#olivier x reader

[pxstelmxsings]

They have killed you for you. They will kill for you again. It doesn't matter if you wish it to them or not. You staying by their aside forever unharmed by this disgusting world is all that truly matters to them. Your hands staying blood free is their selfish desire.

꩜ Envy, Olivier, Vergil, Trish, Ada, Kabuto, Sasuke, Sasori, Geto, Skirk, Arlecchino

They have killed for you aginst your wishes. They know that this will break your heart for some time, but it is was the answer to your safety. This act will stop the universe from forcing your hands to kill. The mental and emotional toll of causing death will be bared by them, never you.

♡ Havco, Riza, Dante, Lady, Leon, Jill, Konan, Sakura, Shikamaru, Yuki, Choso, Lyney, Rosaria

[aritsukemo]

The Little Things | Various Characters

Characters: Vanitas, Olivier, Veronica, Sanemi, Hinatsuru, Shinobu, Makio, and Basil

A/N: None

Vanitas who short-circuits anytime you show him genuine affection/care despite the many times he's flirted with you. He tells you he hates it, but in actuality he's just not used to it. Either way, please don't stop.

Olivier who tries not to smoke around you. He knows you dislike it and even if it helps him destress, he'd never indulge in his own pleasures if it meant making you uncomfortable. Never.

Veronica who can't help but 'apologize' ( Not really but she buys you gifts/treats you in various ways with a sour look on her face ) whenever she makes you sad/mad. She doesn't entirely know why, but she gets this strange feeling in her chest whenever she does or says something that makes you even the slightest bit upset. Is it pity? Dare I say, guilt? She can't tell.

Sanemi who always questions you about your wellbeing whenever you chat. He listens intently on everything you say, genuinely wanting to know if you're alright and if you aren't, he'll take you out to wherever you want to go that day. His treat.

Hinatsuru and Shinobu who sits there, smiling fondly, as she listens to you just talk. Talk about your day, raving about how good it went or ranting about how bad it was, just anything you have to say. She'll listens for hours on end, gently reassuring you whenever you pause to apologize for distracting her from her work.

Makio who loves to go out with you whenever you have the time. Whether it'd be going to the hot springs or shopping at the market, she doesn't care as long as you're the one accompanying her.

Basil who occasionally brings you flower bouquets, all of which are hand grown and arranged by himself. He's shy so he won't have the courage to do anything but maybe mutter out a small 'Hope you like it..' before leaving, but he makes the effort to add short, sweet notes to make up for the words he couldn't say to you.

Dividers were made by me, pictures used are from Pinterest

[buggyluv]

Since you write for multiple fandoms, can I get NSFW 34 with Nico Robin, Hange Zoe and Olivier Armstrong???? ♥︎ If not all, can you pick one?

YES OFC!!!! I did all three ♥︎

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Hange (AOT)

Hange is the most vocal partner you've ever had. It's a miracle you haven't been caught by Erwin. To be fair, you're not much quieter.

Hange has you up on a desk, fucking her strap into you. Every calculated thrust has you arching into them. In true Hange fashion, they talk; every moan and whimper is met with an “atta girl”.

They pull out of you, laying you on the floor instead, and push your legs up so you're folded in half. They slide back into you, using their grip on your legs as leverage to fuck you faster and harder. You don't even bother hiding your moans. Hange would be upset if you hid your noises from them.

It's strategic, slipped in between praises as if microdosing you with love. When you cum, legs shaking and back arching, They lean down to your ear, push their hips as clean against you as they can, and whisper a soft “I love you, baby”.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩💭✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Olivier (FMA)

She knows this is wrong; fucking her subordinate, but Olivier just can't quit you. Every inch of skin on your body is ingrained into her memory. She knows what she feels for you but she refuses to take it any further. She tells herself it's because of professionalism but she knows deep down it's self preservation.

It's a chilly night and she has you in her bed once again. She needs an outlet for frustration and that is what you give her. Your fingers work inside her tight pussy as you pull her towards another orgasm. She'd be embarrassed at the way she's clinging to you if she wasn't so lost in how good she feels.

Your lips leave a trail of pretty marks up her neck and you pull her into a kiss. It's filthy, you can tell she hasn't had much experience outside or you, but it feels right. You move your kisses back down to your neck and chest as she cums. Your hand works her through it as your mouth leaves markings of you behind. You hear it, mixed in with moans and curses, she says “I love you”.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩💭✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Robin (OP)

Robin wants you to know how she feels but she doesn't want to scare you off. She has you laid across her sheets, hands tangled in her hair while she licks and sucks at your sensitive pussy. She's obsessed with the way your body reacts to her. You're both sweaty, horny, and unable to stop. You're both getting carried away in the feeling.

She presses her fingers into you, making you cry out and arch your back. The sounds of your moans fill the room and Robin is obsessed with them. She's unraveling you down to a completely vulnerable state.

Your orgasm hits you hard and fast and your legs shake against the hands holding them back. You hear Robin's declaration of love cut through the mental static of your orgasm. It ground you, brings you back down to earth, and you take a moment to bask in the warmth that is Nico Robin.

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Hope you enjoyed!!!!!

tag list is open btw ♡

[jordiemeow]

You wouldn't make love with him. You'd make art.

pairing: literature student / poet!patrick zweig x reader

summary: patrick is a genius in everything but matters of the heart. but you don't make it easy on an insecure boy's poor soul.

Patrick doesn’t know how to do any of this—he, an eloquent speaker, master of rhetoric, a man who knows almost all the dead and living languages of the world.

Pathetic, is it not?

For a man such as him to be so utterly smitten by you. Enraptured by every little thing about you, from the way you toy with his fingers while he recites Virgil to you, or the way your stockings are always full of holes. The smudge of lipstick always present on the edge of your mouth from your lips planting against his own, or the way you pocket each of the poems he writes for you despite your outwards protests.

He’s a paradox. A contradiction. A romantic, but a cynic. A writer, but a misanthrope. And worst of all, a modernist who secretly longs for bohemians and decadence. A paradox of sophistication and nihilism. A vision of cashmere, draped in apathy.

It’s like he doesn’t know who he is anymore, when he's with you. Like you’re taking all the broken, ugly, shameful parts of him, and making it beautiful. It’s horrifying, but he wants more. Please.

And now he has to laugh, at how absurd it was that this girl who probably hated the world preferred to be around him, of all people. He knows all of this sounds terribly trite and unoriginal, but he couldn't help it anymore than he could stop the sun from setting. None of this makes any sense, and yet he has never seen something with more clarity in his life.

He loves you.

But, as usual, the words stick in his throat, and he exhales as through trying to exhale his nerves and uncertainty along with the oxygen into the stale air of his bedroom. He’ll scribble poems and declarations of adoration into a worn notebook his grandma bought him, but when it comes to uttering such confessions aloud? God, he’s a coward. So, all that comes out is a teasing:

“You know I like it when you’re rough, darling, but you really ought to ease up on the make him bleed thing a little—“

That earns him a bit of pressure added to his back, and a hiss of his own making. Patrick is quick to offer a half-grimace half-smile over his shoulder as an apology, bracing his hands against the sheets while you continue with your ministrations. Dabbing at carmine incisions along his bare back that look oddly reminiscent of a werewolf’s claws. He supposes you are quite the beast in bed together. The thought makes him stifle a snort, which quickly becomes a hiss of pain when you wipe over the nail scratches raking up his skin.

“Ow, fuck, be careful—"

“Don’t pout, Pat,” you chide, your voice low as you cut off his whine of a protest. There’s a teasing lilt in there somewhere, a hint of your dry humour creeping into the words. “It’s unbecoming of you.”

“I do not pout,” he scoffs, his eyes flicking over to meet yours, narrowed slightly. “At what point have I ever pouted?”

Patrick knows that he should not push his luck without you—not when he’s perched naked by the end of the bed and entirely at your mercy as you wield an alcohol-soaked handkerchief. Although the air between you is not quite the icy chill he expects it to be. On the contrary, it’s almost playful.

“Besides,” he continues defiantly, resolutely ignoring the stinging down his back, “I do not appreciate being attacked during… well, you get the idea.” A lazy smile flutters on his lips and he angles his body around, his hands finding the curve of your waist to tug you closer. "You are awfully passionate, you know."

He has a very peculiar way of apologising, one that is often too self-absorbed to be even considered an apology. And Patrick Zweig has never been particularly good at those, though his mother always insisted he should learn a thing or two about proper manners. Not that she was ever very present, mind you—boarding school will do that to you, he supposes.

Your fingers are sure and practiced as you tidy him up methodically, the pad of your thumb gently skimming over a small patch of inflamed skin. “Attacked? Oh, how you exaggerate so,” you scoff, a hint of mild amusement in the depths of your eyes that you hide between narrowed eyes as you focus on your meticulous task.

“I do not exaggerate,” Patrick insists through gritted teeth, his other hand grasping the sheets in a fist. The pain is not the issue here, though he does flinch upon feeling the gentle caress of your fingers over one of the indentations. “See, that’s the difference between us,” he continues, his voice now laced with an exasperated air. “You take no prisoners. Absolutely ruthless."

It’s hard, as always, to determine whether his irritation is genuine or just an act to mask his discomfort at your lack of tenderness. He hates the feeling of being so vulnerable when you’re so… put together, like you take no pleasure or interest in the moment you just shared. Not even when the evidence is stained crimson along his back.

He shifts around, pulling you closer without preamble, his free hand wrapping around your wrist to still your motions. Something in his eyes has changed, the pools of blue once glinting with playfulness giving way into a more serious look. His lips pull into a tight line as he speaks again, his voice carefully measured.

“I don’t appreciate your coldness. You act like a bloody automaton at times,” he mutters, his jaw clenching imperceptibly. But he knows you can pick up on any of his discreet little ticks at this point. He's grown to be utterly transparent to you, and he hates it, because it is the exact opposite of what you're becoming to him. More and more of a mystery with each interaction. He loves you, but you are so bloody difficult sometimes.

“I’m not being cold. I’m patching you up, darling,” comes your light reply. Your free hand reaches up, thumb brushing over a smudge of rouge lipstick still present on his kiss-bitten mouth.

It’s the use of the pet name that gets to him the most, the way your sweet voice wraps around that single word. His frown deepens slightly. “Patching me up,” he echoes under his breath, his grip on your wrist loosening in favour of capturing your palm against the bed.

“Stop treating me like a fragile thing that might shatter with one wrong word. I am not made of glass.”

There’s something in the petulant way he says the words, the mixture of anger, frustration, and something else that is a little more difficult to define—at least for Patrick, who isn’t exactly known for his emotional intelligence when it comes to his own psyche. Said in a manner only a young man who has had the entire world served to him upon a silver platter could possibly manage.

Patrick Zweig has always been a self-absorbed, conceited ass, but he’s never been good with those who treat him with such apparent detachment. He’s the one who’s supposed to be casually flippant, indifferent. He is the one who’s supposed to be in control.

But you do not seem to care. Not even a little bit.

