#this is Ivory and she's very cool

[penpenpencil]

My iPad finally kicked the bucket this morning, and I lost pretty much all of my digital art (at least the unfinished WIPs) from the past 6 or so years of drawing. I managed to get a replacement and dusted off Clip Studio, but I'm understandably Very Upset (tm) and am currently coping.

Anyway, here's my oc Ivory and my first completed piece on Clip Studio in about 4 years. Expect a lot more doodles, style changes, and simple drawings over the next few months as I try and salvage what I can 🫠

[eraserbread]

your husband, nanami, never spoke much. until his three-year-old daughter started ✧

→ toddler dad nanami, fluff

on his day off, it started before the sun rose. he's tucked by the waist in bed, sleeping beside you, his maternal, gorgeously caring wife.

it's not abnormal for your daughter, rin, to stumble out of her bed since she retired the crib, but it is abnormal for her to blatantly wake kento up. but he wakes up—he's a good dad, and his little girl probably had a nightmare.

"daddy... daddy's sleepin'?" her little voice calls from his side of the bed, too small to see over the mattress, but faithful, what she heard was true -- his voice last night after she went to bed.

ken's rolling over in bed, pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes. looking over at you, you're dead to the world. completely knocked out. "yes... daddy's sleeping, my dear."

it takes her a second, shuffling on her little bare feet. she can't really reach the side of the bed, but didn't know how to say she wanted up. instead, she chews on her thumb and demands, "rin, too."

so kento sits up, half-awake as he stretches over the side, scooping her up under the arms.

"daddy, did you work today?" kento grunts as he settles rin in a straddle over his chest. his eyes are shut, but he peeks them open to see his little girl, smiling at her ruffled sleep hair.

"yes, love."

"what do at work?"

"a lot of meetings with very annoying men."

"what does tha' mean?"

"it means i had to deal with people I didn't like. it's something of a learned skill, unfortunately. one day, you will have to answer to annoying men, though I have faith you will know how to handle them." kento's speaking with his eyes closed, his deep, slow voice low as rin settles over his chest.

she doesn't register half of that, just content with listening to her favorite person talk. so, when she gets comfortable spread across kento's torso, she thinks about her daddy at work talking to you when he gets all grumbly.

"daddy."

"yes, darling?" kento's standing at the stove as you prepare breakfast that morning, hot cup of dark coffee in his hands as rin stumbles in.

she's holding a half-eaten rice cake you gave her to hold her off, barefoot and bearing it like a prize. "my rice cake is b-brown."

"you know why that is? it's because it's chocolate flavored."

"daddy?" she continues, taking a step closer to him. "are you drinkin'?"

"mhm." he replies, taking a cool sip of his coffee. "where'd you put the sippy cup mom gave you this morning?"

the sound of your name, and you're peeking over your shoulder, blindly tending to your sizzling fish as rin runs back to her room. "anyways, other than that, her teacher says she's doing great in speech class."

"mm, i know. she talks just as much as you, now."

you can't even pretend to be shocked at his choice of words, but you hang your mouth open like you are.

"daddy! look!" rin skids to a stop in front of him, ivory sippy cup held high and proud above her head.

"alright, take a sip—just like daddy, see?" ken squats down to toddler-level, still so stoic and mindful when he's sipping noisily at his coffee. rin joins in, suckling through her straw with a similar noisy fervor. she's a tiny shadow of her dad—that's all she wants to be, with her hollowed cheeks, concentrated arch in her sharp brow, and the proud smile she exudes when kento praises her.

she's so happy. all she ever wants is her busy dad's attention, and even when he's tired or weary, kento is always sure to give his love exactly what she wants.

"yay! my baby! you're just like daddy!"

[written-in-knife]

Dressing for the Cloudcall

Leona Kingscholar x fem!Reader, pre-relationship

Word count: 4680 (dialogue heavy to start, stick with it, I find a rhythm in there somewhere)

Category: one-shot, fluff, angst if you squint really really hard

Leona's family is sneaky and knows him very well, and you get roped into some Cloudcalling dress up. And maybe Leona is into that.

I loved Cloudcalling on the Savanna but I was a little disappointed we didn’t get even a hinted outfit, and this idea has been bouncing around in my little walnut brain for MONTHS and it finally spilled out in the span of like two hours. Tried to keep Yuu ambiguous, female, hair long enough to braid and put into a bun, and she’s shorter than Falena’s wife. Your Yuu is six feet tall? Cool, Falena’s wife is taller 👏AS👏SHE👏SHOULD👏BE. Reading back, I think I have a crush on my own version of Falena’s wife, as I should. I just imagined the most beautiful woman I could.

Kifaji had to step away to take a phone call while everyone was checking out the food stalls and Leona almost looked grateful to see his back disappearing into the crowd as he handed you one of the baobab hibiscus teas. You thanked him quietly before sipping on the drink, as refreshing as promised. Grim was just about to pull everyone over to a meat vendor-- surprise surprise-- when Kifaji returned, a sly looking smile on his face.

"What's got you so happy, ya old bird?" Leona huffed as Grim drooled over the meat.

"My apologies, but I need to borrow Miss Yuu for awhile." Kifaji said simply, turning his ominous smile to you.

"What for?" Leona practically growled, putting a hand on your shoulder before you could even think to step away from the group.

"On such short notice, we could not procure an outfit for her." Kifaji explained, folding his hands behind his back. "I, however, did not want her to feel left out, so I made arrangements which are now ready. I will return her at your next destination."

"It's fine, Leona." You tried to assure him, patting his hand gently. "I do feel a little left out of the fun."

Leona clicked his tongue in annoyance before releasing your shoulder and crossing his arms.

"We're headed to Ivory Springs after this. Do not be late." He directed the command at Kifaji rather than you.

"B-But, Yuu look at this! And these!" Grim was actually drooling over the meat in the stall, turning back to you with tears in his eyes that practically begged you to let him stay.

You sighed heavily and shook your head. "Vil, can you keep Grim out of trouble for me? I won't be long."

"Of course." Vil nodded, glancing down at the direbeast as he cheered and danced around in a little circle. "I'll try my best to not let him eat through Leona's entire fortune."

"Good enough for me." You chuckled before turning to Kifaji, who smiled again and held an arm out for you to lead the way out of the markets.

You walked side by side with Kifaji to the entrance of the market, only for him to place a hand on your upper back to direct you towards a waiting black car just up the street. As you approached, a beastwoman in full guard regalia opened the back door for you to enter. You thanked her quietly before stepping into the blissfully air conditioned car, Kifaji getting in on the other side.

"It's not that far to the hotel," you chuckled as the driver reentered the car, "and I'm not as prone to heatstroke as Jack is."

"Oh, we aren't going to the hotel." Kifaji said, as if just remembering he "forgot" to tell you about it.

"Oh?"

There was a minute of silence as he didn't answer your unspoken question. A few turns through the city, he broke it, turning to you with a pleasant smile.

"Tell me, Yuu, what is the nature of your relationship with Prince Leona?"

You were shocked for a moment at the bluntness of the question. "Is this because I'm the only girl? Because I can assure you, we're all friends--"

"My apologies, that isn't what I meant." He cut you off with a small chuckle and a lift of his hand. "If you'd humor me?"

"I mean... we're friends? Friendly, at least." You explained, wringing your hands in your lap. "He's helped me out of a few tough spots, I've helped him. We hang out on occasion. He's nice, I dunno." You wouldn't dare say it out loud, especially to the chamberlain, but you sometimes secretly wished there was more there.

He gave you a warm smile, much like a father would give to a daughter talking about her crush. "I see. As you well know, I've seen to Leona since the day he was born, and I haven't seen him so... protective of someone since... well, ever. That boy has never exactly been friendly, let alone "nice" to just about anyone since his mother passed. It's refreshing to see."

You could feel your face getting hotter with each word the chamberlain said. You desperately wanted the subject to change. "S-So, if we aren't going to the hotel, where are we going?"

"The Royal Palace." Kifaji said casually, as if you were on your way to some unnamed park.

"What?! Why?"

"As I said, I made arrangements for your outfit. You need to look the part to represent your team!" He said, another sly smile on his face as he pumped his fist in front of him in an imitation cheer. "And, I regret to say, you stick out like a sore thumb among those boys."

"But-- I-I thought-- we--"

"And here we are. A short drive, is it not? The walk would have been significantly longer."

You looked out the window at the palace, a grand stone building at the top of the hill. It almost looked as if it were carved out of the rock itself. You were startled out of your thoughts as the driver opened your door for you again, the chamberlain outside waiting to give you a hand out. You thanked them both as you took the offered hand and stepped out, following Kifaji closely as he walked.

"So, uh... just pop in, change clothes, and head back down to the market, yeah?" You asked nervously as you glanced at the guards you passed by, feeling eyes on your back.

"Just so." Kifaji assured you, another sly smile as he stopped at a large set of doors already opened, swinging a hand out for you to go first.

You weren't sure what was about to happen. Maybe you'd be thrown in a dungeon for fraternizing with their prince, or maybe they meant to keep you here until Leona himself came to find you, or--

"There she is!" A booming and excited voice came from across the room as you entered, startling you to turn and look.

A mound of long ginger hair twisted into braids was running up to greet you, perched atop a muscle-bound mountain of a man. He was dressed similarly to Leona, but wearing white instead of black, still adorned in gold, an enormous smile on his face. The guards at the door stood at attention as he got to your side of the room, clasping your hand quickly in a firm and enthusiastic handshake.

"You must be the girl Kifaji told me so much about!" He beamed at you, reminding you so much of Kalim in this moment. Wait.

"So much?" You parroted, looking at Kifaji, who simply shrugged.

"Oh, you must tell me how you got Leona to be so... docile? That isn't the right word. He listens to you?! Insane!" The man rambled, still holding onto your hand. "You must tell me everything!"

"Falena, you'll scare the poor girl." Another voice rang out from the other side of the room.

The man, Falena, finally released your hand and turned to see the woman walking towards you. She was elegant and gorgeous and so poised, dressed in similar colors and patterns to her husband, also adorned in gold. You suddenly felt very intimidated as you finally realized just where you were standing.

"Oh, but my love," Falena sighed, still smiling, "think of everything we could learn! What's Leona like at school, anyhow?"

"H-He, uh..." you hesitated as the woman joined her husband’s side. It probably wasn't a good idea to tell them exactly how he was, and it wasn't a good idea to lie. Rock and a hard place. "He's certainly there."

Falena let out a booming laugh at this, his wife joining in with a laugh that sounded like bells in the large chamber.

"We know of Leona's troubles at school." She assured you, holding out a hand to shake. "I am Shani, and I'm sure my husband, Falena, did not introduce himself before launching into his questioning."

"I'm Yuu," you said, gently grabbing her hand and shaking it, "a pleasure."

"Likewise." She smiled warmly at you as you both retracted your hands. "Kifaji has asked me to dress you for the occasion."

"The festival?"

"Leona brought a girl home!" Falena cut in, the smile surely cemented on his face at this point. "A sign things are turning around for my little brother, to be sure!"

"O-Oh! No, wait, I'm--" You practically choked on your words trying to get them out fast enough, feeling your face burning again, "Leona and I aren't a couple!"

"I know! But everything Kifaji told us over the phone just makes it all the more interesting!" He gushed grabbing your shoulders. "Forgive me for being forward, but you smell like him! You must be together often!"

"I-I just keep watch while he naps, it's not like we--"

"Falena. You are making her nervous." Shani said sharply, trying to hide her amused smile as she swatted his hands off you and looped her arm into yours. "Come, we should get you into something else before Leona comes looking for you."

She didn't wait for a response before pulling you off towards the door she came through. You glanced back to Kifaji and Falena, seeing them both smiling at you, though Kifaji's looked nefarious. You faced forward again, looking up at the glamorous woman holding your arm, still amazed that you'd just met the crown prince and princess. Shani led you down the hall and into a large bedroom, turning quickly into a nearly equally large closet. Gorgeous outfits-- if you were to judge just based on the fabric-- lined the walls on either side, the far wall was large, open windows looking over the expanse of the savanna, and the wall behind was adorned with large mirrors. You couldn't help but be impressed as Shani practically floated across the room and picked up a dress that was already waiting on a chair and held it up for you.

"I hope you don't mind, I already picked something out for you." She explained as she approached. "Don't worry about the length, we can work with it however we need. This is going home with you."

"What? No, I couldn't." You said quickly as she deposited the dress in your hands.

"Do you see where we are right now? You absolutely can." She laughed, gesturing to the lines of clothes. "Go ahead and get changed, I'll be right outside, just let me know when you're ready."

Her nose scrunched up adorably in her excitement as she smiled even wider at your for a moment, her hands clapping under her chin once before she exited the room, closing the door behind her. Alone, you sighed at the absolute whirlwind you'd just gone through. You turned to the large mirrors on the closest wall and held the dress up to your body. It would definitely be long, but Shani was a tall woman who seemed to like wearing heels, so you weren't terribly surprised. Resigned to your fate, you began to change out of your current outfit. The dress had very thin straps, so your sports bra would have to go. Once actually in the dress, it fit remarkably well, other than the length. The thin straps spread down into a V neck and stretched to the skirt in the back, the skirt itself starting a little below the bust, similar to a halter top. You couldn't help but notice the patterns on the fabric coordinated to Leona's cloak, bright orange and black not helping the case. You folded your clothes into a neat pile in front of the mirror, honestly a little relieved how well the dress held up to movement, no risk of spilling out the sides or front when lifting your arms or bending over.

"Shani? I'm ready." You called to the door, hiking the skirt up to walk over.

She entered the room again with an excited smile, looking you up and down as you stood there.

"You are definitely shorter than me." She laughed as you let the skirt go, a few inches of fabric bundling up at your feet. "But we can fix that, easy. Ten minutes. First!" She walked over to a chest of drawers, pulling off a length of fabric she'd set on top. "Do you know how to wrap your hair? Keep it off your neck and out of your eyes."

"I do not." You shook your head prompting her to wave you off.

"I can teach you, it's very easy." She smiled, joining you at the mirror again.

She turned you to face the mirror, standing behind you and draping the fabric over your shoulders. She undid the braid your hair was always in, gently combing the knots out of your hair with her fingers.

"I always used to do this with my little sisters." She explained softly as she styled your hair to the top of your head in a large bun. "I love Cheka with all my heart and soul, but I do so hope we have a little girl some day, I miss having girls around to dress up with and do hair and everything."

"What, Cheka doesn't let you do his hair?" You smiled at her in the mirror as she began wrapping the scarf, making sure you were carefully watching her steps.

She laughed brightly. "He does! But as he gets older he may not. Plus, there isn’t exactly a ton of hair to work with, he prefers to keep it short."

"No, I get what you mean though." You said fondly. "I used to have my mom do my hair all the time, but she was always there to fix it when I eventually took it out and complained about it being in my face."

"Where are you from, by the way?"

Your face fell at the question. "It doesn't really matter. Crowley doesn't seem like he's able to send me back anyhow."

Shani looked like she was about to press further, but stopped herself. "There, all done." She said with another warm smile as she smoothed out some of the wrinkles in the turban style she'd done. "Not half bad, if I do say so myself."

"It looks great, thank you." You were smiling again, not pointing out the, again, same fabric Leona had on his scarf. Maybe it was a common pattern? You somehow doubted it.

"Now, I have a few accessories for you to tie it all together." She explained, walking over to a shelf opposite the chest of drawers. "I will have you put these on to see how they look, then you give me the dress and I will hem the bottom up for you."

"Thank you for this, Shani." You said sincerely, turning to look at her with a warm smile. "You really didn't have to go to these lengths."

"Nonsense, a friend of Leona's is a friend of ours." She assured you. "We want to make sure you enjoy your first time to the Sunset Savanna to the fullest."

..

Leona and the others had arrived at the palace, Leona planning to swipe a car to avoid having to take Kifaji with them. However, to his surprise, Kifaji was already outside speaking with one of the guards at the door.

"Oh for fucks sake..." Leona growled as he connected the dots.

"What?" Kalim asked, glancing over to the chamberlain. "Oh, it's Kifaji! Hey Kifaji!"

The chamberlain looked up in surprise at the call of his name, locking eyes with a furious Leona and giving him another sly smile.

"Wait here." Leona snapped at the group, not giving them a chance to protest before marching over to the door. "What the hell?!"

"Ah, Prince Leona." Kifaji said coolly as the guard stood at attention for the prince's approach. "I was under the impression you were not coming home during your visit."

"That why you brought Yuu here?" He spat. "Thought you were goin' to the hotel."

"I don't recall ever saying my arrangements were at the hotel." Kifaji said, though the infuriating smile and raise of his eyebrows suggested he knew exactly what he was up to.

Leona pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering expletives under his breath before looking back up. "Where is Yuu? We're goin'."

"She is changing, currently. You and your friends are more than welcome to wait inside, if you'd prefer."

"Yeah, ya’d like that, wouldn’t ya. Did Falena put you up to thi--"

"UNCA!"

Leona nearly instinctively side stepped the little ball of fiery orange that flung itself into his arms, grunting as the fuzzball impacted into his abdomen. Kifaji, while now safe from the verbal lashing Leona wanted to deal out, was not safe from the deadly glare that was shot his way.

“Quit clingin’ to me like that! Knock it off!” Leona snapped halfheartedly at his nephew who, undeterred by the tone, continued to beam up at him.

“I got so excited when I heard you were coming home!” The boy chirped quickly, grabbing his uncle’s hand and swinging it back and forth. “Can I hang out with you guys?”

Leona ignored the amused muttering of his schoolmates behind him as he rolled his eyes at the child’s antics.

Cheka continued, still swinging Leona’s arm around. “Mama said to be on the lookout for you! Do you wanna come play with me? We could play tag, or hide-and-seek, or--”

“Cheka.” Leona snarled, finally making the boy stop. “What was that about your mother?”

“Oh… I wasn’t supposed to tell.”

“Oh for fff…” Leona let the curse fizzle out into a loud grumble, trying to rub away the headache blooming in his temple. Of course it was Shani’s idea.

“I should go tell Mama you’re here!” Cheka said excitedly, darting off before Leona could stop him.

..

You slipped into the newly hemmed dress, a new length of fabric now flaring out the bottom that, once again, highly suspiciously matched the fabric of Leona's pants. Three times makes a pattern, damn if it didn't look good though. You were about to call out to Shani when you heard giggling through the door, and a boy's voice talking. You waited a moment before Shani knocked, sounding amused.

"All ready in there?" She called out.

"Yeah, ready." You called back, prompting her to enter the room.

Her smile grew ever wider as she looked at your outfit. "I've one more thing, and we need to be quick. Seems we've been found out."

There was a small gasp as Shani walked into the room, a tiny mess of ginger hair standing in the bedroom.

"I remember you!" Cheka said excitedly. "You're Unca's friend! From school!"

"I am! It's nice to see you again, Cheka!" You replied just as enthusiastically as Shani pulled one more thing off the shelf.

"It's nice to see you too! You match Unca!"

"I knew I wasn't crazy!" You nearly shouted, turning to Shani as your face burned again. She at least had the decency to look a little guilty.

"Yuu, you are a beautiful girl in an unfamiliar place." She explained, walking forward and wrapping something around your waist. "These are recognizable patterns of the leader of the Sunset Warriors, of the second prince, no one would dare do anything to you while you are wearing these."

"Do anything?" You echoed as she fastened the belt, which matched the rest of the boys'.

"Swindle you, pickpocket, worse." She listed grimly as she adjusted your necklace. "Sunrise City is as safe a city as any during a heavy tourist season. We want you to enjoy your time here, not wonder where your wallet may have gone."

"I..." you sighed heavily. "I get that. Thank you, really. This is all very generous."

"You can pay me back by marrying my brother in law." Shani teased as she exited the closet, making your face burn tenfold.

"Hey!"

"YOU AND UNCA ARE GETTING MARRIED?!"

"Oops…"

Cheka insisted you carry him through the halls, Shani nearly telling him to return to his studies before you assured her that it was fine. You spent the entire walk trying to explain to the boy that, no, you were not marrying his uncle. Cheka, however, kept talking about the imaginary wedding and all the things you needed to have there. You resigned yourself to not stopping him. He was talking about the cake when you entered the large room you'd first met Falena and Shani.

"Aha! There she is! A much more appropriate look for your guest, don't you agree, brother?" Falena said, prompting you to turn your gaze from Cheka to him, looking just in time to watch him clap Leona on the back.

Leona said nothing, just staring for a moment before clicking his tongue and looking away. You took this as annoyance for a moment before Cheka spoke up.

"Unca, unca!" Cheka said excitedly from your arms. "When you two get married you need to have a BIG cake, okay? And there needs to be chocolate, and 'biscus, and--"

"Married?" He asked incredulously, turning back to look at the boy, not able to hide the red on his cheeks now, before looking to Shani. "What did you do?"

"Children have impressive imaginations, don't they?" She asked pleasantly, taking Cheka from your arms to hers. "Thank you for letting me dress you, Yuu."

"Thank you for dressing me," you smiled at her, ignoring the burning on your own cheeks, "it was fun."

She smiled before taking your hand and leaning in to whisper to you. "If you cannot go home for school holidays, our home is open to you, just say the word."

You nearly teared up at this, simply nodding and squeezing her hand. "Thanks for everything, Shani."

Falena laughed as you walked over to join him and Leona, who had his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "I'd give you some words of warning, but you seem to know how to handle my brother better than I do at this point!"

"He's not so bad." You chuckled as he pointedly refused to look at you. "It was nice to meet you, Falena."

"You too! Come back anytime!" He beamed down at you before Leona grabbed your arm and started dragging you out of the room.

You waved back to the crown prince and princess as you were hauled out of the room and into the hall. Leona dragged you towards the entrance before making a sharp left a few doors down into another hallway.

"Leona--?"

"Shut up."

Your mouth closed with a clack of your teeth at his words, and you suddenly felt ashamed of your actions. Were you supposed to text him an SOS as soon as you realized where you were? When you realized what was happening? Before you could think about it further, he dragged you into a room at the end of the hall and shut the door, quickly caging you with his arms against it.

"What did they tell you?" He growled low, a dangerous tone you'd only heard a few times since you first stepped on his tail in the garden.

"N-Nothing--"

"Don't play dumb with me right now, herbivore, what did they say?"

"Kifaji and Falena kept saying that you're nice to me, and Shani said if I wore your patterns I'm less likely to get robbed." You said quickly, omitting her comment about marriage. "I was mostly with Shani, we talked about her sisters and my mom and the outfit, that's it."

His green eyes stared into your soul for a moment before he grumbled something under his breath, leaning forward to press his forehead against the wall next to your head.

"Leona?"

"Shani thinks she's funny." He said quietly, you could feel his breath against your ear as he spoke. "Makin' you match me, in public no less..."

"I'm sure she didn't mean anything by it--"

"Are you?" He asked, pulling back to look you in the eyes again, closer this time. "She's making fun of me."

"She's not."

"You don't know her."

"She's not making fun of you." You whispered, not breaking eye contact.

"You don't know what I say in those phone calls home." He muttered back. "Lemme guess, Shani already had that dress picked out for you, as if she plucked it from her own closet."

"...Yes?"

"You think the crown princess would ever wear the second-born's pattern?" He leaned in again, his jaw bumping your cheek as he moved to whisper in your ear. "She had that made for you, on purpose, for the day you eventually showed up."

"W-What do you say... in the calls home...?" You asked hesitantly, resisting the urge to reach your arms around him.

"Too much, apparently." He chuckled softly, lips grazing the shell of your ear. You felt like you would combust into flames any second. "Looks good on you though... suits you."

"L-Leona?"

He pulled back again, close enough to bump noses. "We have to get to the springs, otherwise our resident pretty princess won't play tomorrow." He whispered, still making no move to pull away.

"What..." your wet your suddenly very dry lips, not missing how Leona's eyes flicked down for just a second to catch the motion, "what did you mean by "when I eventually showed up...?""

"I said, don't play dumb, Yuu. You think I let just anyone braid my hair? You think I didn't notice that you do that while I'm tryin' to sleep?" He chuckled again, his grin almost looking like he was just flashing his teeth at you. "I pretend to not notice a lot of things."

"I'm not just anyone...?"

"You haven't been "just anyone" for awhile now." He muttered leaning in just a little closer, his nose brushing against yours gently before he stopped. "We need to go."

He let the moment hang in the minuscule amount of air between you for a second longer before finally pulling away, glancing over your outfit again as he did, making a triumphant little noise.

"Looks good on you." He muttered again before grabbing you by the arm to pull you away from the door.

Once you were out of the way, he opened the door again and walked out into the hallway, leaving you feeling like your knees were about to give out. With a moment to look around the room, you realized he'd pulled you into a bedroom that looked a little too similar to his back at the college.

"Herbivore." He barked from down the hall, kick starting you again.

"Y-Yeah!" You called back before hiking your skirt and jogging to catch up to him again.

If your friends, namely Vil, noticed the similarities between your outfit and Leona's, they were gracious enough not to say anything about it. You were, however, highly complimented on it, Kalim making a point to spin you around to see the dress twirl. Kifaji had a very self satisfied look on his face off to the side, which was quickly wiped away when Leona finally announced his plan to leave him in the dust.

..

Back at Night Raven College, you and Leona went back to your normal routine as if nothing had ever happened. You almost wondered if it had been a very sweet dream until you saw the dress in your closet again. You grabbed the skirt, rubbing the fabric between your thumb and index finger, as if to remind yourself that it was real. It had happened.

"What? You longin' for the Sunset Savanna again?" Grim asked from your bed, you'd nearly forgotten he was there. "I am. You really missed out on that meat, hench-human. I wouldn't mind goin' back."

"Yeah... me neither." You sighed, releasing the dress. You stared at it longingly for another moment before shutting the closet door to continue getting ready for bed. A very sweet dream indeed.

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO USE MY WORK TO TRAIN AI

MASTERLIST

[roamingleaf]

"Maximum Occupancy"

TW: Bukkake, R@pe, Public, Freeuse, Fauxcest(BroXSis), Gangbang, Degrading, Dirty Talk, Blackmail

"Stop taking pictures with your phones." She shakily protested. As a tinted rosy flush started to simmer under her summer rain soft cheeks. What was the cause of the crimson imprinting steaming away at such an unblemished, marble face? The fact that her school mandated navy blue skirt that was expected to be prim, pressed, and presentable at all times was lazily crumpled up and cast into some obscure corner of that florescent flooded linoleum bathroom.

There, exposed before the eyes of a few delinquent boys was her pale, plush, plumped thighs which seemed as if they had been woven into the very fabric of her mesh black stockings. With that guiding roadmap on full display those devilish glares walked their way up to her itty-bitty, raven, almost yarn like thread she swore where panties for a mere peak at that hidden oasis. This horrendous, shameful endeavour couldn't be made any worse could it?

Sadly, it could. one of those four hooligans to have cornered this innocent lass was her own brother. Even as our Ivory bunny pleaded for the snaps of those cameras to cease, he would be the one to brazenly lead the charge of ignoring it and continuing to treat her like their personal model.

"I told you she'd do it." He proudly bragged to the group of gawking boys. All but astounded by his rash, bold, forthrightness that they too continued to snap away.

Her protest would not cease however, with one of her slender hands she tried desperately to keep that sacred shrine out of the eyes of such devils. "I'm serious Issac...stop taking pictures with your phone."

But again, her quiet riot was met with deafening silence before Issac himself stepped closer to address this perceived bratty behavior. "Ya'll want to see something cool?" He posed to the peanut gallery before firmly reaching out and grasping her flowing, golden locks between his fingers. With such a sturdy hold upon her only such a dark wish could await. Suddenly as if thunder erupting a crashing clap could be heard echoing through that small confinement. He had done the unthinkable in front of these gazing glares. Issac had reddened her flushed, ghostly cheeks.

Unfortunately for this frightened, petite, doll that clap seemed to be the signal for the circling vultures to descend upon her with the speed of the winds. One of the boys helped Isaac push this porcelain statue up against the wall securing her tightly. All while a second boy was sure to slowly unbutton her school embroidered shirt. Those emerald eyes of hers couldn't help but fall upon Isaac as his gleeful grin was all the support he would give back.

"Don't let them do this Issac, I'm your si-"

Before another word could be uttered in defiance Isaac's lips met his sisters. This love drunk embrace was so misplaced. Nevertheless, that shocked the other boys. They themselves couldn't help but enjoy the show as Isaac's tongue slipped between her cherried, treasured lips. What grunting, groaning, resistance she had before was all but melting away between the steaming embrace of their lips locking.

This sullied display of sin was more than enough to call the final boy into action. Moving in next to the second boy they both pulled her matching black bra down to reveal her precious, rolling hills. Like the hungry creatures they were both of them started to suck, nipple, and squeeze the breasts that were in front of them. Only as her enchanting, symphony started to leak from between Isaac's embrace did they finally break for air. He pulled himself from her lips to watch as his friends started to defile his own flesh and blood with their teeth and tongues.

"Isn't she such a little slut? I've trained her well." He boasted again. Implying this was far from the first time he had tried his hand with her frame. Now, the first boy wanted a taste of her lips as well. Seeing his chance with the hand that was free her head was tilted to the left where another pair of lips locked with hers once again. There would be no need for too long of a break for her sadly.

Issac saw this as the perfect opportunity to switch with his friend. Maneuvering his lumbering frame in front of hers Issac would waste no time taking that well shaped, juicy, pale peach into his palms and lifting her up off the ground. With ease her brother and some stranger kept her suspended between their grasp. "Make sure you get a good angle." He reminded one of the boys who still greedily had their phone out. "Are you ready for me whore?" He taunted softly into her ear as his javelin-like shaft made its way into the awaiting, glistening, cove of hers.

By this point her mind was already struggling to stay afloat in that hazy, lust fueled daze her senses were thrown into. The only response she could muster was a booming, entrancing, moan as her greedy hole gobbled her big brother's cock in front of these nobodies. "You're so much tighter today, what's wrong? You love an audience you filthy doll?"

Taunt, after taunt was hurled in her face to match the steady rhythmic thrusting he was starting to establish. The boy who had been helping prop this petite portrait up could not help but let his wandering hands lead down towards her jiggling chest for a handful. He too would soon find his own rhyme. A deadly mix between groping, grasping, and squeezing her breast all while his tongue would trace shapes along the fringe of her ear. How could this be happening? Yet, that thought would have no time to settle in her mind through this vicious ravaging.

Oh, but who could forget those two other monsters waiting eagerly in the wings both with phones in hand to capture this private pornography. Unfortunately this was far from the end. Issac hungered to present his pretty portrait in every way he could think of. Pulling himself from deep within her soiled, creamy, cove he eased her down to her knees while calling forth the boys to gather with a mere wave of his hand.

"Open your fucking mouth." Issac barked. And like the timid, touched, tulip she listened. Her dripping, tongue happily slithered from between her lips as everyone who had not unzipped, quickly stepped to catch up. Beneath that dim humming light her hands and mouth were filled with cocks. Stroking them in time with her oddly soft yet, firm grip while her mouth was used by Isaac. The last boy, knowing he would not get something was swift to shift to the side of Isaac, aligning his shaft near her bobbing head in some desperate plea to be next.

It wouldn't be long from here till the shaft in her left hand abruptly erupted onto her glowing, blonde locks and between the crevices of her fingers. Which seemed to cause a chain reaction as the one in her right hand followed suit. This time, marking more over her cheek and chin. The runt of the litter saw his chance and quickly pounced. Taking both of her hands to wrap them around his shaft, he would thrust between them as if he was trying to impregnate her very palms.

Issac laughed as he saw this as a race to the finish. Who would be the last to add their part to this pretty portrait? Due to Isaac's tightening grasp upon his dear little sister's head he could become twice as violent with his reshaping thrusts into her throat. That once soothing moaning symphony was quickly turning into a gargling, haunting, orchestra of corruption. Neither one of them seemed ready to lose, that was when Issac freed himself from the coils of her breathless throat to plaster his seed precisely upon her elegant tapestry face.

Having to be the last finished, the runt was sure to take advantage. Moving his shaft out from her hands, he was the first to use her squishy, pillowy hills to encircle his cock. This must have been the piece of the puzzle missing, for not too long between them did he too, erupt. Spilling himself amongst her snowy white mountains.

"Good man, now bend her over." How could Issac still want more after this depraved scene left in their wake? Yet this call went heeded with tenacious speed.

This filthy debauchery continued until the sun dropped below the crest of the horizon--On that cold, disgusting, ceramic tiles of the bathroom did her exhausted, exploited, leaking canvas lay after they had finished each painting her as they saw fit.

-🪶

[randomthefox]

You know it's funny, this scene is used as the epitome example of "wahoo wacky fun time pizza man" but even this scene in all its camp still demonstrates depth for Dante's character.

The thing is, the dance itself is leaving out the lead up, which is Nico introducing herself to Dante. Pay attention to Dante's body language.

He's reserved and withdrawn from Nico as she fangirls over him. Almost shy. He's very reluctant about accepting her handshake. His eyeline is tilted down and away from her. The blocking of the scene rarely even shows his eyes. His interest is only perked once he brings out Ebony and Ivory and after he holsters them he's back to being relatively engaged. Even when she hands him the hat, he's standing still as a statue.

It almost comes off as shy, if not standoffish. Dante is incredibly self loathing about his demonic heritage (his theme song in this game is literally "Subhuman") and this comes out in him feeling withdrawn from humanity. He doesn't want to go to Patty's party in his opening cutscene at the beginning of the game because he doesn't want to be around a bunch of humans. Not because he hates humanity, but because he hates the devils blood that is within himself. He's standoffish towards Nico at first because she's a human and he doesn't want to engage with her. It's only AFTER she gives him the hat that he accepts her as someone he can feel comfortable enough to be silly around. She's "one of us" now, and he can let the walls down.

Also take note that Nico thinks Dante's stupid dance is cool and she's digging it. When the camera cuts back from Dante finishing his dance over to Nico, she's posed the same way he is implying she was DANCING ALONG WITH HIM and she's cheering and hooting about how cool he is.

The Devil May Cry games HAVE depth and nuanced storytelling and characterization. They just demand that you PAY ATTENTION.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

How to write diva like characters, like blingy, dramatic, cool asf characters. I feel we don't talk about socialites and PPL like these but I do wanna put them as a main character

Writing Ideas: Diva Characters

a list of related tropes

The Beautiful Elite: They aren't just beautiful looking. In addition to being healthy and fit, with beautiful skin and hair, their whole life is beautiful. They are more fashionable than anyone else, more sophisticated and charming than anyone else, and are usually both rich and socially powerful. Their clothes are all way too expensive for you to ever own. They live in an elegantly furnished Big Fancy House that is so clean and well organized they look like they are Living in a Furniture Store. They get to hobnob with famous people so much that they may casually refer to them on a First-Name Basis. To a certain degree, this is Truth in Television. In most societies, wealth and attractiveness are highly correlated; the wealthy have much greater access to resources for improving their own appearance, through fitness classes, plastic surgery, healthy food, cosmetics, hairstyling, wardrobe, etc. Moreover, attractive people often have better access to social, financial, and material success, whether through marriage or professional opportunities. And even beyond all that, the very standards of beauty itself, especially feminine beauty, are customarily centered around a demonstration of wealth.

Cosmopolitan Council: The one trait that ties everyone together is that they are all in possession of skill, authority or money, and in excessive amounts. The members will probably be heavily accessorized with gaudy jewelry or a scar to prove their moral alignment. In short, the implication is that each and every member has a varied and storied past… which we very likely won't learn.

Non-Idle Rich: A rich character does a job involving public service (often a cop, soldier, or doctor) despite obviously not needing the pay. Instead, they do the work to help people or for personal satisfaction — or to avoid boredom. They will often have conflict with both their family — who wonder what they're doing down in the muck with the "common people" — and their work peers — who class them sight unseen as a dilettante after thrills. They spend all their time proving themselves.

Socialite: Cultured and rich, and knows how to handle any social situation (or at least upper-class ones).

Socially Scored Society: A setting where everyone's reputation is ranked/scored, and it affects their quality of life.

The Diva: The strong, dark, beautiful woman. She's often a go-getter, chasing stardom, wealth, or just recognition for her talents. If she becomes an Idol, she's not constrained by the pressures of always appearing youthful, innocent, and approachable.

The Prima Donna: An overbearing, egotistical entertainer.

Hidden Heart of Gold: Someone is mean, has become famous for it, and is proud of it, so when they do something nice, they keep it secret.

No Fame, No Wealth, No Service: Places that only let in celebrities.

Old Money: Families that have been wealthy for many generations, and maintain their lifestyle through stewardship of an existing family fortune.

The Sheltered Aristocrat: A character who has lived a life surrounded by luxury and pomp and shielded from the everyday trivialities and mundane issues which the lower classes have to contend with. They see themselves as pure and untainted by the hardships of the outside world, but their Ivory Tower worldview is based on books and tutoring, so they are in for a rude awakening when they leave the castle.

You Are the New Trend: A famous person has his mannerisms copied by everyone.

Examples

Brave New World is one of the most famous examples. A Dystopia where everyone is raised to be a Stepford Smiler, and everyone looks twenty years old (except the Epsilons, the lowest caste; they are barely human).

F. Scott Fitzgerald was fond of The Beautiful Elite trope: Dick and Nicole Diver appear to be Beautiful Elite at the beginning of Tender Is the Night. But deconstructed it in The Great Gatsby, a classic novel that starts off by showing all the glamor of the rich, then revealing the ugly truths behind why some of them are this way. The Beautiful and Damned also starts out with this in play until the main couple's awful life choices start catching up with them.

Elizabeth Roffe in Sidney Sheldon's Bloodline. Despite being able to simply sell her shares of her family's company, she decided to run the company.

George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire: House Lannister is the richest and most glamorous of the Great Houses. They are tall, beautiful and golden-haired. Jamie and Cersei Lannister are regarded as some of the most dashing and beautiful members of the nobility. The expected physical perfection of the Lannisters is part of why Tyrion Lannister, a deformed dwarf, is so reviled by much of his own family.

The Park family in Parasite live in a large, isolated house in the middle of densely packed Seoul to symbolize how sheltered they are from the real world. They casually spend large amounts of money with no real thought, as exemplified by how they ask for "ram-don" — which combines two full servings of instant noodles — topped with expensive sirloin steak for a snack. They serve as Foils to the poor Kims, who are of such modest means that they have to fold pizza boxes to try and make ends meet.

Pride and Prejudice's Lady Catherine de Bourgh is a widow of Blue Blood with a vast fortune and huge income. She's nosy, haughty, and extremely meddlesome. She thinks everybody will do what pleases her.

Sleeping Beauty (1959): As a baby, Princess Aurora is given the gift of beauty by the good fairies, as grows up into a lovely young woman.

Darling (1965) is about Diana Scott, a beauteous model from Swinging Sixties London, who gets into multiple romantic entanglements, attends high-profile charity galas, and flies around the world for various jobs. However, her personal unfulfillment, amorality, and disillusionment with the jet set are running themes, and the film ends with her stuck in a marriage to an Italian prince.

Soul (2020): Dorothea is a downplayed example. She's framed as the height of jazz performers, and definitely has sway over who plays and how in her band. She's quick to hire, fire, and challenge her bandmates to keep up. Her experience in the field also gives Joe the advice he needs to hear about the difference between chasing the dream and living it.

The Great Gatsby: Tom Buchanan and Daisy come from old money and high society. It's put in contrast with Jay Gatsby, who is Nouveau Riche and must engage in Conspicuous Consumption to appear to fit in.

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Here are some tropes and examples you can use as inspiration. You can find more in the sources linked above. Choose which ones you would like to incorporate in your story. Hope this helps with your writing!

[nachtai-ish]

Grown People Business

pairing: black!femalereader x Terry Richmond

mentions of: a child (idk having a child might be triggering for some folks), mutual verbal abuse, cancer, cloaked mention of abortion. non-canon, terry might be ooc.

notes: despite the above mentions....it's not a dark story.

                Your son was bouncing his knee, holding the football just under his little puffy jacket covered arms. Well, at least you thought he was bouncing his knee. Every time you would slide a look over to him, he would suddenly look very still and solemn. Serious, as if he was really contemplating the lyrics of Kokomo by The Beach Boys. You hid your giggle and continued humming along to the radio.

“Did you have fun at your dads?” You asked sliding another look at your son.

He nodded, as a smile appeared again. “So much fun. Me and Keke, and JoJo ate sundaes and we watched the football game on thanksgiving. Aunt Allison had some wine and she was dancing and she asked me to dance you know I had to show her how we do it now. You old people-“

“Old?” You scoffed. “Boy, who you think taught you those moves?”

“Old people. Anyway, we had so much fun. Christine bought me a ball and daddy and me, daddy and I, threw the ball so much. He said I have a good arm.”

You rolled your eyes and took a right at the red light. Yohan would not put football dreams in your son’s head but you couldn’t shake the joy out of his eyes. “Oh is that right. What about that book report?”

And there was the silence. You shook your head and chuckled. “…Cat got your tongue?”

“I forgot. But I can do it tonight. We still got the weekend.”

“Uh huh.” You shook your head again and pulled into your parking space in front of your town home. And suddenly your son was reaching for the door handle, rushing like he had to go to the bathroom.

“Slow down, what you got to pee?” You knew exactly what he was rushing for.

“I want to show Terry my new ball and see if he wants to see how I throw.” He nearly slammed the door hard enough to break the window. You laughed exasperated and your son’s energy.

“He might not be home Marcus.” You got out of the car yourself, straightening your slightly off-ivory sweater. Your words didn’t stop him from ringing the doorbell, bouncing on his toes. No more than a minute later, the door opened and Terry was standing at the door, bright smile on his face and blue eyes trained on your son.

It was enough to make you melt right on the asphalt you were standing on in the 55-degree weather.

“Marc, my man. Dang, you were gone like two months.” Terry said clapping hands with the much shorter boy, and then squatting to give him a hug. “How was your thanksgiving?”

Marc shrugged, and you rolled your eyes. Boys. “It was alright.” He said, voice suddenly calm conveying indifference.

“Just alright? What the macaroni wasn’t good?” He looked at Marcus then, eyes scanning his face quickly and then he looked over at you, concern in his eyes.

“He good?” He seemed to say, just with a slight shifting of his eyebrows.

You clutched your purse to your stomach, shaking your head and shrugging with a smirk on your face.

“Oh I see, you trying not to make me jealous cause you know I sat here and had a pot pie for dinner.” He shoved him a little and then looked down at the football in his hand. “What’s that?”

“Football, my dad’s fiancé got it for me. You want to see me throw it?”

“You ask your mom?” Terry looked at you then, and Marcus’ face soon followed, his face pleading with you to be cool and say yes.

“It’s cold.” You said, needling him a little bit.

“Ma, please.” He begged.

“Fine, but book report right after. And put your gloves on.” You said grabbing his suitcase out of the backseat.

“Aww Ma-

“Hey, football players wear them too. You want your fingers to be frozen and you mess up the throw? Do what your mom says.” Terry said, his deep voice gentle.

“You right Terry.”

You rolled your eyes again, and closed the backseat. “Of course, listen to Terry. Not your dear old ma, who only was in labor with you for 6 whole h-“

“Alright ma, we’ll be in the backyard.” Marcus walked into Terry’s house, knowingly heading straight for the back door that led to your shared backyard space.

“He a trip I swear.” Terry laughed. “You need help with that?”

“It’s just one suitcase. I’m not fragile.” You stood at your door looking over at Terry fiddling with your keys.

Terry smirked, “Never said you were. Just offering. …How was your thanksgiving? I didn’t see you.” He leaned against his doorframe. His eyes shifted a little lower. You ignored the rumbling in your lower half.

“I went out.”

“With who?” His voice was slightly deeper, his eyes snapped back on your face.

You chuckled looking up at the sky for help. Something, anything that would stop the tingles in your lower half. “30 minutes Terry. Have my child back in my house in thirty minutes.” And with that you walked in your home and closed the door, safe and away from blue eyes and pheromones.

                You sat at your dining room table, windows facing the backyard open so you could see Marcus and Terry throwing the ball back and forth. Your laptop was open in front of you and the grading software had been idling for 20 minutes now as you watched the ball go back and forth. Terry’s form was impeccable, but you knew that. You knew that when he moved in.

Before Terry, there was Mrs. Mable. Mrs. Mable was a sweet older white woman who had moved into the town home after her husband had passed from cancer. She had lived in some big house about 20 minutes away, but once her husband died, she couldn’t stand the silence. When you moved into the Town home, she had been so excited, bringing over cookies and making sure that you knew exactly what school to enroll Marcus into. In the two years that you were neighbors, she had become a sort of surrogate aunt, even watching Marcus during moments where you needed to run out for whatever reason. When her daughter had another baby, she decided to move in with her to help and suddenly the Town home was empty.

Enter Terry.

You hadn’t even seen him look at the place. Only saw the moving van pull up and him, green shirt and tan cargo pants, moving his boxes in all by himself. He didn’t have much but what he did have, he moved efficiently and quickly. You knew he was a force when he picked up an armchair sofa by himself and moved it into his home…almost with no sweat. You noticed the trails of it running down his thick neck.

“Jesus.” You mumbled, hand clutching at your own neck.

“I think he needs help.” Marcus, six then, said. He was sitting at the door, putting on his little sneakers in a hurry.

“And you’re going to help him?” You smirked, watching your child spring into action.

“Yeah, I helped Mrs. Mable move her stuff in the van.”

“So, you’re a pro at it.”

“Duh, mommy.” He opened the door and you followed him, standing on your stoop as your son traveled the few feet over to the new neighbor. You leaned on your door frame, admiring the neighbor from behind as he walked into the moving truck, not even noticing the little 3 foot moving professional walking behind him.

“Can I help?” Marc asked after a moment of standing just at the edge of the truck.

There was a little pause and then a voice, “Uh…yeah you can…but where’s your mom and dad? They know you out here?”

“Ma’s right there. She said it’s okay.” Marcus pointed at you then and a face looked out of the side of the truck. Your inhale was sharp.

His face was devastating. Big features, big lips, wide nose, big blue eyes. On someone else it could be cartoonish, but on him it was almost movie star handsome.

“Damn…” You couldn’t help but say. Fuck, I hope he didn’t hear that.

He grinned slightly, and waved at you. “Hey, I’m Terry. Is it cool if your boy helps me?”

You nodded, your sanity coming back to you. “It’s…it’s cool. But if he breaks anything, just remember you said it was okay for him to help.” You joked and then cursed. Probably not a good idea to tell your neighbor that your son was a little destructive.

Terry laughed; it wasn’t a belly laugh but it was enough to brighten his face. “I won’t sue you. No worries.” He held out his hand for Marcus and helped him onto the truck. “Grab those lamps for me.”

“Be careful Marc.” You shouted.

“I am!” He shouted back, making Terry chuckle again.

You spent at least an hour and 30 minutes sitting on your stoop watching Terry and Marcus pull things off the truck. And during that time, you got a good look at Terry. He had to be at least 6’1 maybe more, and he was broad shouldered. His posture was ram-rod straight like he had been in the military or something. He answered Marcus’ questions calmly, like they had all the time in the world. Like he had no issue with answering the inane questions of a 6-year-old. He was not annoyed and if he was, he was amazing at hiding it.

You were watching them; they had stopped so Marcus could show Terry a Pokemon card he had gotten in a trade. Terry was squatted low to look at the card, giving it all the attention in the world as Marcus explained all of its features. You had urged Marcus to stop holding the man up, but Terry encouraged him to tell him more about the card, making Marcus even more excited.

“He good mama.” He looked at you, eyes focused on yours, voice still calm. Your son was not bothering him. He looked at him then, “I want to know what Bulbasaur does.”

Your stomach clenched. Oh god. You could not sleep with this man. You could not sleep with this man because she showed your son decency. Your phone rang in your pocket then, and the name on the screen made you drier than the Sahara Desert.

Yohan.

You stood up then, going to the furthest corner of your stoop. You didn’t turn your back on the two, but you did turn a little for privacy.

“Hey. What’s up?”

A pause. “I can’t get him this weekend.”

“Yohan, what the fuck. It’s your weekend. You said you were going to take him to the fair.”You kept your voice down as much as possible, not wanting to alarm Marcus.

“…I gotta work. I know what I said. I told you I’m trying.”

“You always say you have to work but then you end up in the fucking club with girls all over you.” You turned then facing away from the men who now were moving a table, Terry was of course doing most of the lifting. “Nigga, I always have to cover for you. I’m tired of lying to my son cause you don’t want to be a father.” You whispered.

“Who said I didn’t want to be a father? I’m fucking telling the truth. I don’t have to lie to your ass. I have to work. Put my son on the phone.”

You looked back and gasped. Terry was watching you, concern on his face. Marcus was heading towards the moving van, not a care in the world. You forced a grin and nodded. You were okay. Terry stood there for another second, before nodding once and walking towards the moving van.

You let out the breath you were holding and focused on the phone.

“Did you hear me Y/N? Put Marc on the phone.”

“No.” You simply said. “He’s busy.”

Another pause and then a chuckle. “…I am not doing this with you. Put my son on the phone.”

“I said no.” You were being unreasonable, sure but this man was always doing this shit and you had enough. “You are not about to feed my son no bullshit so you can feel better about what you’re doing.”

“What you want me to send you the schedule? I got to work. Fuck! This is why I left your ass-“

“Left me? Nigga I threw that ring and your fucking shit to the left-“

“-You don’t trust me.”

“Oh, cause you gave me so many reasons to trust you.” You laughed. “There was Brenda, Latisha, Linda, Felicia, about three Kims’-“

He chuckled, “What you DMX now? Fuck this, I’ll tell Allison to come pick my son up since you want to be stupid-“

You rolled your eyes, “You tell Allison if she steps her drunk ass on my porch, it’ll be the last thing-“

“Mommy.”

You stopped immediately, straightening up and wiping your eyes. You didn’t even know you had starting to cry. “Hey, you done?” You said turning around when you were straight.

“I just gotta pee, and you’re in front of the door.” Marcus was crossed leg and shifting.

You laughed. “My bad, go. And wash your hands.” You called after him.

You sighed when he was out of sight and put the phone back on your ear. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Good… So stop being stupid, and just be reasonable.”

“I’m taking you to court. Bye Yohan.” You hung up the phone, and turned it completely off, sitting on the stairs and putting your head in your hands. Your eyes wet your hands, but you were not crying. You would not cry anymore.

After a moment, there was movement next to you, and then warmth. You looked to the side and Terry was there, silent, not looking at you. Just there. It was oddly comforting although he was a stranger.

You chuckled, “You heard all of that?”

He shrugged and shook his head, “Heard what? …I’m just resting.” He said, still not looking at you. You shook your head.

“On my porch?”

“I’m tired. My porch is like…all the way over there.” He gestured to the right of you. “I’ve been moving all day.”

“Right.” You sniffed in, wiping your eyes. “I could spit the distance between your porch and mine.”

“1. That’s impressive. 2. Doesn’t mean I want to walk it.” He grinned then. “Let me rest, mama.”

“Fine, only because I know you’re tired.” You stood up. “And don’t call me mama. I’m not your mama.”

“My bad. …what’s your name?” He looked up at you.  “You never told me.”

“It’s Y/n. My name is Y/n.”

                It had been two years since then. And Terry turned out to be a pretty reliable neighbor as well, helping you when your tires were flat. Helping you carry in groceries. And entertaining your son’s every whim, including throwing various balls across your shared backyard.

“And you won’t fuck him why?” Keke said making you snap out of your daze. You were on a zoom call with her while working on your papers you had to finish grading. Keke might have been Yohan’s sister but she was also your friend, your best friend. “I know you ain’t still feenin for Yohan’s ugly ass.”

“Keke, please.” You said laughing. “Don’t nobody want your big head ass brother no more.”

“See that’s what you said before, then six months later there you go waddling around with Marcus in your stomach.” She laughed. “Listen, I love my bookie but I would have.” She made a sucking noise and crossed her hand across her neck. “Immediately. You know what I’m saying.”

“You stupid.”

“For real. Fuck the man. Get it over with. You know you want to. You know you going to. It’s been two years.” She grinned. “I saw how he was looking at you on the fourth. Like he wanted to bend your ass right over on that picnic table. Yes god! I would have LET HIM. You hear me?”

“Keisha.”

“I’m for real. I know he fuck good. When he over you with all that weight, and he-“ She clapped her hands in a rhythm that reminded you of an intense session of love making. “You can grab onto all that back he got and just let go. Just EXHALE GIRL. Woosah bitch.”

“Keisha.”

“I know he gone talk you through it too. …you gotta tell me all about it. Or hell move out the way and I’ll give it a go.”

“You’re married.” You nearly laughed but kept it in.

“Damn you right.-“

You laughed then.

“You gotta do it, for the both of us.”

“You don’t sleep where you…well sleep. He’s my neighbor and if things get messy, then I can’t escape it.”

And things always found a way of being messy with you. There was the guy from the supermarket, no you didn’t heed the warning that Troy shouted up at Robin in Waiting to Exhale, nor the warning from the cannibal movie from Hulu. He ended up having a girlfriend, who would go on to flatten your tires.

And then there was Kevin, the principal from your son’s school. You had only gone on one date with him, and it was HORRIBLE. So bad that you blocked him, and now ignore him at PTA meetings. And then there was…

Damn, maybe it was you.

“Yall are grown. If you tell him, hey big fine 6’3 ass man-

“He’s not 6’3.”

“Oh bitch, he’s 6’3. I know a tall nigga when I see one. Anyway, if you just tell the man, hey I just want to fuck…no strings, I know he’ll be cool with it.”

“I’m not a hoe, Keisha.”

“Who said you was! This is grown people business. Grown! If you set expectations in the beginning then no one gets hurt. Grown People business girl. Now…what you waiting for?”

You looked out the window, Terry and Marcus was still playing outside, neither one of them minding your 30 minute instruction that you had given earlier but you weren’t mad. It made you feel warm inside that your son trusted Terry so much, and that Terry was so warm to your son.

“Keisha…I don’t know.” You still were looking outside when Terry looked back at you too. He grinned, and you smiled. Someone could end up hurt…and more than likely it would be you.

“Girl…I told you. Set expectations up front, get what you want and if you don’t want it no more….no hard feelings. Grown.-“

You nodded, deciding to yourself.

“Grown people business.” -----

a/n: i don't know. this should be a series...but I'm not good at finishing stuff, so no promises. i hope you all enjoyed it. mwah. i can't remember the last time i wrote lol, so yeah...

[applejusue]

ellie williams ─── little misfortunes

𓆩♱𓆪 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⅠⅠⅠ ─── estranged

A series of killings in a small town spread quickly, pitchforks sharpened, and curfews imposed. Ellie led a quiet life, well aware of the town's suspicions of her. After discovering a black shadow with glistening fangs sunk into a bloody gent outside a tavern, she finds herself grappling with accusations. What will happen when Ellie, bound to an altar and dressed in white, becomes the wife of the very woman who committed the massacre?

◟`# cw: blood, dracula, violence, murder, rituals, cult activity, animal feeding, sexual themes, feeding, arranged marriage, grief, slow-burn, love.

taglst '# @eleanorsghost, @imdrowningindispair, @mo0nnstarz, @nut-button-baby, @the-sick-habit, @azteriarizz

index | next chapter . . .

The cooling air bristled against her skin, and she was held by something much colder. Still restrained and lips muffled, Ellie could only be carried by whom she assumed was you, her new husband. In a way, she couldn't damn near believe that the town's plan had actually worked. You had taken her amidst all the beautiful, and that was something she couldn't make sense of.

Your frame felt rigid, stiff and Ellie was just as tense in your arms. You hadn't spoken a word to her yet, not directly and it did little to quell her anxieties. Soon there was the clop of steps, and a sharp creaking sound like a heavy door being pushed open. The air grew warmer, a thud coming from behind. The castle on the South hill.

Elle felt her body being lowered, thighs plushing down against something soft and comfortable, similar to velvet along her bare legs. Her face was still obscured by the veil, heart thumping painfully against the walls of her chest. Salted tears were still gently trickling down her cheeks, the reality too true to deny.

You took her in, your bride. The ivory veil that drifted over her face, the lace that cradled soft skin and the blood that stained her flesh. You felt something similar, nerves, though not to the same extent as your wife. You forced yourself to recall you manners, pleasantries that you hadn't needed to consider in many years.

Slowly, your pointed fingertips moved toward her, gently lifting the veil. Before you could even meet her gaze for the first time, she's writhing away from your touch. Her eyes were pressed tightly shut, mouth swollen from the lace that was binding her mouth. You blinked, once. The sight of her so distraught sent a twisting pain through your stomach, though it was masked quickly. You let the veil rest over her head, cascading down her shoulders rather than face.

Ellie refused to open her eyes, not to you, not to this. She had felt you lift her veil, and done her best to squirm away from your hold. Tears still splintered her swollen cheeks, and Ellie was certain she looked a right mess in front of her new husband. Husband. That was another reason why she refused to open her eyes. She had no idea what you would look like, how you would look at her, and she was unable to prevent the stifled sobs that pushed through the lace garment.

You couldn't bare to see those tears, and for a moment your hand raised to touch her hair. It stopped, considering you hadn't yet earned the right to her. Instead, you removed your large cloak, draping it around her half nude form and letting the warmth encompass her. You crouched before her, gazing up her set shut eyes and wondering if this was all a mistake. You'd taken her here of your own will, and you knew what the town would've done to her otherwise. You wouldn't let another woman perish for your sins. Afraid to even breach the ghost of a touch, you instead spoke up.

"Open your eyes, dearest-.. let me get a look at you.."

The voice came so tender that Ellie barely managed to register it. It wasn't the low, deep and intimidating tone that you'd used by the alter. It sounded, well, you sounded almost gentle. Her eyes protruded open fearfully, her wide glistening eyes locking onto yours. Ellie couldn't believe what she was seeing.

In front of her was not the man, the husband that she'd been expecting. No, knelt down before her was a woman, one with sunken eyes and a strict jaw. Your loose dark hair fluttered down your shoulders and back like smoke, hazed eyes staring back at her like the stars themselves. Your sense of clothing was the next shock that came to her, as you were wearing a gray waistcoat with straightened breeches, along with a simple striped shirt that kissed your elbows. The cloak felt heavier, much did your gaze.

"Ah, there you are.."

The voice that continued to leave your lips was one you didn't recognize, but it seemed to flow so freely around her. Your sharpened hand reached gently to her puffed face, but Ellie jerked back from your hold. It stung, and rightfully so. You blinked her through once again with dim eyes, observing her speckled cheeks and wet eyelashes that still drooped with tears. Carefully, you reached your hand out again, your wife stiff as bricks.

"Easy, my darling.."

You murmured through her obvious dismay, and Ellie was still struggling to comprehend this whole thing. She'd been expecting a husband, a monster who would drink her blood and ravage her body with an iron hand. You though, were instead knelt before her, speaking as though Ellie was a stray kitten. She certainly felt that way right now. Your clawed hand braced along her wet cheek, and she fought the urge to snap away once again. Her body was taut and trembling as you untied the lace that bound her lips.

Gasps spluttered from her swollen mouth as the air hit her again, her torso keeling forward with ragged breaths. Your hand hovers, though doesn't settle on her back like it had hoped to. Instead, you watch, allowing her a moment to gather herself. Ellie's jaw ached, her tongue feeling dry and out of place as it settled back to it's correct position along her teeth. She carefully lifted her jaw, sweat beading down her forehead and dangling by her chin before it dropped to the plush carpet below her bare feet.

"You're-.. you're a woman.."

Ellie's voice rasped, and now that she held your gaze you were completely entranced. Freckles painted along her flushed cheeks, eyes like a forest in spring and the soft curls to match. You were left staring, completely blindsiding your manners before clearing your throat with a small nod.

"You are surprised.."

You mused, voice only the littlest bit teasing.

Ellie's lips pursed, her head still pounding and all of a sudden she was flushed with the memories of the alleyway. No longer was it a faceless spawn, a dark shadow of a monster. No, now it was you who she pictured, dark eyes bored into her whilst your teeth sank into the neck of a stranger. She could see them now, two sharpened tusks between the faint smile that pluttered your lips.

You noticed she didn't laugh. She didn't respond much at all, actually. Her gaze had flickered to your mouth and you tightened your jaw shut, knowing your teeth weren't.. pleasant. You glanced away, dark eyes ghosting. You could sense her apprehension, and instead spoke more truthfully.

"Yes well- it was not my intention to deceive you, I understand that it was a husband you were expecting, but I assure you darling that your needs will be met by myself.."

.."

Ellie wasn't really paying attention to what you were saying, she was too busy staring down at you. You were tall, firm features and a hollowed cheekbone that gave hint to how old you were, though physically you still appeared only a few years older than her. That was luck, at least. She hadn't even considered that her husband, well, that you could've been shriveled in dust, like a dried out spider. Ellie didn't think that you were hideous at all.

"..I- we are strangers.."

Her voice came quieter, head pounding like a kettlebell. Ellie consciously pulled the cloak, your cloak, further over her half bare body. Now that she'd memorized you, she truly began to take in her surroundings. The two of you were swallowed by a room with tall ceilings, basking in the afterglow of a warm fireplace that stood near the center. Old bookshelves climbed along the walls, most shelves cluttered with dusted tack. The furniture was delicate, velvet lounge chairs with footstools and a small tea table. At the bow of the room was a small desk, a study with a flurry of papers and a dried quill.

You watched as she took in your home, a scratch of nerves breathing along your neck. You hadn't had to host in quite some time now, the days where the castle was full of masquerades long dead. You'd rebuilt this place alone, without the guide of a loving hand. Your wife held the cloak closer, your wife, your cloak. It made your undead fleshy heart clench tighter. Her sweated skin stained glowy under the fire, and it was embarrassing how long it had once again taken you to remember to respond.

"It is true, but you belong to me now, dearest. That will not change.. though don't frighten so easy, I will not expect much.."

Your voice was a harness that dragged Ellie along by the head, and she glanced down at the ring holding her index finger. She'd tried to tug at it along the way here, only to find that it doesn't move an inch. She twisted the dainty band, wetting her dried lips. Ellie tried to collect all the pieces of her scattered brain enough to speak. She wanted to sound firm, brave but was once again attacked by the image of you, chin dripping in blood and pearly teeth glistening. She swallowed.

"I-.. I demand my own room, miss.."

Ellie bit down on her unsteady voice, but there was a defiance in there that made your interest sparkle. A tight lip of amusement stained your chin, and slowly you stood back up. Ellie's swollen mouth was slightly agape at the reminder that you were so much taller.

"That is no way for our marriage to run.. Our chambers will be shared, as will our bed. Rest easy, my darling we are unlikely to cross paths as you will sleep when I wake, and I will not disturb your slumber.."

That reassured Ellie only mildly, the unease radiating off her in waves as you crouch to unbind her ankles and hands, muttering about your manners. Recognizing her exhaustion, you decide to take her to the chamber. You offered her a cold hand, but she doesn't take it. Ellie observes the long hallways as you guide her through the castle, marble floors with ceilings that seemed to touch the sky. The castle was dark, yet it had a certain warmth to it that Ellie hadn't expected.

You held a glittering candelabra as you graced through the halls, checking your shoulder near constantly to assure that she was still behind you. Dwarfed in your cloak and eyes glistening with tears, the guilt continued to lapse at your chest. You'd already decided that you'd give this woman anything she desired, anything she asked for. While you move along the east wing Ellie observes the armor stands, the paintings that adorn the walls and the furniture with stained black wooden legs. The fire. She remembered it from one of Joel's old stories, and wondered if you'd really rebuilt this place alone.

Ellie watched the back of your head, long dark hair draping down across your shirt. The castle was old fashioned, dated but warm, all things considered. As the two of you approach another wooden door, a small mouse scuttled across the carpet. It brushed against Ellie's feet, sending her barelling toward you in surprise. You froze at the sudden contact, glancing down at her teary eyes over your shoulder. Your voice lowered, softer, if that was even possible.

"You will have to excuse the little visitors, dearest.."

Your tongue itched as the mice scurried into a crevice, another small reminder of all the formalities you'd been neglecting. If it weren't for the presence of your wife, you likely would've dove after the mouse and chased it down the hallway. Most indecent. With your wife's antsy nod, you push open the door to the chambers, allowing her to walk in.

Ellie's pained jaw was agape as she entered the chamber. It was larger than her old home in the village in it's entirety. There were towering windows with midnight velvet curtains, ones way too high for Ellie to consider fleeing from. She swallowed. The room was bathed in flickering candlelight, a bear skinned carpet resting near another assortment of bookshelves. It was more unkempt than the main room, it was lived in, and that made it almost endearing. Ellie rubbed her wrists gently as she approached the bed, a large plush mattress with canopy drapes and crimson sheets. It was vintage, luxurious.

You watched as your wife took a seat on the bed, running her calloused hand along the sheets. You are pleasantly entranced before remembering her state of undress, and you move toward a dusty set of drawers. After a few moments of rummaging, the only suitable item you could find for her was a cotton shirt of your own. It would do for now. You'd need to head to the marketplace tomorrow and find some clothing for your little wife, and already you were questioning if this was the right decision. You approach the bed with a dried mouth, setting the folded shirt down on the bed.

I must apologize, darling.. I have little dress to offer you. Tomorrow I shall fetch whatever items you require from the milliner.."

Your words made Ellie's head shoot up. She realized that yes, she had none of her belongings, not that she'd had much to begin with. The thought that this woman was willing to leave the castle and buy her things felt almost surreal. Ellie glanced down at the cotton shirt, placing it onto her lap with unsteady grip. Her eyes met yours carefully, wary, but curious.

"Tomorrow? I thought-.. you don't sleep during the day?"

She felt almost sheepish for asking, completely out of her depth with rosy cheeks. A genuine intrigue had begun to surface in her gut, despite her instinctual reaction to you being caution. She should be disgusted, she'd watched you feast on a man right in front of her eyes, and yet in this warm candlelight you just seemed like a woman, a beautiful one at that. Ellie watched your lip twitch, you were avoiding a smile, avoiding what she'd see if you did.

"I do, yes, though I don't know of any seamstress that operates during the night.."

Your voice came soft, you were teasing her. It made Ellie's lips purse again a way that you were beginning to grow fond of. You gingerly took a seat beside her on the mattress, the way she subtly shifts away not going unnoticed. You remained seated still, offering her a gentle nod. Your attempts at making her smile hadn't worked just yet, but you'd keep trying.

"You are right, the sunlight can be quite damaging to my skin when uncovered, but when I have errands, I will on occasion cover up and frequent the nearby towns early in the morning.."

It made sense, and Ellie began to wonder how many people had passed her stall each morning that could've been like you. Once again her stomach was a flurry of feelings, a tall gorgeous woman was going to brave skin burning conditions to buy her some garments, but said gorgeous woman also feeds on blood.

"I see, thank you.."

Ellie's voice came softer, gradually growing comfortable in the unfamiliar setting despite the tall spired guard that surrounded her. She still didn't trust you, especially since she knew what you were capable of. For all she knew, you could be completely mad. Being trapped alone in a castle wasn't for the faint of heart. You could feel the shift in your wife's demeanor as she grew lost in thought, and you stood, wanting to give her some privacy.

"You must be tired, darling.. should you require any supper?"

You spoke, unsure on where you'd even get anything for her to feast on but you'd be damned before you didn't off your wife something to eat. Thankfully, she didn't seem to be hungry at the minute. Ellie waved her hand gently, dismissing your offer. She didn't think she'd be able to stomach much, wanting to simply lay her head on a pillow and rest. You catch on relatively quick her need to rest, and you give her a gentle bow before moving toward the door.

"..wait- can I know the name of my wife, at least?"

Ellie spoke up, rosy cheeks burning at the question she hadn't thought to answer yet. You turn over to her with those sunken eyes, another cat blink before the ghost of your name crosses her ears. It was a pleasant one, and Ellie committed it to memory. You then bid her goodnight with a nod, assuring her that should she need anything you would simply be about the castle, not that Ellie would be able to find you in this maze of a home.

Left alone in a room larger than life, Ellie let herself fall back against the mattress, staring up at the embroidered canopy. It all spoke of wealth, the power that you possessed. Sleep would not come easy tonight, that she knew for certain. She slowly rose back up, glancing down at the cotton shirt you'd left for her. Ellie glanced back at the door, sensing you had the politeness to knock despite your gruelish ways.

She slowly stood up, shuffling to a nearby chair and draping your cloak along the arm. She then lets the satin slip sink to the floor, the blood that had been painted along her skin mostly ran down her legs from the sweat. She'd need a bath, but that was a problem for another night. Instead, Ellie rummaged through some drawers until she came across an old towel. She rubbed off the worst of the dirt, drying herself up with a small sigh. Ellie then moved bare to the bed, lifting up your cotton shirt.

It was large, swamped in that same smell as your cloak and it almost made her neck warm. The fabric was soft, worn. Your clothes continued to impress, and if she was being honest she wouldn't mind a similar pair of trousers to the ones you'd been sporting earlier. She slipped it along her frame, it was a good substitute to a night dress. Ellie tucked herself into the large bed, and your scent haunted every damn surface. There was a dent in the right side of the bed where she could only presume you slept. Her gaze lingered on the space, thoughts too rampant to fall asleep.

𓏲 ๋♱⁴⁴⁴

index | next chapter . . .

[reverseexorcist]

★ 𝐅𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐝 ★

"If it's alright could I request Carmilla Carmine x a fem reader who's a fallen angel? Like maybe they met during extermination and got their wings ripped off for not wanting to kill Carmilla's kids or they were already in hell with Carmilla for some time before the extermination? If you don't want to do this that's totally fine, and sorry if this isn't how to request stuff :)."

Honestly, with how this ended, I'm really tempted to write a much fluffier part 2 to this

Part 2 ↫ Right here

➲ 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚 Carmine + !Fallen Angel!Reader

➲ Romantic ☐, Platonic ☒

➲ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 Count; 3,462 Words

➲ Warnings/notes; Female reader, descriptions of gore/blood, canonical Lute slander (sorry Lute), romantic or platonic wasn't requested so I went with platonic to fit the story more (if the requester wants romantic just feel free to ask me), mother mode Carmilla (she might be a bit ooc because of this),

Oh wow.

Oh wow were you shaking.

You couldn't tell if it was from the excitement or the nerves - Probably both if you were being honest with yourself, but you couldn't shake off the vibrating feeling tingling beneath your skin that made you want to fly laps around heaven. Your stomach was doing flips, but you led mask only reflected your nearly psychopathic grin and twitching eye.

Even after your lieutenant Lute shot you a stern look, no doubt pissed off because you couldn't sit still for five goddamn seconds, you still couldn't resist fidgeting with your spear. It was sparkly, and somewhat heavy, and a murderous weapon that was entirely yours! It was also cold, freezing almost. Even against your gloves it made your palms feel numb and seemed to shine in sync with your own valiant excitement.

Baby's first extermination, basically. While the name certainly sounded scary, you'd been waiting for this day for six months (you and the other forty-five cadets in your platoon) and you were ready to do your best! Sure, you were still technically a rookie, hanging around the flock and bringing up the rear of the exorcists, but this was how you proved yourself to rise the ranks, right?

Your heart stopped beating in your chest when you finally reached the front. Holy shit, that was the high seraphim! Sera, right? Oh wow, she really was much much taller in person, towering above the clustering sea of black and white murderous intent. Her outward vibe was motherly and caring, but you could see the glint of distain, guilt and regret sparking in the deepest depths of her eyes. Which was confusing, because you were doing a good thing, right? Ridding the divine planes of sinners irredeemable souls.

The thoughts crowded your mind - Evil, twisted monsters crawling around like bugs in the brimstone crowded crevices of hell. You could only imagine the satisfaction of killing your first hell spawn.

It would have to be cool no doubt. Something big with lots of teeth and claws and that could breathe fire! You had to come home with a cool story to brag about. You'd heard the tales from all your superiors. From everyone including the first man Adam himself, your respectably awesome (if a little terrifying) lieutenant Lute, to the other lieutenants like Michael and Gabriel. You'd have to off a demon built like a mountain to get their attention.

And by the big man himself, you were going to do it. Even if it took you a hundred years, you could already see yourself commanding a group just like yours, bearing a helmet with horns big and curved and bold, black stripes stippled along your ivory wings.

With a very particular pep in your step, you saluted the high seraphim Sera respectively, head cocked up just so you could regard her kindly warmth in fullness. Her smile didn't reach her eyes, and although she swiftly sent you on your way with the rest of your platoon, you couldn't help but let your nerves sway your resolve ever so slightly.

It didn't matter though! You unfurled your wings with perhaps a bit too much of a dramatic flair, but with your spear in hand and helm polished so it shined with malevolent glory, you kicked off without a second thought, tailing right behind where you were supposed to be.

Your first impression of hell was the heat.

With the extermination already well under way, raging fires were already burning up half of the city sending whorls of smog up into the air. You easily battered it away with a few strong flaps of your wings. With your head on the swivel, your eagle-eyes peered around the desolate land for the forms of the sinners struggling to thrive below, silhouettes hidden by the thick layer of smoke and ash blanketing the landscape.

Lieutenant Lute furled out her wings below you, a screeching war cry echoing throughout the battlefield as she all but left your rookie platoon in the metaphorical dust. The sound itself only spurred you on, itching for the blood of a demon on the blade of your angelic spear. Without a second thought, you tucked your wings to you sides and dived below, headfirst into the fray.

Billowing flames licked past you harmlessly, though they burned like hell (which seemed rather apt, considering where you). You didn't falter, flying through the embers like a goddamn phoenix ready to cleanse the realm sprawled out beneath you. The solid wingbeats of two of your fellow cadets only strengthened your resolution, a holy fire burning in your soul - An itch to clear the filth of devil scum away. This was the chaotic strength that your captain had sought to build in you, and now you were finally able to act on it.

But everywhere you looked, you only found simple, humanoid souls running and screaming in terror. Eyes wide, half-dead or bloodied beyond belief as they scrambled to find shelter from the onslaught of exorcists like yourself. Nowhere could you see the mangled forms of the demons you'd been taught to slaughter. Descriptions from your seniors before you passed through your mind - 'gleaming eyes with with wrath and lust', 'gangly limbs twisted to an unholy form', 'mouths filled with rows of sharp teeth, and claws like knives'.

You faltered, confused. The words of Lute rang out in your mind.

"Of course, it's not like they can actually hurt you. You're all warriors, the toughest, just use your spears to stab the shit out of them!"

You were alone now. You couldn't hear the comforting sounds of your fellow rookies behind you anymore. They were well in front of you now, peering around with a similar confusion to yours. But to your absolute horror, they simply shrugged their shoulders and dived forward with bloodlust evident in their glowing white masks. Silver points of spears were jammed through the heads of the terrified demons below. But were they demons? They didn't look like them at all. Every single book you'd seen depicting demons drew them as eldritch monsters with too many eyes to count, tentacles and claws and fangs with nary but bloodlust and vile thoughts hidden within their slitted eyes.

But the demons in front of you looked just like people. You could see the way their faces contorted in terror. You could see them scrambling to help what you could only assume were friends and family, pulling them along and carrying the ones who couldn't run for themselves. You could only feel your heart fall as you watched one of your best friends land on top of a sinner already crushed by rubble, turquoise skin stained red. The begged and pleaded and cried, but their voice was silenced as the spearhead sunk into their skull.

You flinched. The world around you ignored you completely, and for once, you were completely happy to go unnoticed.

Shakily, you touched-down in a nearby street. It was littered with already oozing corpses, but other than that it was peacefully empty. At least here the sounds of violence and pain and terror was muffled, far away enough that you could at least try to distance yourself and get your breathing under control.

You barely reeled in a gag as the smell of blood invaded your senses.

Was this really what you wanted to do for the rest of your life? You could still see yourself in your mind's eye, a model exorcist like your lieutenant now leading her own platoon into another extermination. Maybe this would be a one off, just a shock to the system that would get your mind reworked into killing mode. But, the more you thought about it, the more your heart clenched in pain and terror that seemingly matched the suffering souls around you. You were an agent of heaven, you thought you were killing mindless monsters, not those with human souls! Sure, there were probably shitty people fucking around down here, but what about all those who had to sin in self defence?

A chorus of startled gasps startled you out of your panic ridden stupor. Your wings flared up, trying to make yourself look bigger, more threatening as you wheeled around. The spear in your hands looked more like a prop at this point, and it was clear that you had minimal idea how to use it inside a proper battle. But still, you fumbled with it and pointed it threateningly in the direction of the two demons that had appeared right behind you.

They clutched each other, stumbling backwards and further away from the danger of your angelic weapon. One of them placed an arm in front of the other, her eyes narrowing behind her red-tinted glasses as if she was both terrified by you, but was daring you to do something about it.

But still, you could see them shaking from where you stood. They both seemed rooted to the ground, the one with platinum blonde hair refused to take her eyes off of you, but the demon behind her (maybe her sister? A friend?) was looking around nervously.

You could see yourself reflected in those crimson specs, and for once it made you freeze. You'd seen yourself in uniform plenty of times before, the steel boots and guard gloves and the led, horned helmet, but it always seemed almost comforting before. When you were surrounded by your cohorts, it made you fit in. Out here, you realised, you were the monster.

The ever-present smile on your mask shrunk, falling into a grimace as your grip on your weapon tightened. Your wings drew in, you shrunk backwards, almost stumbling over your own feet in the process of trying your hardest to get away. You never wanted to scare people.

So drowned by your own confusion and fear and reckless thoughts of worry about the future that you didn't notice the confusion growing the faces of the demons in front of you turn into abject horror as a far more ominous silhouette grew behind you.

"I thought I taught you not to hesitate," Lute growled in your ear, placing her free hand on your shoulder and digging her fingers in till your were sure a bruise was marred into your skin. You didn't respond, couldn't even if you wanted to. The trembling that rattled you only grew stronger, and you fumbled as your hands cramped painfully. With a resounding clatter, your spear dropped from your grasp an on to the brazen brimstone floor.

Lute growled.

She didn't say anything, but she knew. The both of you knew by now. You couldn't kill a sinner.

Lute didn't even hesitate before shoving you to the ground. Your head collided with solid stone painfully even with your helmet on, stars shining behind your eyes as her words blurred together as she pressed her foot firmly between your shoulder blades. Your wings shivered and spread involuntarily, and you feared the moments that would come next. Lute was unpredictable, but this could only end with bloodshed.

The two girls still hadn't moved, transfixed in horror as they watched the scene in front of them play out.

Asphalt stung your hands and you tried to claw your way to freedom, fingertips digging into the scorched Earth as you started crying. Lute, however, was stronger than you. Of course she was, she'd been doing this for centuries, and you were still a fledging on her first trip out of heaven.

You never thought it would end like this.

Lute dug her fingers into your wings, tangling into your still downy feathers before she yanked with all her might. The scream she tore from your lips was hellish, agonising, yet the blended with the sounds of violence all around you. You were sure you blacked out several times throughout the process, but by the time your old lieutenant was done with you, barely anything but feathery stumps and golden blood remained of your wings.

You could only curl up, cry and watch as Lute tossed clumps of feathers aside as she stalked toward the two demons that still hadn't had the thought to run. And for the first time in your life, you felt sorry for the sinners that populated hell's ring of wrath.

She would make them suffer, that was for sure. If she was happy enough to tear of another angel's wings, you could only imagine what she would do to a sinner. You didn't want to imagine, and your mind was fuzzy enough that you thankfully didn't have to.

The sound of something sharp rang throughout the air. It made you groan in pain, the sound piercing your ears and making your brain rattle in your skull. Sharp - 'Tink tink tink tink tink.' If you could see the look of relief coming across the demons faces, a part of you might've urged Lute to run. Only, she had just torn your wings off with little qualm, and now you had no shits left to give if she lived or not.

The exorcist never got the chance to strike, her weapon torn from her hands and thrown across the street till it collided with a bloody body. Lute herself barely had time to react before she was struck over the head once, then twice in rapid succession. A whirlwind of white and angelic steel and pure fury launched herself in the path between the two demons and the exorcist. It was almost exhilarating to watch, seeing Lute strike out with her fists in a pathetic attempt of hand to hand combat against her new foe. Whoever they were, they were really fucking fast, almost too fast for you to keep up with.

The fight was over before it started. Without her weapon, Lute couldn't do much against the sinner she was pitted against, and as ruthless as she was, she knew when a battle was lost. In a flurry of black and white feathers, she fled. And then the newcomer's attention was shifted to you.

At this point, you would've welcomed death. The pain alone was making you drift slightly, and you didn't even have the energy left to groan when whoever nudged you slightly with something hard and cold.

"Mother.." The words were so soft, floating away from your ears.

"We need to leave." It was undoubtably her. That voice was the one who beat Lute into the ground.

"What about..?" That was the one who called out for mother.

"Won't she tattle?" So that had to be her sister.

Those words sent a dose of adrenaline through you. With as much strength as you could muster, you clawed yourself into an upwards position. You could feel the clotting blood running down your back, but if you were going to die, you at least wanted to do so with some dignity.

Shakily, with much more effort than was really desired, you reached up and peeled your helmet off.

It clattered noisily like glass against the floor, and suddenly the world was much brighter, much more red and the air was laced with more sulphur and death than you could imagine. But what really surprised you was the look of shock written across the sinner's face.

She was tall. Really tall. The only person who could really compete was Seraphim Sera or maybe Adam, but you really couldn't tell with how delirious you were.

"Una niña?" They all looked surprised.

The one called mother took a few steps forward, confusion and anger clearly present in her eyes. But, as she kneeled down in front of your comparatively tiny form, you realised the anger wasn't directed at you.

"Did she try to hurt you?" She turned back to face her daughters. They both shared a look, but ultimately shook their heads no. That right there, was your saving grace.

She looked back at you, hair pinned into high horns, and took your helmet in her large hands. She passed it off to one of her daughters, before gently scooping you into her hold.

You whined, writhing minutely in her hold as the searing phantom pain of your wings being torn off returned. Fat tears rolled down your cheeks, and yet the demoness tutted softly, shushing you like you were a baby.

Her daughters followed without a word, and you and the family unit moved swiftly through the desolate roads. So many questions were running through your mind, and yet you couldn't find the answer to any of them, your thoughts to lost to the fog of blood loss to ever truly return.

"You better not betray me," Were the last words you heard before promptly passing out.

The plushness of a soft blanket was the first thing you felt waking up. For a moment, you felt nothing but relief realising the entire thing had been a horrid nightmare, but when you tried to rustle the numbness out of your wings, the relief was replaced with horror when you realised that your wings were just straight up missing, only two feathery stumps remaining in their place.

That made you shoot up in horror. You didn't even care about the sharp sting that ran down your spine and into your very being, you were a bit too concerned about your current predicament.

"You're awake."

That made you promptly scream before ducking under the covers like you were a nestling again. A soft sigh reached your ears, but you dared not to venture out from the warmth of the thick covers.

Not like you had a choice, though, as you were soon pried away from their safety. It was her, the demoness with the high-pinned buns. She looked down on you, red eyes glowing in the low light, and yet, you couldn't sense a smidge of hatred towards you. Only distrust and sadness laced her expression.

"How old are you?" She asked after the silence had gone on long enough.

"I'm a fledgling," Is all you said. You didn't really fancy giving too much information. Although, the look of horror the crossed her face maybe suggested that you'd already given away plenty.

"Obligan a los niños a hacer esto?" She raised a hand and carded it through her snowy tresses, locks of white hair threaded loose as she paced back and forth. You only watched her, slowly sinking back into the comfort of the warm blankets.

"You're still a child." It was a statement.

You hated being a child. You didn't want to be a child, at least, you hadn't wanted to be a child in the past. You wanted to join the ranks of the exorcists, and to do that you at least needed to be juvenile. Hell, you were lucky enough to make it into the cadets while you still had baby feathers decorating your wings. But now, the fact that yes, you were still technically a kid made your saviour look upon you with more than just disdain and hatred like any other exorcist, but rather she looked upon you with an emotion that you'd never seen before, and not one you could really name.

"You are a child, and now you have fallen," She eyed your mostly healed wing stumps, and you couldn't help but reflexively flex them anxiously. The literal weight off your back made you want to cry.

"Was this your first extermination?" She gazed upon you with a guarded look. You nodded.

"And you didn't hurt my daughters?" Another nod from you. That seemed to make her relax just a tad.

"Could you ever hurt someone?" That made you pause, the memories of the extermination rushing back to you full force. Tears grew at the corners of your eyes, and still, you answered with a simple 'no'.

She exhaled a sigh of relief before closing the distance and kneeling down to your eye level.

"Carmilla Carmine." She reached a hand out toward you. So that was her name.

You clutched your hands close to your chest, fearing her touch, but gave her your name anyway.

"What are you gonna do with me?" You asked, voice cracking. Her gaze softened, finally letting her guard slip for just a moment.

"Well, you weren't going to make it out there by yourself. You'll be staying with me," The words took a moment to sink into your mind. Well, at least it was better than death.

Gently, like she was working with a scared animal, Carmilla coaxed you out from the comfort of the bed, slowly ushering you to her side. With your wings missing and their remains bandaged, head bare and missing your exorcist helmet, it felt like the safest place in the world.

"Welcome to Hell."

Rules + Info,

Masterlist,

[craske]

I love the way you draw Shadow Milk, he looks cool.

I have a question about the other beasts if you'd be comfortable answering, how is Burning Spice doing after being Dejammed? Along with Mystic Flour?

thank you!! im happy to hear that!!

and funny thing you ask about other beasts, because im currently working on a short comic focused on burning spice, while also figuring out the exact stuff with mystic flour. so for now i can give some brief info about these two

burning spice

this is a man of action, meaning him sitting around and doing nothing is an absolute torture (corrupted out of boredom etc etc etc). too bad thats all he can do now that he is stuck with the remnants of golden cheese kingdom which is being rebuilt. he is constantly under watch obviously, and everyone keeps distance because of what happened. but despite the first outbursts of rage and breaking some parmesan rocks early on, he is currently just sitting there. ofc the rage is still bubbling but, he cant really do anything considering how little power he has left. at least watching the cheesebirds scramble around is Something. still, their efforts in rebuilding the ruined kingdom is futile, he knows it will mean nothing in the end (how many times has he seen it already)... unless?

mystic flour

losing her soul jam shook her deeply, which is already unacceptable by itself. this woman isnt dealing well with getting dejammed, despite how it looks at first. the apathy she managed to reach crumbled, much to her frustrations. and the more she is frustrated, the worse it gets, its a cycle honestly. so she is putting in most of her energy into meditating, trying to reach the apathy again. which makes her surprisingly easy to keep track of, mystic flour doesnt try to wander around much, she either meditates in her assigned chamber/confinement, or in an outside pagoda when she requests for that. the main trouble for everyone is that the cloud haetae came with her, and considering how they behaved back at the ivory pagoda, everyone is on edge. who knows if theyre not spying whenever they can. still, aside from that small hiccup, mystic flour is a very unproblematic, if not extremely unnerving prisoner. but who knows if (or when) it might change

[nariko-senpai]

It's time; after reading sunrise on the reaping to give my thoughts and opinions on this magnificent book. Obvious spoilers ahead, BE WARNED!!

Proving that even though we thought we knew what was going to happen, we were still completely floored. Oh, they pulled Haymitch's name out of the ball- Wrong! Someone else was reaped and killed for running and Haymitch went in his place because he stood up to them. All 48 players in the game woah- Nope! Louella had her skull smashed during the chariot ride so they replaced her with a drugged child who's mind was tortured to the point she didn't know her own name. Haymitch was a heartless player who only teamed up with Maysilee- Incorrect! He managed to form an alliance with almost all the tributes to try and take down the arena, and he did infact, care about them quite a lot. Collins managed to write a story with so many twists even though we already knew the ending. Incredible.

2. Gave insights on previous characters that weren't built on in the trilogy/bosas without making them the main characters. We got Beetee who was punished for his act of rebellion and his child was sent to the games with little hope of his survival. Who didn't kill himself cause he had another child on the way and didn't want Ampert's life to be wasted. Maggs and Wiress as the D12s mentors was amazing but made my heart hurt knowing Wiress spiraled into madness and they both died. Effie and Plutarch's beginnings, Katniss' parents, Peeta's dad, even Madge's mum. The Covey are a whole other thing. She managed to build their character's gave us even slightly more info while keeping Haymitch and his story in the limelight. Very grateful for that.

3. Still managing to show how the Games progressed over the years. I was also grateful for this in bosas how we see the tributes being treated different as it advances. Haymitch is treated considerately better than Lucy Gray, but not compared to Katniss and Peeta. Lucy Gray was treated as an animal, Haymitch more a lesser being and Katniss and Peeta as a contestant in a show. The technology is more advanced, the costumes become more extravagant as the Games become more and more entertaining. It demonstrates how much things can change between the 40 years of Lucy Gray to Haymitch and the 24 years to Katniss and Peeta.

4. The parallels to Haymitch and Katniss's situation. Plutarch himself states that they need someone exactly like Haymitch, but luckier and better timing, which practically fits the bill of Katniss. She is the spark that sets of the bomb of the revolution, a bomb that people like Haymitch have been trying to build and develop. Better luck and better timing. She has the circumstances, the popularity, the connection with the people that Haymitch was lacking. She was everything that Haymitch might have been if things were different.

5. The Covey. While we were all pretty certain that there was going to mention them, I loved Lenore Dove so damn much. She made Haymitch happy and I sobbed at her death. Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber watching their family die and the music leeching from D12 was devastating. AND MAUDE IVORY? OMG MY BABY GIRL. Anyways, they were amazing to see again and confirming the connection between them and Katniss was really cool. Poor birds.

There's probably more stuff, but ill do more dives in other posts later.

[acupofqueercoffee]

“Fires of Fidelity”

Rhaenys Targaryen x Female Reader

wc : 4800+

cw : ambiguous relationships // description of violence which i wouldn’t call graphic but it depends i guess // there’s smut towards the end, also not very explicit but then again, it depends :’)) // i am OBSESSED with her hair, so it would only make sense that my reader is also obsessed

rook’s rest doesn’t exist for me 🥰 fuck rook’s rest, and happiest of birthdays to my absolute badass of a queen 🥳🎂 but fuck her too (affectionate)

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The market is teeming with hustle and bustle of common folks. A cacophony of vendors shouting and shoppers strolling around, alongside an undertone of your lady’s heeled boots kissing gravel throbs inside your ears, softened only by the cloak that you are currently shrouded under.

Overhead, clouds hang heavy, a grim portrait of gloomy greys and ivory whites, the sun but a vague presence in the silver-lined edges. No shadows paint the ground aside from you who is hot on your lady’s heels. Everywhere she walks, you follow, akin to a shadow perpetually casted on the ground.

Meanwhile, a few children scamper around you, shouting, laughing, and one comes astray, collides with your lady before she continues scurrying on her jolly little way, blissfully unaware. The sudden jostle has the precarious effect on the body in front of you for you notice the break in rhythm of the feet that are taking graceful steps. All at once, you are directly behind her, the gentle sway of her body braced by a stable palm across her back.

“Careful, Prin-” Eyes, a milky-way of green and brown, render you quiet. You are, after all, accompanying your Princess on her covert little trip to town.

Nevertheless, a token of her gratitude follows in the form of the tiniest hint of a smile that beautifully graces her features. Disguised beneath the cloak though her head is, given the close proximity of your bodies, you are granted an audience with wisps of moon-kissed locks caressing the delicate plane of her forehead.

“Walk next to me.” She says, and donning a playful smile, you drop a whisper directly into her ears. “As my lady commands.”

Aloofness shrouds her mien, lips a firm line, although it is not lost on you that there is a twinkle in her eyes, the cause of which dawns on you as soon as a sly hand disappears into the privacy of your cloak. Two of her digits waste no time in pinching your flesh through the fabric of your cloth. Pain blossoms, bringing with it a small wince to your face.

When her fingers remain unrelenting, a grumble flies past your lips, “I jest. I jest.” And only then does she relent with a hum, feet never faltering as you walk abreast, her body the very picture of cool and collected save a smile touching her lips.

“I have promised gifts for my granddaughters. What do you think would delight them?”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m the worst person you could have turned to for such suggestions.”

“Indulge me, then. Go on.”

Ever the woman of queenly manner, even her cadence oozes charisma. It colours your cheeks rosy, bringing forth memories from which the delightful utterance has graced your ears under more intimate circumstances.

“I don’t know.” You begin by clearing your throat, a shrug on your shoulders as you walk. “Perhaps a kiss on their cheeks would suffice? I know for a fact that it would delight me greatly.”

Being both a Princess and a Dragonrider, your lady looks every bit the epitome of poise and gravitas. Seldom does she wear her emotions on her face, head held high and spine ram-rod straight, always an enchanting enigma except to trained eyes which, as a matter of fact, are few and far between, although an aura of authority is effortlessly, perpetually crowned on her Targaryen head. However, having spent a better part of your years by her side, during formal as well as more personal occasions, you have mastered the art of unravelling the subtleties of her features and nuances of her words.

It is how you find yourself now, raising a hand in faux surrender along with a defensive arm across your waist by merely a slight tilt of her head and a gaze to your face.

“Again, I jest.”

In the vicinity of the place where you currently stand, a ruckus suddenly arises, a heated argument between two vendors, it appears, which quickly fans the flames of a full-blown uproar. A crack of thunder is a prelude to the heavy drizzle that descends upon the crowd as fists are thrown, and like a carcass attracting vultures, the fight lures those who have an innate thirst for violence.

While the chaos unfolds, your sole focus is solemnly fixed on the Princess by your side, all the more so because a plethora of people are darting around in panic. You do not know, have no time to seek what your lady’s wishes are as instinct forces you to act. Taking her waist in your arm, you tuck her body into a nook as delicately as possible.

A desperate attempt on your part to narrowly escape the wagon that whizzes past leaves your bodies fitted together, your lady’s back pressed against the wall with your hand behind her head softening the impact. Her breath caresses your face, and the perfumed air is tentalising, fruity with sweet floral notes alongside something that is entirely her.

Meanwhile, the downpour has become more merciless, and you commit to memory the way raindrops cling to her lashes like tiny diamonds.

“Have anyone ever told you that you have such beautiful eyelashes, Princess?”

An arch of an eyebrow accompanies the dainty little rain-soaked lips as they curve into a dizzying smile.

“Evidently, I have.”

“So it seems.” You chuckle, step away, although not before you have adjusted her cloak in such a way that it will offer her face more protection against the rain. “I’m afraid you’ll have to cut your trip short, my lady.”

“It would appear so.”

“Shall we return to the castle then?”

Rivulets of rain travel down your cheeks, and your lady invites herself into your space, mirroring your movement from a while ago as fingers fix the hood on your head, supple in their movements.

“Yes, let’s return home.”

Home.

Home to you is not a place, but rather, a person. A person to whom you have sworn loyalty, to protect, to kill for, and should the need arise, to give your life for. Simply put, your home is by your Princess’s side, and hence, the subtle admission that the castle is as much a home to you as it is to her becomes the culprit behind the joyful little swell of your heart.

The short journey back to the castle is taken by way of a detour, in which you lead your lady through quiet alleyways, except that they are too deserted, almost suspiciously so. Once you reach the town square, you guide your lady to the exit on the other side, a hand on her back as you match her pace.

Beyond the archway, a hooded person is looming out of the darkness, and no sooner have you registered their dubious presence than your hand is grabbing your lady’s waist to urge her behind your body.

“Well, well, look who we have here.”

You recognise the voice to be that of a person from your life before your Princess, a thug who has had unsavoury history with you.

“I don’t have time for your tomfoolery.”

Mockery drips from your lips as you turn, taking your lady by her arm to leave through another archway, but to your vexation, you find that more hooded hooligans have obstructed your path. Hidden beneath your cloak is a sword attached to your hip. Closing your fingers around the hilt of it, you scan your surroundings with a surreptitious move of your eyes. There is a total of five people, six if you include the man standing behind you.

“Don’t you mean, you have no time at all because you see, me and my boys, we’re about to end you right here.”

He taunts you with his words, his insufferable tone grating on your nerves, and irked, you unsheathe your sword, just in time to swivel on your feet and parry his slash, a clang echoing through the alley when your blades collide. At the same time as you hold your stance, a strong kick is unleashed to his chest. The force of it sends him sprawling across the ground, and you let loose a snicker.

“All bark and no bite, eh?”

From your left and right, two of his lapdogs charge at you, and your blade effortlessly cuts through the air in a blur of sharp counterattacks and swift manoeuvres. You make quick work of them, one stab through the abdomen, another through the chest, and they are nothing but marionettes severed of strings, drowning in a pool of their own blood. Following in the wink of an eye is a shower of three more swords that descends upon you in full force, and you block them with your blade, raised horizontally above your head. No matter how well-trained you are, the combined strength of three against one is proving to be a little beyond your endurance.

Your knee has barely braced against the muddy ground when all of a sudden, one of your opponents drops dead, the Velaryon seahorse adorned hilt of a dagger which is embedded in his back letting you know that it has been a product of your lady’s great finesse.

Until now, all of their attention has been fixated on you, but now that your lady has divulged her capabilities, the two lapdogs disperse, one rushing towards your lady with a cry while the other swings his blade at you with renewed vigour. Every inch of your body screams at you to rush to your lady’s side, but the wretched little demon in front of you is giving you no leeway, lavishing you with onslaughts upon onslaughts of attacks, one of which, in your desperation to end him quickly, manages to catch you in your cloak.

“Stay focused, tigress.” As if sensing your distress, your Princess calls out to you. “Don’t worry about me.”

One touch of her voice and fire meets gasoline, the flame within you burning so fiercely that you let out a loud roar.

“Come on! Come at me, you cunt of a coward!!”

Having his feather ruffled by your gibe, he charges at you once more, but when the blade comes, rather than avoiding it, you catch it between your arm and body, trapping the sword and its wielder in place as you push your blade through his chest so hard that a good few length of it escapes through his back. Blood pours out of his sorry little mouth, and retrieving your sword from his body effectively drops him to the ground.

Your lady’s strikes, not as refined though they are as yours, can easily withstand a vermin whose attacks are disorganized at best. Furthermore, she is swift on her feet, wielding the agility of a crane whereas you possess the strength of a tigress, or so your Princess has whispered into your ears, your strikes always heavy, deep and precise.

Speaking of the Princess, your gaze catches her in time to feast your eyes upon her magnificence. The vermin has swung his blade at your lady, but she has gracefully swept down, and before he can recover, her dagger has made his stomach its temporary case, a snug fit. You watch, morbidly fascinated, as blood spills forth the hole once she pulls out her weapon before bestowing another swift stab upon his neck.

Out of five lapdogs, two lie dead at the hands of your lady, and three at yours which leaves only the old hound who at present, is eyeing you with contempt. When he starts advancing however, instead of lunging at you, he opts for your Princess, but having predicted his dirty, old tricks, you easily intercept, swift and light on your feet as your blades clash. You dance around each other in an exchange of onslaughts until once again, you are forced to maintain a firm stance to keep his sword from bearing down on you.

The rain has thinned and through the clouds, the sun’s rays has spilled across Driftmark. In the corner of your eyes, you discern a glint. You notice it a second too late though because one moment, both of his hands are keeping a firm grip on the blade, and the next, one hand has disappeared into his cloak to retrieve a hidden dagger. Nevertheless, his strength barely wavers, and so engrossed in keeping the looming threat at bay you are that you have not been able to stop in time the dagger that stabs you.

Although its sharp tip has scarcely pierced your flesh before you lock your fingers around his wrist, the struggle that pursues leaves a crimson slash across the plane of your stomach. Gritting your teeth, you swallow the pain in fear that it will upset your Princess who apparently has seized the opportunity to deliver cuts to the backs of his knees. Immediately, he falls to the ground with a grunt. Meanwhile, you waste no time in kicking the dagger away from his hand and throwing his blade across the square.

“Bagged yourself another degenerate like yourself, huh? Or did you whore yourself out?”

You are not as perturbed by him making a ridicule out of you as you are livid by his insults towards your lady, but when you have poised to throw a punch to his face, a gentle hand on your arm stops you.

Pulled free of the hood and kissed by sunshine, a waterfall of liquid starlight almost appears to be glowing.

“Lady wife of the Sea Snake.”

She remains silent at his observation, staring him down, but something about him not addressing your lady by her individual title rubs you the wrong way. Still, you will not interfere, for after all, you dance to your lady’s every desire.

Entwined hands resting just below her waist, your Princess has donned intimidation as though it is regalia, a goddess to be worshiped oozing effortless allure.

“I- I didn’t know. Have mercy.”

“I can be merciful if I so choose, but I can’t in good conscience have a vengeful man pouncing on my sworn shield at every chance he gets. And what’s more, you have thrown insults to my face. I could have your tongue for it.” She blinks, sly and languid, slow and deliberate, alongside a small tilt to her head. “So, what do you propose I do, hm?”

“My tongue. If- if it would appease you-”

The old hound in the face of the dragon is like a lamb to the slaughter, grovelling at the feet of the exalted creature who slowly approaches him.

“Insults are insignificant.” So, she drawls, and before he can register a word, a dagger has been plunged so deeply into his throat by way of his mouth that blood gurgles. “Keep your tongue.”

A squelch accompanies the recovery of the dagger. While she wipes it clean off blood on his cloth, you carry out your own retrieval of her other dagger buried in the back of another body. It, too, is wiped clean before being sheathed on her hip.

“Are you alright, my lady?” Your question is answered with a query. “Are you?”

Her gaze, beneath the dapple of daylight, holds the warmth of sunlit amber, flecked with whispers of forest green, and when it caresses your body from head to toe in silent observation, the wound hidden beneath your cloak throbs in harmony with the beat of your heart.

“I am.” You say, and your lopsided grin garners a small smile in return. “It’s high time we returned home then.”

It is only when you have escorted your lady into the safety of her castle that your false bravado comes to light. Your fingers touch your stomach and they come away wet, viscous, and overwhelmingly red. While you are lost in your head, the voice that caresses your ears comes in the form of your name, and you look up to find your lady standing in front of you.

Stickiness clings to your palm as you curl your digits into a fist, but your sorry excuse of an attempt is proven futile when lithe fingers lock around your wrist. A tug coupled with a look from her is all it takes for your fist to pour open. You can almost pinpoint the exact moment when realisation dawns on her, in the delicate lines on her face that have all but calcified into rocky plains.

“Uncloak.” Her tone harbours an icy ring to it by the time she speaks, releasing your hand at the same time, although when you stand unmoving, she demands instead. “Now.”

Pulling your dark cloak open reveals to your lady the cut across your stomach in all its scarlet, grisly glory. There is a twitch to her jaw as well as a tiny tilt to her head, and when she looks at you, a tempest brews in her eyes, but beneath the blaze of storm-tossed sea, dark and churning with a blazing anger, you find a shadow of concern.

“Pay a visit to the Maester, get it treated, and by nightfall, I want you in my chambers.”

And so, that is how you find yourself in your lady’s chambers after getting the crimson slash properly cleaned, stitched and wrapped in fresh linens at the masterful hands of House Valeryon’s Maester.

The door shuts with a soft click, and a greeting falls past your lips.

“Princess.”

You have crossed paths with her handmaiden in the corridors leading up to the chambers, and she must have helped your lady get ready for bed, you conclude, for the Princess is now comfortably clothed. Oddly enough however, her braids are not yet unwoven which is how you find her now, sitting in front of her vanity desk, a waterfall of white silk flowing down her back.

As if possessing a mind of their own, your legs carry you towards your lady before depositing you directly behind her back. Immediately, reverently, your fingers make a descent onto the intricate little bun perched atop her head, during which the Princess regards you silently through the mirror’s reflection. With much delicacy, you unbind the thick braid that is keeping the bun in place, and doing so spills another layer of those silken locks in an effortless cascade down her back.

“You would do well to remember-” It is amidst you undoing one of the smaller braids that her voice graces your ears for the first time since you have set foot in her chambers. Meanwhile, her gaze finds yours in the mirror. “-that your fealty to me is to no avail should you lie wounded and are unable to fulfill your duties.”

“But what good is a sworn shield who cannot…well…” With a sigh, you drop your gaze to your hands before seeking her eyes once more. “…shield?”

“And what good is a sworn shield who cannot stand?”

“I am perfectly capable of standing though.”

“Are you?”

And then, she is turning on her seat, a lock of her star-kissed hair slipping through your fingers like liquid silver, as she seizes you by your tunic. In the wink of an eye, dainty lips collide with your own, all but sucking your soul out of your body, and your witty remark, which you have been intending to let loose, dissolves on her tongue altogether.

Such marks the epilogue to your little repartee.

While one hand holds a fistful of fabric, another wanders, ghosting along your thigh to then settle on your stomach, fingertips dancing across the gauze before it grabs your waist. A wicked pad of a thumb presses onto your side, and the outcome is just shy of agony, a whimper being fed into your lady’s mouth as your knees very nearly fail you.

“Kneel.”

With a mere touch of her murmured breath branded so deliciously onto your lips that are presently bearing the fruit of her ardent assaults, you are instantly reduced to a puddle at her feet, eager to worship your goddess.

“Hmm, I thought as much.”

“Well,-” Your tone is tinged with a whine, whereas a smile blossoms on your face. “-that was unfair.”

“Are you questioning your Princess?”

You tuck your face into her stomach, dropping a little kiss onto the spot where you think her navel lies.

“I wouldn’t dare, Princess.”

In the meantime, fingers trace patterns on your cheek, caress the outline of your jaw, and closing your eyes, you revel in the luxurious sensation up until a palm that cradles your face coaxes you out of your sweet sanctuary.

“It would be cruel of me to have you remain kneeling.” As she speaks, her thumb maps each curve and contour of your lips, which, swollen by now, speaks of whispered words and the heady waltz of fervent kisses. “I believe improvisations are in order.”

“Strip.”

And strip, you do, for at present, you stand only in your loose trousers.

Gracefully, tentalisingly, your lady arises, and even though a few braids remain in place, her hair, now freed from its confine, flows freely past her hip, a cascade of luminous waves shimmering like moonlight upon a still lake. Her gaze, on the other hand, is fixed on the linen that is entirely wrapped around your waist. The seepage of blood from the wound paints the white fabric in a vague vermillion which offers a glimpse into the extent of the injury.

“It will heal in no time, my lady.” Your attempt at soothing your lady is received with a gentle threat. “I do not tolerate imprudence. Nor deceit. It would do you well to remember that.”

“I will, Princess. But it doesn’t mean I won’t do it all over again if it concerns your safety.”

“Stubborn as ever.”

“My Princess likes me stubborn though, doesn’t she?”

“With that bold tongue of yours, count yourself lucky that I do.” Although she has leveled you with a glare, the blaze of which can very well put the sun to shame, you smile a cheeky little grin, looking every bit the picture of a cat that has eaten the canary, or rather, a tigress who has eaten the dragon. “That I agree. My tongue is capable of doing unimaginable wonders after all.”

You feel her hands move, and fearing that her fingers are once again going to subject you to those ruthless torments, you quickly raise your hands in surrender. She proves you wrong however by snaking her fingers into the waistband of your trousers.

“These need to go too.”

Your Princess has said her command, and like the very devotee that you are, your hands make swift work of getting rid of the only piece of clothing that is covering your body. Meanwhile, what enters your line of sight is a heap of white fabric that pools at your lady’s feet.

A breath catches in your throat, your heart beating with an awe so profound that it borders on reverence. She is a nymph of old tales, a creature of myth sung by the bards, born of the elements and graced with the beauty of the divine. Her presence, lucid and otherworldly at the same time, seems to draw the very light towards her, bathed in a halo of celestial radiance.

Your lady’s bare frame, delicate and strong, speaks of both grace and power, a goddess in her own right. It is a sight that will never tire you, and despite having seen it before, you are awed anew by such glorious vision. Your gaze lingers, admiring the soft curves and the rise and fall of her chest, enthralled by the sheer wonder of her existence that stirs the deepest corner of your soul.

Fascinated, you go to take her hips in your hands, but a push from her, and pliantly, you let yourself fall onto the mattress, for after all, a dragon will always be a dragon no matter the circumstances. You have not so much as blinked when she climbs atop the bed to straddle your body, toned thighs, befitting a dragon-rider of her caliber, on either side of your ribcage.

Your lips collide.

Amidst the clash of tongues and teeth, your hands find home on her waist, flesh supple and soft beneath your fingertips, as you move to sit up, lifting your lady slightly to reposition her on your lap, a special throne fit for your Queen.

Wetness oozes, and as soon as you feel the heat of her core on your thigh, you moan, but given that you are locked in place by a hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and an arm around your neck, it tumbles directly into her mouth. There is a sway to her hips, her essence coating your flesh, and all too eagerly, you encourage the dragon-rider to ride your thigh to her heart’s content, hands sliding into the delicious little dip of her waist as you help her maintain the rhythm that she has set.

Her lips part from yours with a delectable little mewl. Those delicate buds, once dainty, now beautifully bears the bloom of passion’s visit. Each swell hints at the fervor of love’s embrace, leaving them a charming, rosy hue, a testament to moments of rapture. Coated in a layer of dew, they glisten softly in the warm glow, as if kissed by dawn itself, promising the sweet ache of desire.

Like a siren’s call, they lure you, and enchanted, you give in, raising a hand to gently trace the curve of her lips beneath your fingertips. A gasp escapes your lips once your wrist is caught in her hand. Another catches in your throat when two of your fingers are sucked into her mouth.

Every ridge and bone is visited by a velveteen tip of a tongue, licking, prodding, and by the time she guides your hand between her legs, your fingers are as equally soaked as her core. They slip inside smoothly to be enveloped in luxurious softness. Curling your fingers into a cruel, little curve seems to drown your lady in sweet suffering if the way her forehead falls atop your shoulder to muffle the sounds, that very nearly spill out of her, with a bite to your flesh is any indication.

Beneath the soft folds of her belly, you can see muscles straining, hidden little pearl, hard and sensitive, grinding against your palm to seek friction. Meanwhile, your love-struck gaze is busy admiring the lovely little freckles that are scattered across her chest, a spillage of stars, and upon chasing them with your lips, syrupy sweet kisses blossom in their wake.

The sight of her trembling frame as she rides your fingers is a scene worthy to be immortalised in art form, but at the same time, you frankly doubt that bards and painters all across Westeros can truly do your lady’s ethereal beauty justice. Swelling to near bursting with adoration, you hold her to your chest, fingers doing their job in the warm cavern of her core, and in doing so, you earn yourself a nibble to your neck, lips closing around your pulse point, sucking, kissing.

Hot air escapes your mouth as you bury your nose in the healthy mane of her hair.

“You seem awfully fond of my hair, tigress.” She pants, whereas you smile, nuzzling her silky strands that are not only smooth but also addictively fragrant. “Fond is an understatement, