduced to shrieking buffoons in half-tied robes.

Andrealphus, feathers ruffled in a complete mess, shrieked as his talons slapped against the cold marble. He was moving at a speed that would have been impressive—if it weren’t for the fact that he kept tripping over his own absurdly long robe.

Behind him, Stella clutched at her disheveled silk garment, her feathers bouncing wildly as she shoved Andrealphus forward. “MOVE, YOU IMBECILE!” she screeched, eyes darting wildly behind her. “HE’S RIGHT BEHIND US—OH SATAN’S SAGGY LEFT—HE’S GAINING!”

“You think I DON’T KNOW THAT?!” Andrealphus wailed, scrambling forward like a frightened peacock trying to take flight.

But it was no use.

Stolas, in his full eldritch form, wasn’t even running.

He stalked after them at a leisurely, predatory pace, his talons clicking against the floor like a ticking clock counting down their doom. His massive wings cast dark shadows against the walls, shifting and writhing like living creatures. From those shadows, phantom-like tendrils slithered out, curling around doorframes and reaching toward his fleeing prey, just enough to make them scream louder.

His glowing, violet eyes gleamed with mischief, not malice. This? This was FUN.

“Oh,” Stolas cooed mockingly, his many eyes blinking at different intervals. “Why so frightened? I simply wish to have a little chat about—oh, I don’t know—THE WAY YOU TRIED TO RUIN MY ENTIRE EXISTENCE?”

Andrealphus let out a high-pitched yelp, his voice cracking. “IT WASN’T PERSONAL, STOLAS—JUST POLITICS!”

Stella, in a rare moment of honesty, shrieked, “IT WAS EXTREMELY PERSONAL!”

“Ah, good,” Stolas chirped, his shadows darting forward, snapping at their ankles like mischievous puppies. “Then I hope you’ll take this personally.”

With a graceful leap, Stolas landed directly behind them, his massive wings whooshing as they spread wide.

Andrealphus, in sheer panic, threw his fan at him.

Stolas caught it midair between two of his talons. Then, with a dramatic snap, he broke it in half. The cracking sound echoed through the palace like the final nail in Andrealphus’s coffin.

Andrealphus gasped as if he had just witnessed a murder.

“MY FAN!” he wailed, devastated. “That was handcrafted and imported from Earth!”

“I know,” Stolas smirked. “I gifted it to you. How ungrateful of you to use it against me.”

Andrealphus let out a strangled sob.

Stella rolled her eyes and grabbed his arm. “GET OVER IT AND KEEP RUNNING, YOU PRANCING MORON—”

She never finished her sentence.

Because at that exact moment, the floor suddenly gave way beneath them.

Or rather—Stolas made it give way.

The shadows lurched beneath their feet, sending both Stella and Andrealphus into a cartoonishly clumsy tumble as they tumbled ass-over-teakettle down a grand staircase.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Stella screeched. Andrealphus squawked. Their robes tangled around them as they tumbled downward, limbs flailing, looking less like regal nobility and more like a pair of drunk aristocrats rolling out of a carriage.

By the time they reached the bottom, Stella landed with her robe half over her face, her long feathers broken and misplaced, and Andrealphus?

Flat on his back. Staring at the ceiling. Wheezing.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then—Stella groaned, untangling herself from her robe as she staggered to her feet.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake, Stolas! Can’t you just be a loser in silence?!"

Andrealphus, still sprawled out, wheezed, "I think I’ve broken my spine…"

Stolas, still hovering above the crumpled nobles, let out a soft tsk, shaking his head as if genuinely disappointed.

"Now, now, Stella," he crooned, descending slowly, his massive wings unfurling just enough to cast a looming shadow over her. "You should know by now—" his talons clicked against the marble as he landed, his many glowing eyes narrowing with amusement— "I never suffer in silence. I prefer an audience."

He gestured grandly to the shattered remains of Andrealphus’s dignity. "And this?" His smirk sharpened, his voice practically dripping with mock concern. "This was a show worth putting on."

Stella let out a frustrated huff, glaring daggers at him, but Stolas only grinned wider.

“Oh, but dear Andrealphus,” he continued smoothly, tilting his head with mock sympathy. “You wanted me to disappear so badly, didn’t you? And yet—” he gestured at the grand, towering palace around them, the very home he had reclaimed. “Here I am. And here you are. At my feet.”

Stolas let the silence hang for a moment, his smirk widening as Andrealphus swallowed hard.

“A shame, really,” he sighed, casting an almost pitying glance at Andrealphus. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one…” His wings flexed slightly, shadows creeping closer as Andrealphus let out a strangled squawk.

Stella’s face twisted with rage, but before she could snap back, Stolas’s smug expression turned to her.

"So tell me, Stella…" His voice dropped to a dangerous purr, his many eyes glowing brighter. "How does it feel to lose?"

A tense silence followed. Andrealphus, wisely deciding to preserve what little pride he had left, turned his head away and let out a defeated groan.

Lucifer, who had been watching the entire thing from a distance, finally chuckled. “Now that,” he mused, slowly applauding, “was thoroughly entertaining.”

Stolas turned to him with a flourish. “I did restrain myself, Sire.”

Lucifer smirked. “You did. But I’ll do you one better.”

With a snap of his fingers, a thick, glowing red seal appeared midair—an infernal decree written in elegant, deadly final script.

Lucifer read it aloud, his voice calm yet absolute.

“By my authority as King of Hell, Stella Goetia, and Marquis Andrealphus are hereby stripped of all royal privileges and exiled from the Goetia. Effective immediately. Should they return, they will be fed to the Hellhounds.”

Stella’s mouth fell open in outrage. “YOU CAN’T DO THIS—”

“Oh, I can,” Lucifer said with a charming yet thoroughly evil smile. “And I just did.”

Andrealphus, sensing the very last shreds of his dignity evaporating, groaned, “Can’t we at least stay the night?”

Lucifer gestured dramatically toward the enormous doors. “OUT.”

With a final, defeated huff, Stella and Andrealphus dragged themselves to their feet, robes disheveled and pride shattered.

Andrealphus glanced at Stella, gulped—then, dignity be damned, bolted for the exit.

Stella scowled after him, but with Lucifer still watching, she had no choice but to follow. At least she walked out with some dignity.

As she caught up to her brother, the two muttered bitter insults under their breath until they reached the palace entrance. There, Loona stood waiting beside Octavia, lazily leaning against the doorframe with a smug grin.

“Well, well,” she snorted. “Looks like you two just got your asses handed to you.”

Stella scowled. “Ugh. A filthy Hellhound—just what I needed to see today.”

Loona tilted her head. “I can escort you out personally if you’d like.” She cracked her knuckles.

Andrealphus paled. “No, no! That won’t be necessary!”

Stella and Andrealphus all but ran through the palace doors, disappearing into the night.

Lucifer turned to Stolas with a smirk. “Well. That was cathartic.”

Stolas, adjusting his feathers elegantly, smirked back. “Quite.”

He turned to Octavia, who had been watching the entire thing with a look of mild amusement.

“Shall we get this place back in order, Starfire?”

Octavia sighed, crossing her arms. “Yeah, yeah. Just try not to make it even weirder than it already was.”

And with that, order was restored—and Hell’s most entertaining shitshow had finally reached its curtain call.