He doesn't quite recognise the desperation that colours his voice. He’s used to your indifference, the way you can just switch off whenever you want, but it stings. The more he tries to deny it, the more his own walls threaten to crack.

“At least look like you care instead of pretending that the last thirty minutes never happened,” Patrick snaps, his fingers tracing the delicate vein on your inner wrist absently, as if seeking comfort amidst the darkening atmosphere.

And you do soften somewhat. You settle upon the bed next to him, now dressed in only his half-buttoned shirt and your underwear, legs drawn up beneath you as your gaze drops towards your hand, and the way his fingers skim across your veins. It's almost uncomfortable, the tender touch in such a vulnerable place. You’re half-tempted to wince and withdraw your hand.

But it's Patrick. So, you do not. You allow it, even it makes you feel like you’re ready to claw your way out of your own skin. You allow it, because you love him, even if he is insufferable at the best of times.

Like now, for example.

"Sorry," you murmur, and it's not clear whether the apology is for the injuries along his back or the fact he's upset with your demeanour. Either way, you place a chaste, remorseful kiss to his shoulder.

Perhaps it’s your soft voice, or the light touch of your lips against his shoulder—but the tension in Patrick’s body is replaced by something lighter, something that could almost be mistaken for… relief. Something so unlike him. There is something about your words, your tone, the fact that you have given him any response that matters.

His grip on your wrist slackens, fingers sliding down the smooth curve of your palm before lacing through yours. “I don’t understand you sometimes,” he says quietly, his gaze fixed on your hands now intertwined against the sheets.

It’s his way of saying he forgives you, that the brief argument has been put behind you. For now, at least. His thumb brushes against the back of your hand in an almost absent-minded gesture; in truth, it’s more to soothe himself than anything else. The anger that was bubbling underneath the surface seconds ago is gone without a trace.

“And stop being so detached,” he adds in a soft whisper, his eyes finally lifting up to meet yours.

Patrick knows that it’s not easy to get a reaction out of you, that you’re guarded, that you’re reserved. He's used to your stoicism, to your tendency of shutting him out at the first hint of his vulnerability. He’s used to your coldness, but it never fails to annoy him, especially when he’s hurting and wants to just feel you.

His hand, still clasped around yours, pulls you closer, his free arm sliding around your waist. “You could at least act like it meant something.”

"It does. You do," you murmur insistently. Your own arms loop around his middle, chin hooking over his shoulder, although you’re careful to avoid the lingering passion-induced wounds.

His expression softens slightly, a mixture of relief (from hearing those words) and affection (from your chin against his shoulder) washing over his features. He takes a moment, savouring the feel of your body against his, the warmth of your breath on his cheek. The way your knee presses against his thigh.

He knows you have a hard time with expressing feelings, and words of affection from you are always hard-earned. They are not freely given, and Patrick knows that he treasures them even more because of it. His chest expands in a deep sigh, his eyes fluttering closed.

"Don't shut me out."

He's long since accustomed to the fact that you will never open up fully, that your relationship will always be one-sided in a way, with him baring his soul while you withhold yours. But it's the distance that he can't stand, the way you can retreat into yourself without warning.

His fingers tighten around your hand while his other hand rests on the small of your back, keeping you close to him. He's not letting you run from this conversation; one of you has to be brave for once. "It's almost like you're ashamed to be with me."

"No, that's not it at all," you reply, your voice quiet. It's an uncharacteristic softness, the way you speak when he gets in his head like this. A rarity. Or in the tender embraces you share after sex, reserved just for him. "You're the only good thing in my life sometimes, Pat."

Patrick almost wishes you could be less reserved for him, less protective and guarded. But he knows that it's wishful thinking. He's resigned to the fact that your detachment is part of you, your armour, your defence.

He's used to it, but it doesn't mean he likes it.

"Yes, but—" He begins, his thoughts cut short by the gentle touch of your fingers against his knuckles. You always do this. It's a habit you've picked up from him. Always toying with each other's hands when you're together. Something about the touch makes his chest tighten, and he almost forgets what he wanted to say.

He lets out a shaky, uneven breath, his forehead dropping against the curve of your shoulder exposed by the half-buttoned shirt. Part of him wants to tell you everything, how much he cherishes moments like these, how much your words mean to him—how much you mean to him.

But he's never been as eloquent as you are, even with a litany of poems under his belt. There's a difference between speaking them out loud and confessing them onto a page. So the words die on his lips. Something about the comfort of your touch silences any protest he has, even when it's only in his head. His fingers tighten around yours, and he places a brief kiss to your collarbone.

"Stay the night?"

"Mhm, okay," you hum in confirmation. You place your own kiss to the side of his head, directly into the dark chocolate strands of hair. The smell of sweat and sex still lingers between you, a welcome reprieve from the subtle tension a few moments before.

He allows himself to take some comfort in it, the knowledge that you will stay, that you will remain here with him. Patrick knows that it's not so simple, that you may yet disappear again, return to being that detached girl who could not care less about him—but for now, you are here. Warm and soft against his body.

One of his hands trails up to tangle in your soft hair, guiding your chin up to meet his eyes. And then he leans closer, his lips finding yours in a slow, unhurried kiss. His mouth moves over yours gently; he can still taste a hint of your lipstick underneath his tongue, a faded berry stain that smears between you.

And he takes a moment to just relish in it, the soft press of your lips together, before pulling away to speak into the scant air between you. "Sometimes I wish you'd be more demonstrative with me," he murmurs, entirely without thinking, his eyes fixed on your full, bitten-red lips. You don't even need lipstick like this, he thinks. Not when he can stain them red for you.

Patrick sighs, when his words are repeated in his mind—not that he has any intentions of taking it back. He's been craving your attention ever since you started this whole thing, ever since that night back in September, an entire season ago, but he hasn't ever been bold enough to ask for it. Not until now.

It was supposed to be a thoughtless confession, a passing remark, but the second the words leave his lips, he realises he meant them. Deeply. He wants your affection, your attention. Your love. Not this aloof, indifferent version of you that is always slightly removed and out-of-reach. He wants you to care.

"Demonstrative..?" You prompt after a moment of subdued silence. You release his hand, only to loop your arms around his neck in a loose embrace.

"Mhm."

His voice is low, the sound of it muffled by the way his mouth is pressed against your skin, his breath warm and uneven against your exposed collarbone. But there is an edge to his words—a hint of something more vulnerable than what either of you are used to.

"More affectionate," he clarifies after a moment, the words rushed. As if getting them out fast enough will lessen the inevitable blow of your scorn for being so weak. "More loving."

He feels almost like a child, begging for attention. Maybe he's searching for what his mother never gave him in you. That thought is a little too much to unpack right now, though. Especially when just your close proximity is making his head spin, his longing for you overwhelming any hesitation about voicing his thoughts. He knows that he's pushing further than usual, the words tumbling out as if he's physically compelled to say them.

But he can't help it.

The need for affection, devotion, is suffocating. He's not used to asking for more, to actually having to put his thoughts in words. Everyone else just gives him what he needs. The challenge is what drew you to him in the first place, but he is beginning to realise that he may have taken a bite of something more than he can chew.

His face is buried against the crook of your neck, lips grazing slowly over your pulse point. It isn't even fluttering, as if this doesn't have the same effect on you that it does on him. Truly maddening.

It is too much, perhaps. Too much honesty, too much neediness. But he cannot help the way his heart aches at the thought of your indifference, the way his soul cries for your love. His hands slide slowly up your back, tracing the warm skin just under the edge of your borrowed shirt. They don't stop until they reach the nape of your neck, his fingertips playing with the smooth skin and hairs there.

"Please?" He whispers against the shell of your ear. The quiet plea hangs heavily in the air, and for a moment, Patrick is tempted to just blurt it all out. To put all his cards on the table and let the pieces fall where they may. But he pushes the words down, locking them away in the depths of his heart.

"I love you," you say, tilting your head to catch his mouth in another languid, gentle kiss. A thousand words that you wouldn't dare speak aloud poured into the tender gesture, before you break free. But Patrick can't help but wonder whether it's a genuine confession or merely something to placate his aching soul. "I'm not good at this whole... romance thing, you know."

He shuts his eyes briefly at the sound of your words, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He does not trust himself to speak, his heart stuck in his throat.

I know, he wants to say. I know you're bad at this. You're bad at love and affection and vulnerability and relationships. But I need you to try. For me.

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead he lets out the breath he's been holding and tugs you that little bit closer, fingers trailing slowly over the smooth curve of your spine.

"Yes, I know," he mutters. His tone is that of a sad, resigned acceptance of the fact that you have walls around your heart.

That this is it.

No tenderness, no declarations, no loving words other than those to appease him. You are fond of him, perhaps even fond of him too much, but he cannot expect you to love him in the way he does. He cannot have the love he desperately craves, and he is beginning to realise that there's absolutely nothing he can do about it.

He's not used to feeling so powerless.

A hint of bitterness creeps into his chest at the thought, and a part of him wants to pull away. He wants to put some distance between you, to distance his heart from this girl who does not love him but whom he loves with his entire being.

But it's impossible to resist the warm press of your skin, the soft brush of your fingers against his hair. He cannot push you away, and instead holds you even tighter against his chest. Some form of affection is better than nothing. Anything is better than nothing.

And that is when Patrick realises that no matter how much he loves you, no matter how much he craves more affection, he will take anything that you are willing to give him.

His mouth trails along your jawline, planting gentle kisses there; he's lost in the warm, familiar scent of your skin against his lips, the feeling of your soft body against his. There is a certain resignation in his touch, a bittersweet acceptance that this will be enough.

His mind is still spinning, his thoughts muddled, but his body responds easily where his brain cannot. The touch of his lips against your skin grows more urgent. Despite his realisation, he craves you, and if this is all he can get, he'll take full advantage of that.

His lips return to your mouth in a hungrier kiss, the desperate need for you seeping into the way his tongue presses at the seam of your lips. His hands begin to roam the length of your body, tracing against the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips. He needs this, he needs this, and his touch grows more frantic with each passing moment. He can feel the bitterness begin to wash away, replaced with something else.

Something familiar. Desire.

Despite his earlier realisation, his need for you does not subside. No, it does not subside, instead replaced by a different need. His fingers move to the buttons of the shirt, a gentle tug in a silent plea for more—for your clothes to come entirely back off, for more skin against skin.

"Tired," comes your protest against his mouth. But you don't break away from him, hands still threaded into his hair. "I mean, we've already fucked, Pat."

His breath stutters in his chest at that, because he's not sure if it's an excuse for you to stop here, end this, stop them, or if you're simply tired.

It's not that different, he can't help but think. Not that different.

His lips trail over your neck, planting a line of hot, slow kisses down the side, but there is a hint of resignation in the way he touches you now. "You sure?"

"Mhm," you mumble. Your hand cards gently through his curls, the touch almost apologetic in nature. "We can cuddle, though."

Patrick almost lets out a sigh, his lips pausing against your throat. He's trying to push down any disappointment that threatens to break past the surface.

You do not want more. You're tired, you're done with him for the night.

It's fine. It's okay.

He presses one last kiss to the place where your neck meets your shoulder, the sigh that follows almost inaudible even in the silence of his room. "Yeah. Cuddle."

His arms loosen their grip around you to give you room to pull away, although a part of him doesn't want to. A part of him wants to hold onto you, to keep you close forever. But he does not want to come off as even more pathetic than he already has tonight.

Instead he settles for slowly sitting back against the headboard, opening his arms in a silent invitation. You shift back up the bed to join him, tucking in against him, head pressed against his shoulder. He wraps his arms around you again, holding you close to his chest. A kiss is pressed to the top of your head, and he tries to find comfort in the sense of closeness.

But your words from earlier keep coming back to his mind.

I'm not good at this whole romance thing, you know.

He swallows past the lump in his throat and tries to settle against the pillow. Despite having you in his arms and the solace it should give him, he can't help the way he feels a pang of discomfort at your words. He's not asking for romance, necessarily. Not for flowers and poetry (ironically) and grand demonstrations of love.

He just wants your affection. He just wants to be wanted. He just wants to feel loved.

"Does it hurt?" Your voice cuts through the silence after a while, reaching up with a hand to trace the tender skin at the back of his shoulder. He lets out a soft, somewhat strained breath at the feeling of your fingertips over the sensitive skin there. It's not pain, exactly. More of a warm, almost aching sting around the scratches.

"it's fine," he mutters, and he's not entirely sure if the answer is referring to the physical wound or the emotional one. It's hardly much different at this point. No matter what happens, you always inflict him with something.

A beat passes, then another.

He keeps his eyes closed, listening to the silence, to the sound of your intermingled soft breaths. He can feel his own heartbeat, the steady thump against his ribs, but it's almost as if his chest is cold. As if there's something missing.

That familiar lump rises again in his throat, and when he speaks, his voice feels strained. As if it's been a week of not using it, rather than just two minutes.

"You're not falling in love with me, are you?"

"I told you I loved you five minutes ago, Pat. Sometimes it is a marvel that you are a scholar at all with that memory of yours," you say, your tone light as the hand on his shoulder trails down until your palm is flat against his heart, right next to your head.

And his heart, which had been thumping steadily against his chest, stutters at the sound of your words. He opens his eyes and looks down at the top of your head, his fingers tracing absent little circles against the skin of your forearm.

You had said the words—I love you—back in January, and now again tonight. Does that not mean you love him?

"That's not what I meant," he says, quiet and gentle, almost fragile.

"Then what did you mean?" You ask. You can feel the way his heart is picking up, the steady thump thump thump picking up into something more erratic.

Patrick swallows, his throat tight and dry, and another shaky breath escapes his parted lips as he grapples for words. "Like... emotionally. Emotionally in love."

The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

"You love me, you've said that. But you're not in love with me. Not the way I'm in love with you," he goes on, his words quiet and faltering. He just wants you to need him in the same way that he needs you. Like water in a desert, or the way a body needs a heart. You are his heart, or at the very least you're in possession of his own.

"Pat, I'm your girlfriend," you say, tilting your chin to look up at him. "I wouldn't have accepted such a title if I wasn't smitten with you, you know."

He has to bite back something between a scoff and a sigh. That's the thing. That's the difference. This isn't about the title you give it, it's about what's under the title. About the true emotional depth behind the world girlfriend.

"Yeah," he says, softly and bitterly. "My girlfriend."

His fingers tighten reflexively around your arm, and he has to force himself to relax. "I see the way you look at me, you know," he continues, his words low but laced with an unmistaken hint of vulnerability. One that surprises even himself. "I know you care about me, that you like me in some way. Love me, even. But I'm not what you need. And I'm certainly not your first choice."

"Then who is my first choice?" There's almost a challenge in the way you ask it, despite the tenderness of your hand against his heart. And he almost laughs at the question. Are you really that oblivious? He shakes his head, even if you can't see it, and answers with a single word.

"Art."

You actually jerk up at that. The way you look at him is somewhat incredulous, or perhaps even disgusted that he could say such a thing out loud.

"Don't be so ridiculous," you say, your words coming out a tad bit harsher than expected. And his chest aches at the way you move with such speed, the harshness of your voice and the hardness in your eyes at his words.

"Why? Because it's a little too true?" He says, his words tight and bitter. "C'mon. You and I both know you've got a thing for him." He props himself up on his forearms, shifting to match your upright position. "I'm not trying to be ridiculous," Patrick continues, a hint of frustration injected into his flurry of words. "I'm just trying to get you to see it. To see how you really feel, about him, about us... about me."

He knows how the words sound, and that you will undoubtedly take them as some sort of criticism or rejection, as if he hadn't wanted you there. But you both know the truth, he thinks. Patrick swallows, and his heart feels lodged in his throat. "You only chose me because he turned you down."

"Oh, piss off, Patrick," you say, the words—his given name, as opposed to the Pat you've always called him—practically sneered at him. "That's not what happened at all. I don't know how you've managed to jump to that conclusion."

He scoffs, and his heart twists painfully in his chest. It's hard not to grow frustrated, the bitter hurt at both your words and the situation he's fabricated in his head bordering on anger.

"It's not that much of an exaggeration, and you know it," he shoots back, his voice increasingly tight and strained. "You were desperate that night. You only came back to me because you knew I'd get on my knees and worship the ground you walk on, no questions asked."

The words are like acid in his mouth, but he can't help but feel a sense of bitter satisfaction—of victory—seeing the way you react. And he knows it's unfair, but he's too riled up right now (a problem of his own making, naturally) to care.

“You knew I’d come running the moment you called. You wanted that, you wanted me to drop everything and come crawling to you again, begging at your feet.”

"I've never wanted Art, you delusional prick," you scowl. And then you withdraw yourself suddenly, the movement almost violent in the way you disappear from his arms so quickly it's like you were almost never there.

You sit at the edge of the bed, legs draped over the edge as you card a frustrated hand through your messy hair. And at that sudden withdrawal, Patrick almost feels like something has been wrenched out of him, his hands clenching around empty air as you move away. He sits back against the headboard, his eyes fixed on your slumped figure at the edge of the bed, the sudden distance in the room almost palpable. 

He wants to reach out and pull you back to him, to bury his face in your neck and kiss you until he can’t remember why he’s angry. But he doesn’t. Instead he swallows the words bubbling in his throat and lets the silence fall.

There’s a sense of resignation in the quiet that envelops the room. Patrick can feel the tension between you, the weight of all the things you’re refusing to say, while you stew at the edge of the bed.

He watches you, taking in the slope of your shoulders and the way your fingers are tangled in your hair (a nervous habit of yours, he's come to learn, but it seems more aggrieved than anxious at the moment), and his own heart aches with the need to bridge the distance between you. 

But he doesn’t. Not yet. There’s something he has to say first.

“You’ve never wanted Art?” His voice is quiet, and he can feel the resentment brewing at the back of his throat. “You’ve never even thought about it?” 

He’s grasping for something, anything, anything at all to convince himself that he’s wrong. 

“Answer me honestly, and don’t you dare lie.”

"I can't believe you would even say that," you say, shaking your head. Your gaze burns into the ground beneath your bare feet, your knee bouncing. You're itching for a cigarette, but you can't bring yourself to move to get one right now.

"No, Patrick. Art's a friend, at most."

He almost scoffs at the words, his heart twisting painfully in his chest. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you, really. And it’s not that he doesn’t believe you, either. 

It’s just that he wants to. He needs to. 

“Bullshit,” he mutters. “I see the way you look at him, the way you act around him. I’m not stupid.”

God, he’s grasping, and he knows it.

“You keep coming back to me because you know it’s safe, you know there’s no risk,” He scoffs, bitter with self-pity. Or maybe self-sabotage. “You know I’ll always be here, at your beck and call, because I’m in love with you, and you know how much that hurts me. But God forbid you ever let yourself fall for me too. That might actually be a challenge. That might actually need effort from you.”

"Patrick Zweig, if you're going to sit here and accuse me of being in love with your best friend and not you, my fucking boyfriend," you snap, turning your head back towards him. "I'm going to walk out that door right now. I'm not doing this with you."

His chest tightens uncomfortably at those words, at the threat of you leaving, of you walking out the door and never looking back. But he can’t back down, not now. Not when he’s so sure of this. He needs to know. He has to know. 

He takes a breath, and ploughs on. Might as well dig his own grave at this point.

“I wish you would,” he scoffs, his eyes fixed on you in challenge. “I wish you would have walked out a long time ago.”

His heart aches as the words leave his mouth, the bitter irony not lost on him. He can see that they cut you, the way your shoulders sag and your expression clouds, and a small part of him hates himself for doing it. But there’s something else, some twisted, masochistic part of him that relishes the hurt he’s causing. Because at least you feel something. 

He laughs, a harsh, hollow sound, even to his own ears. “Maybe you should leave this time, for good.”

"Maybe I should, Patrick," you snap in reply, your words nothing short of biting. The only thing that's stopping you from getting up and storming out right now is the anchor of the regret you know you'd feel as soon as the door was shut. "Run off into the sunset with Art, shall I? And you can go off and find a girl willing to write you the little sonnets and love poems you so clearly need."

A volatile mixture of hurt and anger and resentment wells up in his chest at that. Mocking his adoration for poetry is a low blow, and you both know it. He's never asked that of you—that’s not your way of showing affection. It’s his. A way of expressing his love, and you act like it's some inconvenience?

“Oh, I’ll find one. You don’t have to worry about that,” he says. “I’ll find someone who actually wants me, instead of someone who just keeps me around because I’m convenient.”

He knows he’s treading dangerous waters now, that one wrong word might set you off like a powder keg. But he can’t seem to stop himself, the words tumbling out of his mouth like a flood he has no hopes of containing. At this point, he doesn’t even want to.

“I’ll find someone who sees me as something more than just a fallback, someone who actually cares about me, not just about what I can do for her.”

"And what can you do for me, huh? Except sit there and whine about the fact I'm supposedly in love with your dear old pal?" You fire back.

His heart aches at those words, the accusation like a knife to his chest. 

Patrick swallows, his voice tight. “I have been nothing but devoted to you. All these years, everything I ever do is for you. I would drop anything, anyone, at your command.”

He scoffs. “I would literally take a bullet for you,” he says, the words practically spat out.

“And all you’ve ever given me is your scraps of attention,” He continues. “You come and go as you please, taking whatever you want from me with no regard for my feelings, and you have the audacity to act like I’m asking for too much?”

"I have never once told you that you were asking for too much, Patrick. What I am saying, is that it's absolutely ridiculous that you could accuse me of... of what? Wanting to be unfaithful to you, with Art, no less? Am I supposed to just take that in my stride and not act as if it doesn't make me sick to my stomach to hear that?" You say, the words pouring out of you, laced with derision and perhaps just a little bit of... anguish? as you rise to your feet. Or perhaps that's just wishful thinking on his part.

He knows he’s crossed a line, that he’s gone too far this time. But he can’t stop himself from doubling down. 

“Why?” he says, his voice low. “Why does it make you sick, hmm? Because I’m wrong, or because I’m right?”

"Because you're wrong, Patrick. And it disgusts me that it could even cross your mind that I would ever do such a thing to you," you sneer in reply. "I mean, do you really think that little of me?" A dry, humourless laugh punctuates your words.

His heart aches to hear it, the disdain and indignation in your voice like a punch to the gut. He swallows down the retort that rises in his throat, the urge to hurt you back growing stronger with every moment you refuse to admit what he believes to be the truth. 

But he bites his tongue, his voice a quiet confession as he says, “Sometimes? Yes, I do.”

You scoff.

“I think you could tear my heart out, smash it to pieces, and not even bat an eye,” he continues, his voice dropping into a quiet confession. “I think you’ll ruin me without a second thought if it meant you got what you wanted in the end.”

He takes a breath, his voice strained with the weight of his admission. The same words have adorned a page a thousand times, but speaking them aloud is something else entirely. He's not sure whether it's making him feel worse or better.

God, he feels pathetic.

“And that kills me. It kills me to know that you’ve got me wrapped so tight around your finger that I’m just willing to follow you around like a lost puppy, waiting for the scraps of attention you deign to give me.”

He laughs, a dark, humourless sound. “I must look pathetic to you, yeah?”

He hates himself for it, but he continues. There’s no point in stopping now, right?

“Tell me, do you laugh about me behind my back with Art when we’re not together? Does he tell you how I’ll do practically anything you want, that I’ll bend over backwards just for the thrill of being the one who gets a scrap of your precious time? I bet he does,” he says, his voice laced with animosity at just the thought. “I bet he gets off on watching me trip all over myself just for your attention. It probably amuses him, I’m sure it’s very funny to watch me suffer. A big difference from the Patrick Zweig everyone else knows, right? How delightful.”

"Stop it," you interject, the words a harsh demand. But there's a hint of desperation in your gaze, as if you cannot stand to hear such vile accusations. "I don't do that, Pat. Nor does he."

And his chest tightens at the hurt in your eyes, at the raw emotion that’s there. But he doesn’t let up, he can’t let up. 

“Why should I believe you, hmm?” he says, his voice dripping with derision. “Why should I just take your word for it, just like that, when I know the truth?” Patrick scoffs, his eyes meeting yours in a defiant stare as he watches you tug your trousers back on. 

“Because you’re supposed to treat your boyfriend with faithfulness and respect,” he retorts, voice flat with accusation. “But I guess we’re both falling short, aren’t we?”

"I do treat you with faithfulness, you absolute tosser," you bite in reply. You cross his room to retrieve your shoes, your face contorted into a scowl. His stomach churns as he watches, at your clear intention to leave. 

“Where are you going?" he demands, his voice rising as panic floods through him. "You can't just walk out every time we argue like this, you can't—"

"I can't what? The only thing I cannot do, is sit there and listen to you accuse me of being unfaithful to you. I won't do it," you say, shaking your head vehemently as you drop down to the floor. Damn your stupid laced boots.

He lets out a frustrated huff, his mind reeling with the panic and hurt that’s swirling inside him. 

“But it’s true!" he says, the words almost involuntary as they tear themselves from his chest. He's desperate at this point. To continue or resolve this fight, he does not know. But he can't have you leave. “You are unfaithful to me—maybe not in body, but at least in heart!”

"You are so... so stupid sometimes, Patrick, I cannot even fathom it. It hurts my fucking brain that you could even... you could even conjure up such a thing in your own," you say, as you fumble with the laces. He's the most intelligent person you know, sure, but that big brain of his is rendered utterly useless when it comes to matters of the heart.

Not that you're much better, really.

He lets out a humourless laugh, the sound both rough and bitter. “Yeah, I’m stupid,” he returns, his voice harsh. “I’m just the idiot who’s completely in love with you, who can’t see that you’re completely, utterly enchanted with my best friend instead.”

Another laugh, the sound hollow in the air. “I’m the fool who’s just willing to look the other way while you sit there and make a joke out of me, while you string me along while you decide whether you want me or him.”

"I don't want him," you snap. You're all but yelling at him now, the level of volume certainly enough to raise some questions on the floor of the dorm. But given your entire conversation, propriety is not on the table right now, as you finally do up your laces and rise to your feet.

"I want you, Pat."

The words cut through him like a knife, slicing deep into his heart. His chest tightens painfully at the admission, the air leaving his lungs in a harsh exhale. Because, unlike all those other placating whispers, the vehemence in your voice now feels real to him. He’s silent for a moment, the only sound in the room his breaths. All he can feel is the rapid, heavy pounding of his heart.

Finally, he speaks hoarsely. “Then prove it, for once in your life. Show me that you mean it, and it's not just... just some bullshit to placate me."

"What do you want me to do, huh?" You say, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "Declare my undying love for you? Run off and elope with you in the night?"

He shakes his head, the motion sharp and frustrated. “No, not any of that soppy nonsense,” he says, his voice still roughened by emotion. “Just look me in the eyes and tell me, honestly, that I’m the only one you care about. That there’s nothing between you and Art Donaldson.”

"There is nothing going on between us," you tell him, crossing the distance back towards the bed. Your eyes are dark and steely as you look at him, unyielding. "Not a single thing."

His heart thumps in his chest, the palpable battle between hope and lingering doubt sending a shudder through his body. It takes a moment for your words sink in, the sound of his own harsh breathing filling the silence between them. 

Finally, his voice comes out in a raspy whisper. “You swear it on your life?”

"Do you want me to pull out a fucking Bible, too?" You snap back. And then the tension in your body seeps out a little, and you drag a hand through your hair. A moment's pause, and then your continuation is a lot softer, "I swear."

Patrick nods, swallowing hard. He's half-tempted to ask for a pinky promise, but that seems so ridiculously juvenile right now and would only lead to further embarrassment. But he needs to be sure. He has to be sure.

"Swear it on your family," he continues, his voice still choked. "On your father, your mother, your brothers. Swear it on everything you hold dear."

You let out a scoff at that; you're half-tempted to call him pathetic, to laugh at him for demanding such a thing. But you don't, tugging on the roots of your hair as you try to force the words out.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say. But the moment of hesitation passes. “I swear it. On everything.”

He feels the tension drain out of him, his heart easing at that response. He lets out a long, ragged exhale, the pain in his chest slowly lessening. 

He believes you. He has to believe you. Because you are the substance he craves, and he is nothing but a lowly acolyte, ever at the mercy of his deity.

So in that moment, he just can’t bring himself to care if he looks ridiculous. He's already been enough of a twat tonight.

Without another word, he pushes himself off the bed and closes the gap between you, taking you in his arms and pulling you flush against him. He feels cold, standing up naked like this. But he’d face the harshest winds of the Arctic to feel you against him right now. A part of you wants to push him away, tell him that you want nothing to do with him right now. That you need time to process the fact that he had so little faith in you. Because fuck, that had hurt.

But the warmth of his embrace drains the fight in you. You melt into him, and you're almost tempted to cry as your arms loop around him. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of you—jasmine, cigarettes and lingering sweat from your earlier endeavours. God, that feels like a lifetime ago now.

The thought of you wanting to leave had terrified him, and it’s only now, with you safe in his arms, the reassurance you had given him settling in his chest, that the full force of the fear hits him. 

His voice is a hoarse murmur when he speaks into your soft hair, the words thick with emotion. “I’m an idiot. A total knobhead.”

He laughs, the sound dry and humourless. “I’m so stupid it’s a wonder I haven’t dropped dead yet from pure idiocy.” He takes another shaky breath, holding you tighter. “I’m sorry. I was wrong, I was… I was utterly wrong, and I didn’t—“

He cuts himself off, exhaling into your hair as he searches for the words his brain provides but his mouth refutes. “I just don’t know what I would do if I lost you. I love you so much, it’s unbearable. I think I’d go fucking mad. You’re it for me." The words are whispered with a fierce desperation. “I know I act like a selfish idiot most of the time, but you have to believe me, I just… I just can’t lose you. I love you. I love you so much, and I would do anything, anything to keep you. So just… please,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible in the quiet room. “Just please don’t ever leave me, my beloved. Please.”

“Don’t call me my beloved right now, you absolute arse. You don't deserve it,” you huff out in reply. But the words are tinged with something lighter again, even if it feels like you might burst into tears at the familiar term.

Patrick lets out a laugh, his voice rough and ragged but tinged with genuine mirth. He can practically feel the weight lifted off his shoulders at your tease.

“Bloody hell, I just bared my bleeding heart to you, woman, and you’re more concerned with my choice of endearment. I mean, where’s your romantic spirit, hmm?” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration against your ear. “Here I am baring my soul to you, and you can’t even muster up a single I love you, my darling Pat?”

“I hate you too much right now to muster up such a horrible thing,” you whisper in reply, words muffled against his chest. The way you're clinging to him right now shows quite the opposite of disdain, though.

He gives another huff of laughter, the sound tinged with relief; he can see right through your facade. For once, it feels like you’re letting him in. He lifts a hand to your head and threads it through your hair, his voice softer and more affectionate now. “You don’t hate me, and you know it. You just like to act all blasé and casual, to keep me on my toes. Nothing is ever simple with you.”

“You’re such a bloody prick sometimes, Pat,” you breathe out in reply. “Honestly, I just… god.”

You shake your head against him. You aren't entirely sure whether you want to take off your boots again or just collapse into the sheets with him and hold each other, whispering nonsense to each other into the dark hours of the night. Or, the complete opposite, and allow that lingering hurt to take precedence and drive you to bid him goodnight and spend the night in your own quarters. Patrick is thinking the same, his mind torn in two. Part of him is desperate to bury his fear, his doubt, in a night of love and tenderness. To drown it in the comfort of your body, in the taste of your skin.

The other part wants to cling to you, begging forgiveness over and over and over until it sinks in that you're not leaving, not now, not ever. That you're his, that he’s yours. And he’ll never, ever doubt you again.

But he knows you, he knows you, and he knows that you're still hurt, still angry, still upset by the accusations that he’d made. And while his instincts urge him to take you in his arms, his chest tight with the need for touch, for comfort, he can’t bring himself to do it. Not when it might piss you off even more than he already has. Because sure, the basis of his argument had been solid. The need for affection, for something more than just tender touches late at night...

The accusations, though? Far too much.

So instead, he just pulls you impossibly closer against him, holding you tight to keep you both anchored together, his voice rasping against your ear. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

And you allow him.

“I was an idiot,” he continues, his voice hoarse. “A blind, selfish, stupid idiot. I let myself believe a load of bollocks when I should’ve trusted you. You’re the most faithful, the most wonderful, the most… the most goddamn perfect person—“

He cuts himself off, his voice catching in his throat. “You’re everything. You’re everything to me.”

He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his heart thrumming in his chest. His eyes are shining with earnestness as he tells you, “I’ll never doubt you again. I promise. I swear on my dead grandmother, I’ll never doubt you again.”

“Oh, don’t bring your fucking grandmother into this,” you groan, shutting your eyes. “It’s so terribly morbid. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

Patrick lets out a shaky bark of laughter. He cups your chin, gently tilting your head up with the press of his fingers. “Can’t have my very serious and sincere promise to never doubt you again being tainted by the mention of a long-dead old woman in my family?” He shakes his head, his voice tinged with fond exasperation. “You are the strangest girl I’ve ever known, did you know that? Any other girl I’ve had a tiff with, they’d’ve swooned at the mention of my undying devotion. But you just worry about the deceased.”

“Is it so hard to believe I hold respect for the dead?” You reply, with a tiny little smile that tells him some of your anger towards him has melted away. “Besides, I’m not any other girl, you know. There’s a reason you’re so hung up on me.”

He lets out a huff of laughter, his eyes dancing with affection. “No, you’re not any other girl,” he agrees, giving your chin a playful pinch between his thumb and forefinger. “Which is why I’m so hopelessly in love with you, even when you’re being difficult and contrary and obstinate.”

He sighs, his tone affectionate rather than exasperated. “And when you’re not letting me take responsibility and properly apologize for my idiocy, which, might I add, is an absolute crime against chivalry and romance.”

“Just shut your mouth and take my boots off, after making me go through such trouble to put them back on,” you sigh. You pull free from his grasp to take a seat on the edge of the bed, watching him expectantly.

He lets out his own long-suffering sigh, though the corner of his mouth is quirked up in a smile. “My my, my stubborn girl has some demands tonight, does she?” he says, slowly lowering himself onto his knees in front of you.

“You’re very lucky I’m in a forgiving mood,” he adds as his fingers find the laces of your boot. A bold statement to make, judging by the argument he had started. But at least he's being a little more himself. “I don’t think anyone else would be so eager to give into such an entitled little princess.”

But he tugs the first boot off, gently setting it aside before moving on to the second, his hands moving with practiced ease. Despite the teasing edge in his voice, there’s undeniable care in his movements, a tenderness in the way he works. Fingers grazing over your ankles, working your shoe free and giving a teasing little tug to your frilled lace sock to watch it snap back against your skin.

“Honestly, you’re like a cat,” he teases as he tosses the second boot aside. “Spend all day lounging about and lazing in the sun, then expect me to come along and pamper you as soon as the sun goes down.”

He places a kiss to your knee, and then rises to his feet, settling back on the bed and leaning against the headboard. Patrick beckons to you, patting the space beside him. “Come here,” he says, his voice soft and coaxing; it’s not the first time he’s started an argument, and it probably won’t be the last. But he always knows how to ease the tension afterwards. “I’m not done pampering you yet.”

He gives a quiet hum of satisfaction as you settle in beside him, his arm coming to wrap around your shoulders. He tugs you as close as physics will allow, right against his chest, his other hand coming up to idly toy with your hair. 

He’s quiet for a moment, simply basking in the feel of you against him, your bodies pressed together. Then, he finally breaks the silence. 

“I really am an idiot, you know.”

His voice is soft, tinged with just a hint of self-deprecation, a contrast to his normal bravado. He shakes his head, his fingers twisting in your hair unconsciously. “I mean… I honestly, honestly believed you’d cheat on me, with fucking Art of all people, just because I… because I had a terrible day. Like all the work you’ve done to prove your loyalty is rendered null and void just because I let my insecurities get the best of me. Art,” he repeats, as if the very idea is ridiculous. “I mean, come on. I know he’s handsome and all that, but he’s one of the most awkward men I know. I’m honestly not sure he even knows how to flirt, let alone have an affair with someone.”

Patrick shakes his head.

“And you,” he continues, his voice gentling once more. “You’re like the picture of loyalty. It’s one of the things I love most about you. You’re fierce and passionate, but you give that loyalty to people you care about, and once it’s given, it’s as good as cemented in stone. You don’t go back on it. You’d never betray someone you loved, not like that, even if you were offered the sun and the moon on a silver platter.”

He lets out a sigh, tightening his arm around your shoulder. “And I know that. I do. But sometimes I get so… scared that you’ll realize how much better you deserve and just… leave me. For someone else who’s better at this relationship thing, or less insecure and angry and just… better than me.”

“Pat, I literally could not care less about finding anyone other than you—“

“And for the thousandth time,” he counters, his voice tinged with feigned annoyance at your stubbornness. “I know that. But my stupid brain still tries to convince me you’re going to realize I’m just too rough around the edges for you to deal with.” He huffs out a bitter laugh. “Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve managed to put up with me as long as you have. I’m lucky to have a girl who doesn’t care about how incapable I am at everything outside of literature, and I go and accuse her of being in love with my best friend like a wanker.”

He shakes his head. “You’re a saint, is what you are, for putting up with me. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I thank whatever gods are watching that you put up with my idiocy on a daily basis.”

He gives one of the locks of your hair a little playful tug. “And if you ever do decide to leave me, just… make sure you have the decency to take pity on me and warn me in advance, hmm? I’d like the chance to at least grovel and beg for your forgiveness, before you walk out the door.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Yes, yes. I’ll be sure to give you a few days notice.”

“Good,” he says with a nod, his tone serious in spite of the mirth dancing in his eyes. “I think that’s reasonable. A few days notice, a good bottle of gin, and a chance to make an absolute fool of myself before you walk away. I doubt I’d be able to change your mind, but I’d at least like to go through the motions before you leave me to wallow in my own self-pity and grief.”

Patrick sighs.

"Probably find a new favorite bar to wallow in, too,” he adds. “I’d have to give up every spot we’ve been to together, especially the ones you like. Can’t go there anymore, since they’d remind me too much of you.”

He pauses for a moment, his fingers idly tracing the curve of your shoulder, your collarbone, anywhere exposed by the half-buttoned linen. “I don’t think I’d ever find another bottle of gin I’d like as much, either. The one from the store down the street would be too sweet, the one from the high-end bar over on the main road would taste too tart… nothing would compare to the one we share.”

There’s a contemplative pause, where he taps his finger against you a few times.

“And I’d have to find an entirely new wardrobe,” he laments. “I could never wear these fucking argyle sweaters again. They’d remind me too much of you and how lovely you look in them when I loan them out to you.”

And oh, how beautiful he thinks you look in his clothes.

“I’d have to sell all my records, too,” he continues, his words tinged with a melodramatic amount of despair for the sake of comedy in an attempt to lighten the mood. “All of our favorites. Never listen to my Beatles records again, because every song I play would remind me of the hundred times we’ve bloody well sung along together and get all sad and pathetic about it. And don’t even get me started on all the poems I’ve written for you,” he says, shaking his head. “I’d have to throw out every single scrap of paper they’re written on. Or better yet, burn the manuscripts of my work as an offering to purge the memories. That would probably be more poetic. Much more fitting, I feel.”

He can practically feel you rolling your eyes against him, and he knows you’re moments away from telling him to shut up for the rest of the night.

“And I’d have never enjoy a cup of tea ever again,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, exaggerated whisper. “Wouldn’t even touch the stuff. And God, the movies we’ve seen together. I’d have to steer clear of every theatre for the rest of my life, at risk of remembering how you look in the dark with the film playing across your face.”

He takes a deep breath (because he’s been running his mouth for so long his lungs are in dire need of oxygen), his hand (which seems to be permanently stained with ink) coming up to cradle your cheek. “And the places we’ve gone together. The restaurant with the good pizza, the one you like, I’d never be able to eat from again. The park down the road where we like to go for a quiet walk sometimes. The museum we like with the beautiful pieces you love to stare at for hours. The bookstore where we pick out the ones with the stupid titles so we can read them aloud to each other. The coffee shop with your favourite drink, the art store you like to go to that always makes me drag you out after you spend an outrageous amount on supplies…” he trails off, shaking his head. “Everything would remind me of you. Fucking everything.”

And as playful as he’s being, he knows that part isn’t an exaggeration.

“Honestly, I don’t know how I’d even survive.” He says with a melodramatic sigh, shaking his head dejectedly, the very pinnacle of a pitiful boyfriend. “I’d probably wither and die in my own self-pity and despair, wallowing away like the pathetic and miserable creature I am until someone found me, stiff as a board and dried up like a mummified corpse.”

“Jesus, Pat, stop being so dramatic. You’re like a broken record. Giving me a headache,” you groan.

“It’s not my fault I’m so maudlin when I’m thinking about your hypothetical exit from my life,” he defends himself with an indignant huff of protest, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Not many things get me all pathetic and poetic and melodramatic, my girl, but the idea of you leaving me is absolutely one of them.”

There’s a brief pause, and you can just tell whatever he says next is going to drive you mad.

“But…” he adds, with a hint of mischievousness in his voice, “I suppose your beautiful, angelic, radiant presence just inspires me with such overwhelming despair that I have to write a tragic Shakespearean sonnet to lament your absence in my life, for my heart is heavy and my spirit broken after your cruel, heartless abandonment.”

He gives another melodramatic sigh, one hand pressed dramatically to his heart next to your head. “Oh, the agony, the pain of it all. How I shall ever survive without you, my sweet, sweet darling… I can think of no other woman, no other soul on this earth, who can inspire such passionate misery and sorrow within me. Why, without you, I’m but a mere shell of my former self. A man wandering through life’s garden, stumbling and blind without the glorious sunshine, without the warmth and brightness that you so beautifully provide. Oh, you must find it within your heart of hearts to take pity on me, and spare me the endless abyss that would be my life without your light and love.”

He goes silent as your hand presses against his mouth, his lips parting beneath your touch. He meets your gaze with an equal mixture of amusement and mock despair, his eyebrows arching in a comically dramatic display of desperation. It's a testament to his theatrics that the expression he manages to maintain is just believable enough to look genuine, with his wide, puppy-dog eyes that convey nothing less than a hopeless devotion.

What an absolute fucking idiot. Unfortunately, he’s your absolute fucking idiot.

He sighs against your palm, the sound coming out more like a low, resigned whimper (that he’ll absolutely deny outside of this interaction), his eyes pleading with you to show mercy on his poor, wretched soul. He lets his lower lip jut out in the slightest of pouts, as if that will do the trick in persuading you to remove your hand from its place against his face and spare him a kiss in its place.

You can’t help but scoff, even as you acquiesce, rolling your eyes as you withdraw your hand. "You are utterly ridiculous, you know."

“Can’t fault a man for pouring his heart out,” he counters with a dramatic sigh, his hand coming up to dramatically clutch at his chest in a gesture of mock grief. “I can’t help that you’re my muse, the source of all my inspiration. I mean, look at you,” he says, gesturing towards you as you sit up and fix him with a flat look. “You’re so beautiful, it leaves me weak and helpless to the machinations of my own mind.”

You move to cover his mouth again, but he catches your wrist.

“How can I be expected to contain myself in the presence of true, unparalleled beauty such as yourself, my love?” He adds, lowering his other hand to reach for you, gently taking hold of your chin again.

He studies your face, his eyes tracing the shape, the curve of your lips, the flare of your nose, with an intensity that borders on obsessive. The look on his face could only be described as one of utter adoration. “You’re the very definition of an Aphrodite, you know. The living embodiment of divine grace and heavenly radiance.”

Patrick ignores your scoff in pursuit of maintaining his theatrical display of affection.

“It’s enough to drive an ordinary man mad, with your flawless skin, your sparkling eyes, the beautiful curve of your mouth. I swear, the heavens themselves would weep at the sheer injustice of it all,” he continues, his thumb gently tracing the line of your lips. He gives a dramatic, shuddering sigh. “To have a goddess of beauty on the arm of a mere mortal… the gods would be furious, don’t you think?”

“You disgust me sometimes, Pat,” you say, fixing him with a pointed look. “I ought to tell Tashi about how much of a snivelling fool you become when you’re laying it on thick for forgiveness.”

"No, no, you mustn't," he returns quickly, releasing your chin to clutch desperately at your wrist with both hands. "I'd quite literally die if she knew that I'm such a snivelling, pathetic, lovesick fool around you. She'd never let me live it down, I swear it. I'd never hear the end of it."

"Then stop it with your flowery words," you huff, rolling your eyes softly. (Although, you both know you secretly love it. Except it’s much preferred in the form of the poems you can pocket, not this ridiculous display following an argument.)

"I can't help it, my darling," he groans, the perfect picture of despair and melodramatic pleading. "It's like a disease, a sickness that courses through my veins and fills me with the most desperate, pathetic, romantic nonsense. You're like my own personal muse, you know. My inspiration. My entire world wrapped up in one beautiful, flawless goddess of a woman."

“Stop it.”

"And if I didn't take every spare moment to worship the ground you walk on, the stars you shine amongst, the very sun and moon themselves that pale in comparison to your radiant brilliance," he sighs. "I might spontaneously combust. Or drop dead from the pure intensity of the love you've inspired in me."

"No more talking," you declare.

Patrick pouts as you (heartlessly) cut off his dramatic ramble, falling silent for a moment. "But I—" he starts to protest, before thinking better of it and stopping himself with a huff. "Fine. No more talking."

"Good," you say, placing a chaste little kiss to the corner of his mouth to placate him. "I cannot stand it when you become such a sap."

Despite his earlier protest, he softens at the feeling of your kiss, the subtle pout on his face softening into a fond, almost boyish smile. His hand comes up to touch his mouth, as if to capture the lingering sensation of your lips against his skin.

"Can't blame a man for his poetic tendencies, my love," he quips, his voice dropping into a soft, mock-offended tone as he lowers his hand to admire the rouge lipstick stain on his finger. "Especially in the presence of such an inspiring, radiant woman."

“No more talking,” you repeat, fixing him with a warning look.

Patrick’s smirk widens into a teasing grin, his eyes sparkling with a playful defiance. He parts his lips as if to protest once more, but a raised eyebrow from you has him pausing, his words dying on his tongue. Instead, he simply gives his thousandth sigh, his expression a perfect picture of mock-forlorn obedience. "Fine, not a word. My lips are sealed, sealed tighter than a safe from Fort Knox itself."

“You’re like a fucking thesaurus sometimes,” you sigh. “Or Shakespeare himself. It drives me insane.”

Patrick just grins. “I prefer to think of myself as a modern-day Shakespeare,” he says. “Just replace all the swords and daggers with cocktails and cigarettes, and voila! A modern bard of the highest order.”

And, just like that, the pair of you laugh, your earlier transgressions melting away in the light of the familiar banter settling between you. A warm blanket to ease the tension until only a puddle of young, imperfect, stupid love remains.

[deleteddewewted]

Lion Headcanons

A/n: More personal headcanons of mine about this character

MDNI

W: NSFW below cut (Im not gonna lie, I keep forgetting that Lion is 31), minor mentions of religion, Slight D/S, Biting, Marking

Lion, for all that he is, is not a great sleeper. He's either deep in sleep or he's ready to wake up at the slightest change in the air. He will be complaining about getting up either way.

Be it that he was not ready for fatherhood and feared it, he deeply regrets missing out on it. He knows that his ex gave him a chance to be part of his sons life but even then he knows that he missed out on a lot of core moments.

He has a good relationship with his son's stepdad. He did feel hurt at first that his son called another man "dad" but he understood that he was the one who didn't want to stay so he's grateful that his son had a male role model and a father figure to look after him.

His ex never asked for money for their son but he willingly gave her money to support their child once he was financially able to. He got clean and got his life together and immediately began to send money so his ex and his son could be well of. When she told him not to worry about her, he responded that be it that their relationship ended, she was still the mother of his child and it was fair to look out for her as a form of apology and thank you for everything she has done for their son.

His family is still a sensitive subject to him. He doesn't speak to them often, opting to keep a low contact with them as they're too demanding and disapproving of his lifestyle. No matter how much he explains why he does the work he does they always sneer at him telling him he was damming himself to hell.

A very pleasant conversationalist. He likes hearing what people have to say and he likes the fact that he can get people to chat about the things that interest them.

Likes to listen to his music alone or with others. If you ever suggest listening to music together he would be thrilled and even sit closer to you as a silent thank you for wanting to spend time listening to his interests.

Remorseful that his relationship with Doc is not what it could have been. He understands that the older man has his beliefs and reservations about him and his decision making but he also doesn't believe he was in the wrong all those years ago.

Tries to call his son as much as possible.

He doesn't dislike it when he gets called Olivier but he does feel like some of the older operators use it as a way to diminish his accomplishments. He's not the youngest member but he does feel like they treat him differently due to his age.

On the other hand, he very much likes it when you call him Olivier. He thinks it's endearing. Like the way it sounds in your mouth.

Very much a passionate lover. Likes to bite and mark you almost like he's claiming you.

He likes hearing your voice. That thing about liking you saying his name also transfers to when he's fucking you. Likes the way you pant and moan out for him. It makes him more motivated.

A biter. He's called Lion for a reason. Likes to taste your skin and leave his mark behind.

Would like it a lot if you ever offer to take control. He's happy to be your submissive if you're willing. Very much into experimenting.

[bitemevanitas]

I'm like three months and a half too late for Valentine's day, but this has been sitting in my drafts for a while now, even though I forgot it even existed...

Alas! I'm not waiting until next year, so have a look and find the letter of your dearest one ❤️

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: Noé, Roland, Jeanne, Olivier, Vanitas, Jean-Jacque, Dominique, Amelia, Johann, Dante

𝐃𝐞𝐬 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐐𝐮𝐢 𝐕𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐃𝐮 𝐂𝐨𝐞𝐮𝐫

💌 Noé Archiviste

𝑻𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒏,

𝑰 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆. 𝑫𝒐𝒎𝒊 𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒏𝒆'𝒔 𝒂𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒚, 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒘, 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕.

𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒋𝒐𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒃𝒚 𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒐𝒏 𝒂 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆. 𝑰'𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕, 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝑰 𝒎𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖.

𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒖𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆. 𝑰'𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔. 𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎, 𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖.

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔,

𝑵𝒐𝒆́

💌 Roland Fortis

𝑶𝒉 𝑩𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝑴𝒚 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕!

𝑯𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒆'𝒔 𝑫𝒂𝒚! 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒂 𝒃𝒊𝒕 𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒛𝒆𝒏 𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒚 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏'𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒑 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒖𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒋𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆, 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝑯𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕?

𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆, 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒏 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅𝒔. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔.

𝑰 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒃𝒆 𝒂 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒖𝒓, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕, 𝑰 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒎. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆.

𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏,

𝑹𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅

💌 Jeanne

𝑴𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅,

𝑰𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒕. 𝑰 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆, 𝒉𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕, 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒚.

𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒗𝒖𝒍𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒊𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒂 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒕.

𝑰 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒚 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆.

𝑰'𝒗𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓. 𝑰𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔.

𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒂𝒚. 𝑰'𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒆𝒕.

𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆,

𝑱𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆

💌 Johann

𝑻𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅,

𝑰 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒍. 𝑰 𝒅𝒆𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒍, 𝒃𝒖𝒕... 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍, 𝑫𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒓𝒚.

𝑰𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒂𝒅𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔, 𝑰 𝒐𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒎𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆.

𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝑰 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒊𝒕, 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆. 𝑶𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒆'𝒔 𝑫𝒂𝒚, 𝑰 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖.

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒎 𝒓𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒔,

𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒏

💌 Dante

𝑯𝒆𝒚 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒃𝒍𝒆,

𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒆'𝒔 𝑫𝒂𝒚, 𝒉𝒖𝒉? 𝑵𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑰'𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒂 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘�� 𝒂𝒓𝒆.

𝑰 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒚 𝒑𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑫𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒆𝒕? 𝑭𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅? 𝑺𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒔𝒘𝒐𝒐𝒏𝒚? 𝑮𝒐𝒐𝒅.

𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒆, 𝒎𝒚 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒕, 𝒂𝒏𝒅, 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝑰 𝒔𝒂𝒚, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒔 𝒎𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅. 𝑳𝒊𝒇𝒆'𝒔 𝒂 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒆, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒖𝒏.

𝑺𝒐...

𝑰𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒖𝒑 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒊𝒕, 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒕 𝑷𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝒅𝒆 𝑺𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒚. 𝑰'𝒗𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒂 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒔, 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎.

𝑺𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆'𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒖𝒔, 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒂𝒅𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓'𝒔 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔.

𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔,

𝑫𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆

💌 Dominique de Sade

𝑴𝒂 𝑳𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒆́𝒓𝒆,

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒅𝒖𝒍𝒍 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒖𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒔 𝒗𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒅 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏.

𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒚 𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒆́, 𝑰'𝒎 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒆, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒐𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒆. 𝑰'𝒗𝒆 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒂𝒚. 𝑰 𝒅𝒐 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒆.

𝑰'𝒗𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝒃𝒐𝒙 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒚, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖.

𝑶𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒆'𝒔 𝑫𝒂𝒚, 𝑰 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒃𝒆 𝒃𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆.

𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕,

𝑫𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒒𝒖𝒆 ꨄ︎

💌 Olivier

𝑻𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒏,

𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝑰 𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆, 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒓, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒏.

𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒍𝒅, 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒆𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒔. 𝑰 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆, 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔, 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆.

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒐𝒓. 𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒉.

𝑹𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒚,

𝑶𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒓

💌 Jean-Jacques Chastel

𝑴𝒚 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕,

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓. 𝑰 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒚, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒍.

𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑪𝒉𝒍𝒐𝒆́ 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔. 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒂 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒔 𝒊𝒇 𝒊𝒕 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆. (𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏'𝒕, 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒂 𝒇𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒕𝒉𝒔 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒈𝒐 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖.)

𝑰𝒏 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕, 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝑰'𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒍𝒎 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍.

𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒐𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒆 𝒎𝒆, 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒖𝒏 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑. 𝑳𝒆𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓. 𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒖𝒔.

𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏,

��𝒆𝒂𝒏-𝑱𝒂𝒄𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔

💌 Chloé d'Apchier

𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈,

𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒎𝒆, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕, 𝑰 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅.

𝑶𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒆'𝒔 𝑫𝒂𝒚, 𝑰 𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒚 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕. 𝑴𝒂𝒚 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒘, 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒊𝒓𝒄𝒖𝒎𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆.

𝑰 𝒃𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒂𝒚. 𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒕, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍.

𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚,

𝑪𝒉𝒍𝒐𝒆́

💌 Amelia Ruth

𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒐𝒏𝒆,

𝑰'𝒎 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒆𝒓. 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔.

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎. 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒂 𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔.

𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒖𝒏𝒘𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒎𝒆. 𝑶𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆, 𝑰 𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒘𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒖𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓?

𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒇𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔,

𝑨𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒂

💌 Vanitas

𝑻𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖,

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏. 𝑴𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒕 𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔... 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒐.

𝑺𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍, 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒈𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆.

𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝑰 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒓 𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒖𝒆 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒆, 𝑰'𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒅. 𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒆.

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒊𝒓 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆. 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒖𝒃𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒛𝒆 𝒊𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎 𝒕𝒐. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝑰 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏'𝒕, 𝒔𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕.

𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒇, 𝒃𝒚 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍,

𝑰'𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕,

𝑽.

•

•

•

[thegreeks]

Whispers in the Dusk

"It is dusk. I want to know how to be close to you. Closer." - Else Fitzgerald, "Everything Feels Like the End of the World"

The quiet, descending dusk blanketed Pemberley’s grounds with a veil of stillness, painting the evening in gentle shades of lavender and silver. The great hallways and rooms of the house had settled into a warm hush, as if honoring the twilight hour with a reverent silence. You were standing in one of its more intimate sitting rooms, your gaze fixed out the window where the last traces of daylight lingered, softening the grand gardens and the rolling hills beyond. Yet you found yourself only half-aware of the scene before you, your thoughts a quiet storm within, disturbed only by the sound of a familiar footfall approaching.

Gazing beyond the glass at the twilight landscape, you felt your husband’s presence behind you, a warm shadow enveloping your form. He was a man who commanded both respect and admiration, and in his company, you had found a sense of belonging. But tonight felt different. An electric tension laced the air between you, thick with unspoken truths and desires.

Mr. Darcy paused in the doorway, observing you for a moment before he spoke.

“Do forgive the interruption,” he murmured, his deep voice breaking the silence in a way that felt altogether too lovely. You turned to meet his intent gaze, where the fading light caught the depths of his dark eyes, illuminating his features in a halo of romance. “I wondered where you had gone off to.”

“I needed a moment to myself, I suppose,” you replied softly, though the truth was that you had found yourself unexpectedly restless, seeking solitude in hopes that your thoughts might settle. Yet even alone, you had found yourself unsettled, a gentle but undeniable yearning that you could not name stirring within you.

He stepped closer, his movements as measured and deliberate as always, yet tonight there was a different air about him—a gentler softness, a kind of intimacy in his quiet regard. You could almost taste the anticipation that hung heavily between you, igniting your senses. For a moment, you simply looked at one another, a silent conversation unfolding between glances. He looked as though he wished to say something, and the weight of his gaze filled you with a warmth that spread from your cheeks to the very tips of your fingers.

“It is dusk, and the hour invites contemplation,” he murmured, finally breaking the silence, his voice a little rough, as though he struggled to express what lingered in his heart. “I find myself wishing to know…” He paused, his gaze unwavering. “How it might be to be close to you. Closer.”

His words hung in the air between you, tender and vulnerable, and the sheer honesty in his voice made your heart ache. You felt your cheeks warm, and a soft smile touched your lips as you absorbed his meaning, allowing the quiet beauty of his words to wash over you. It was a declaration cloaked in the language of the heart, and as the twilight deepened, the world beyond faded, leaving only the two of you suspended in a moment that demanded all of your attention.

“Mr. Darcy,” you began, your voice a hushed murmur, “do you not see? You are close to me now, in ways words cannot fully express.”

A shadow of a smile passed over his lips, and he moved nearer, his presence enveloping you in a way that felt safe and thrilling all at once. The room around you faded, the encroaching night dimming all but the soft glow in his eyes.

“And yet,” he whispered, his hand reaching tentatively for yours, “I cannot help but wish, selfishly… for more.”

His fingers brushed against yours, hesitant, as if uncertain of his right to ask for what his heart clearly desired. Your hand moved to meet his, fitting into his grasp as though it were the most natural thing in the world. His hand was warm, his grip firm yet tender, and the contact made your pulse quicken. He looked down at your joined hands, his eyes tracing the shape of your fingers as though they were the most exquisite thing he had ever seen.

“There is a closeness of hearts,” you murmured, your voice scarcely more than a breath, “that transcends mere touch.”

He looked up, meeting your gaze, and in his eyes you saw the depth of feeling he carried, feelings that words could never capture, yet here, in this quiet, sacred moment, were laid bare.

“Then permit me,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “to be close to you in every way, to share in your heart’s every joy and every sorrow, to be… wholly yours.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and without thinking, you reached up to trace your fingertips along his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. He closed his eyes briefly, as if savoring the sensation, and you felt a gentle shiver pass through him.

“Dearest,” you whispered, your heart overflowing, “you have been mine since the very moment I came to know you.”

His eyes opened, filled with a tenderness that made you feel as though you were the center of his world. Slowly, reverently, he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your fingers, a gesture so tender it made your heart ache with love.

As the last vestiges of twilight surrendered to the deep indigo of night, you stood together, hands entwined, closer than words could convey, bound not only by touch but by the quiet, steady promise of shared hearts and lives intertwined.

[delicateflappizzaplaid]

Oliver Bearman

#ob38🐻

← Main Masterlist

[thewritetofreespeech]

Could I request Noé, Ronaldo and Olivier finding out their s/o is the youngest of a ton of siblings?

Noé thinks that it’s wonderful! He is technically an only child, but he had Dominque & Louis growing up and remembers their time fondly. He thinks it would be wonderful to live in a big house, with a big family, and constantly have people around. Noé makes an effort to meet all of them and known them all personally.

Roland also thinks it’s wonderful. He was an orphan before being taken into the church, so he has no memory of family. To have such a large accompaniment, to always have someone to play with or help you out seems like a wonderful childhood. Roland is a little jealous of them, but prays to God for forgiveness.

Olivier, unlike the others, actually had real siblings and knows exactly how unpleasant they can be. He never hated his siblings, nor did he have as many as they did, but he knows more than anyone how annoying they can be at times. The teasing, the fights, the constant annoyance, always having to share. Now that he’s joined the church he does miss his siblings, but he also knows it’s not all the sunshine & roses people often look back on.

[pxstelmxsings]

Women who have hardened their hearts to survive. Whether it was done in childhood to live through endless hardships or in adulthood for work, it does not matter. The nurturing love society expects of her died long ago.

Women who strike fear into the very bones of men around them. They hunt down and eliminate their enemies like it is your primary nature. She out smarts any man in her way like they are a simple childs toy. The very art of fighting, of war, is simple to them.

Women who never gave love a passing thought. Love would surely only get in the way of their goals or their work. The very idea of having someone depend on them feels like a drain on their limited emotional grasp.

Women who don't understand why you make their heart race so quickly. Their gaze follows you aroubd the room, studying every movement you make. The sound of your voice makes their cheeks burn. A simple graze of your fingertips makes them feel faint.

Women who have no idea how to process your femininity. You handle tasks like planning gatherings, meals, and child caring like second nature. The way you handle task after task with such elegance and grace it makes them question if there is more than one kind of strength.

Women who truly don't know how to process falling in love with you.

♡ Arlecchino, Ada, Mary/Lady, konan, Michonne, Acxa, Carmilla, Edelgard, Tao, Olivier

[aritsukemo]

Fav characters in vnc and maybe a spoonful of hcs for them?

VNC Headcanons | Vanitas No Carte

Featuring: Astolfo, Mikhail, Louis De Sade, Jeanne, Olivier, and Roland

Warnings: Spoilers to vnc ahead. Also mentions of self harm for one of Astolfo's headcanons. Aside from that, enjoy my very biased and personal heacanons regarding my top six favs from the hit show Vanitas No Carte!! <33

A/N: This was fun and makes me want to rewatch vnc for the fifth time lmao- Sorry this simple request took so long, deary!!

Tagging: @snowy-violet

Extra: I officially have a taglist! If you liked this piece, please consider grabbing a loyalty card at the front counter!! <3

⇻ Astolfo Granatum

He suffers from dismissive-avoidant attachment style to the point most of his newer relationships with most people crash and burn within half a year or so — not that he's actively making friends or forming bonds to begin with.

He's incredibly self-conscious about his appearance and any kind of comment on it ( even compliments ) makes him uncomfortable and angry. It's a little better when it comes from those he's truly close to, but depending on the person, he'd be incredibly suspicious and would assume they're lying/making fun of him.

He gets bad night terrors and has to sleep away from most objects to avoid hurting himself and or others in his panicked state. Roland used to deal with them by sitting at his bedside and telling him fun stories of his childhood, fairytales, and lighthearted things of that nature until Astolfo managed to ground himself and go back to sleep.

⇻ Mikhail

Still suffers from nosebleeds and headaches from time to time. It's very faint compared to when he was human and never last long, but whenever it happens it reminds him of the time he was still a test subject.

He's tried to grow his hair out to resemble Luna at least once but always ends up cutting it.

He feels safest/most comfortable around older women and mothers despite his past because they're typically the nicest to him.

⇻ Louis De Sade

Likes his tea black. I have no proof, he just seems like the type lmao-

If he ever got into a relationship, it would be with a long term friend or best friend. He's real demiromantic-coded to me and I don't see him even entertaining love with anyone who he can't let his walls down in front of ( which takes an incredibly long time for him I imagine ).

His giving love language is physical touch. Caressing your face while you lay in his lap, moving close to hold you by the hip and waist whenever he greets you, rubbing your thigh leisurely... He'll adjust depending on what you're okay and not okay with, but one way or another his hands will find themselves on you if he likes you enough.

⇻ Jeanne

Gets nervous around women. She finds them so, so incredibly beautiful — like a goddess smiling upon her — and she...mentally panics whenever she partakes in leisure conversation or is even near one. ( real, me too girl )

She's an absolute sucker for compliments!! Praise is her kryptonite and she'd melt like butter on a hot summer's day if anyone says something nice to her. ( Especially people she's fond of )

Her favorite pass time is shopping. She doesn't buy things every time, but leisurely going about a market or boutique and gazing at products — imagining herself in pretty clothes she never has the time or appropriate setting to dress down in — is such a de-stressor for her.

⇻ Olivier

Has a bad sweet tooth. He's always been fond of sweets, but smoking has made his cravings worse. That said, he spends a good quarter of his money on straight junk food.

He's gotten hit on by a guy at least once or thrice in his life ( not counting Roland ) and if it was more socially accepted he'd be getting checked out by as many men as women.

He wears reading glasses and likes to read a lot in his free time. His favorite genre is mystery.

⇻ Roland

Gives the best messages!! I mean look at him!! You cannot tell me he wouldn't be able to rub the stress outta my shoulders.

He has freckles!! They're really light in color and are only visible when it gets hot, he's flustered, or something else along those lines causes his face to flare up.

Kids absolutely adore him!! He'd be the type to let a kid hang onto his bicep or something and swing them around to get them giggling. He'd absolutely spoil them rotten too, especially his own!

Dividers were made by me, pictures used are from Pinterest, post formatting is inspired by @xxsabitoxx

[buggyluv]

cw: smut

“Please”, you whimper as she pushes her fingers into you. She's been edging you for ages, working you up to an orgasm and stopping before you finally cum, leaving you a shaking, frustrated mess.

“You'll cum; you just gotta prove you deserve it,” she says, leaning down to kiss you. She's a messy kisser, sucking your tongue into her mouth. She pulls away and spits into your open mouth. “Atta girl”, she praises when you swallow. Her thumb presses against your clit as she continues to finger you. The pads of her fingers are rough from years of work, and they feel so good pressing against your walls. You're quickly approaching another orgasm, and you don't tell her in hopes she'll just let you cum. Unfortunately for you, she can feel the way your pussy squeezes her fingers, and she pulls them out. You let out a pathetic whimper, and she softens slightly. “I'll let you cum. I just want you to do it while I rub myself against your pretty pussy” she says.

She manhandles you into a scissoring position and raises your hips as much as she can. She moves herself between your legs so she can rub her clit against yours. She gives a testing roll of her hips, and the friction feels so good that you can't help but move hips along with her.

“Fuck, keep doing that,” she says, putting more force into her movements. Having been denied already, you're close. You're struggling to keep up your movements, so she holds you in place, grinding down on you. Your orgasm hits you like a freight train. You shake and writhe in her grasp as she continues to rock her hips, making herself cum. It's a sticky mess of cum and sweat, but she wouldn't have it any other way. When you're both in the afterglow of your orgasm, she lays down with her head on your chest. Her hand comes up to feel your heartbeat for a second before squeezing and playing with your boobs. She's insatiable, and her time with you is a very small pocket of peace that doesn't get to relish as much as she'd like. She looks up at you, gaze just as intense and lustful as it had been earlier. “Round two?”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Nami, Reiju Vinsmoke, Yuki Tsukumo, Revy Lee, Olivier Armstrong, Yoruichi Shihouin, Saeko Tanaka

[paladin--strait]

hey everyone! i have decided that after a few months of hockey hearts, i am going to be closing it on february 1st.

i might open it back up in the future, but right now i want to focus on writing more.

you're all welcome to send in requests until then! thank you for all the support and participation with hockey hearts! 💕 when i started it, i was so nervous that nobody would participate. but i was counting it up last night and i'm almost at 50 matches! i think i might reblog some of the matches that were my favorites, but we'll see!

[deleteddewewted]

Rainbow Six Siege Masterlist

Gustave "Doc" Kateb

Olivier "Lion" Flament

Samuel "Zero" Fisher

Jordan "Thermite" Trace

Julien "Rook" Nizan

Marius "Jäger" Streicher

Taina "Caveira" Pereira

Elias "Blitz" Kötz

[itsohh]

Waiting

A/N: Female reader, this wasn't that like idk descriptive or anything and like I really want to write but at the same time ah I think idk what to write smut quite right anymore.

Day 21: Panties and lingerie

Word count: 1012

Warnings: smut

AO3 Kinktober Masterlist

It wasn’t very often that your schedules aligned very often. Going out, and having fun was something that happened very rarely. Often the only times the pair of you could spend non-working moments together was after a long day. The pair of you would always be tired or at least not in the mood to go out. Sex was normally either a last-minute romp or more akin to holding each other close and just being in the moment. In no way was it bad. But it was never partially special or different. You couldn’t complain, of course, it was always fun but you really wanted to spice things up. Reward Olivier just a little. 

That's how you found yourself. Alone on his bed you waited, a magazine was open in front of you while you lay there reading it. Your legs kicked in the air behind you while you were aimed towards the door. A quick raise of your head and you would make eye contact the second he entered. The thought that someone else might be with him crossed your mind but you had spent so much time with everyone and your life in the military just overrode that fear- you didn’t care. 

Time ticked away, about thirty minutes give or take and eventually there was a small beep before the door opened. It wasn’t the first time that you had waited there for him- for sex- but it was the first time you had worn that. A black pair of stockings held up by a pair of garters that sat above your hips. They had a similar fabric to the black panties and bra that held up your chest. 

Olivier paused, completely frozen as he took in your form. The heels on your feet made a small sound as they brushed against each other and you flipped the page. “Olivier.” You greeted him. His eyes locked onto yours before they slowly drifted along your body and to your shoes. “Close the door, love, your letting out the cool air.”

The door promptly clicked behind him and he stalked up to you. “What's the occasion?” There was a slight panic in his eyes and you could practically see the gears in his head turn. He was searching for all the dates of importance, holidays, birthdays and anniversaries. 

“Can’t I dress up a little for my lover?” You snapped the magazine closed and threw it to the side. It fell gracelessly and you rolled onto your back. Olivier approached you and you reached out towards him as your head hung off the side of the bed. Olivier's fingers brushed against you as he leaned forward. The back of them met your bent legs and you took the opportunity to grab his pants. 

By the belt, you tugged him forward and ran your hand against his inner thigh. A hiss elected from his mouth when you felt his hardening cock and started to rub it through his pants. “When did you get this?” He snapped the strap on your thigh and dipped a finger into the stocking. 

“Mmm, a couple of days ago when I finished training up early. You like?” 

Olivier grabbed the inside of your thigh where it exposed your flesh. “You know I love it.” The tip of your fingers found his belt before you grasped it and expertly snapped it open. Olivier didn’t react as you pulled his semi from his pants. He did react when you wiggled yourself a little closer and wrapped your mouth around it. Already, you could feel it firming up in your mouth and Olivier let out a long low moan. One of his hands steadied on your head and his hips started to thrust in and out of your mouth. Each and every time there was just a little bit more of him to swallow.

“God’s your a sight.” He give your thigh a light slap and pulled back to watch as his cock disappeared between your lips and down your throat. It was the perfect angle to push his entire cock in and take in your dressed-up form. It was straight out of s dream for him, the way your throat bulged with his dick and swallowed the tip.

Now completely hard, it was an accomplishment on its own. A piece of him wanted to shut his eyes with the pure amount of pleasure that built up but he couldn’t quite do it. Olivier couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of you. It stirred something deep inside him, he was almost unsure of what he wanted to do. There was so much, it was so much. He wanted to run his hands all over you, press his cock against the fabric, run his tongue against it. Bite every strap, tear and rip it, cover it in his cum, lick and suck your juices through your panties. He wanted to take a photo of your body, perfect in every way.

Or perhaps take a photo with your face all ruined, covered in his cum that ran down over your breasts and bra. Maybe your breasts pulled out over the top of them, one strap fallen down while he fucked between them. He wanted those thighs, panties pulled to the side and his mouth on your cunt while your juices ran down his face. Then there were those heels, they would look so could next to his head, your legs extended out on his chest while he rammed into you and kissed your cervix with his cock. He wanted it all, all at once. 

Olivier couldn’t decide, so instead he allowed you to continue sucking his cock, deciding for him. His eyes blurred at the sight of, his thoughts and lust consuming him with ideas. Then they were all gone, all sucked out through his dick as his head became thoughtless simply lost in pleasure. You could tell this, of course, that look reflected in his eyes and if you had the ability, you would have smiled. The night had just begun. 

[urprinceoflove]

Therapy Session

Pairing: Olivier Mira Armstrong x GN!Reader

Summary: You hadn’t been into Fort Briggs for a while now, Major General Armstrong made sure to give you a talk about it.

Warnings: None, pretty much fluff and slight thought of booob

Word Count: 862

A/N: OLIVIER SUPREMACY. (literally wrote this in class so im not sure how good of a story this is)

Fullmetal Alchemist Master List | Full Master List

—

You dragged your feet as you walked into Fort Briggs, the workplace was as busy as ever and many workers greeted you as you passed on by. This was not your day. Usually you would be cheery and glad to be there (especially while scouting for a specific major general).

“Y/N, it’s good to see you at the workplace finally.” Falman stated.

You haven’t been at Fort Briggs in a while… right. You had forgotten that while on your honeymoon phase with a man you assumed to be the one, you missed out on plenty of work in the snowy biome.

“Major General Armstrong wants to have a word with me I presume…” You answered quietly.

“That is correct.”

You slumped down even further as you walked with Falman. You weren’t sure if you should be excited or fear the fact that the major general would like to have a word with you.

“Oh come on,” He began, trying his best to cheer you up. “What is the big idea here? The major general is not one to be feared—”

Speaking of the famous major general, she happened to appear right in front of Falman when he was in the middle of his speech.

Falman gulped, saluted the major general and turned around. “G-Good luck, Y/N” He couldn’t help his voice from trembling, that didn’t help your situation at all.

You looked up at the major general. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was staring directly down at you.

“Major General Armstrong, sir… It’s good to see you…”

“Cut the crap, Y/N. Walk with me.” Olivier ordered.

You straightened up and did as you were told. The walk with General Armstrong was always as it had been, you beside her doing your absolute best to appease her demands. Many of the crew members who were working in the fort noticed you. Some were joyful to see you back at the establishment and others were grimacing at the thought of what the major general was to speak to you about.

Once you got into the major general’s office, she went to have a seat in her chair.

“Close the door behind you.” She ordered. You did just that, gulping as you solemnly walked towards the chair placed in front of her desk. You sat down, not waiting for the order to do so. “You haven’t been here at work.” The major general deduced.

You shook your head. “I do apologize sincerely, sir.”

Olivier set her elbows on her desk using her hands to hold her head up as she speaks to you. “May I ask why that is, lieutenant?

“I recently broke it off with someone I was speaking to… romantically.” You looked up, there was no facial expression change in the major general. Your head slumped back down. “It’s no excuse, I know. I should be here at Fort Briggs since it is the only home I have. Maybe I got a bit carried away.

Olivier groaned. “Lieutenant, I am not here for a therapy session.” She stood up from her desk and walked over to you. She spun your chair to where you were facing her and set her hands on the arm rests.

You felt your face grow warm at the sight.

Olivier caught this and smiled. “I knew you still had it out for me.”

“What? I do not!” You protested, crossing your arms across your chest.

“Uh-huh…” Olivier leaned in closer. You stayed still as she did so. She was staring into your eyes and you back at hers, but it wasn’t long before your eyes flicked to her lips and she pulled away. She took her hands off of the armrests and backed a few steps away from you. You weren’t relieved at the action. You were quite disappointed.

“That settles it then.” The major general announced. “You are free to go on with your duties as normal.”

“Thank you, major general.” You let out weakly. You got up from your chair, confused at what had just happened but you forced yourself not to think too much about it. You had your back turned to the major general and you were just about to reach the door to the office when she stopped you.

“One more thing, Y/N.” Her voice sounded closer. Once you turned to get your final orders from the major general you felt her lips on yours. Your eyes widened at the action, but you leaned into the kiss almost immediately. General Armstrong had one hand on your waist and the other on your cheek. You weren’t too sure if you were even allowed to touch Olivier without her throwing you out the window in defiance, but you found your hand placed upon her chest anyway. Too close to her breast. You warmed up even more at your interesting thoughts.

The major general pulled away from you, practically leaving you a mess to go out into Fort Briggs to act as if nothing had happened at all. You couldn’t help, but walk out of the office with a giddy attitude and a smile plastered on your face.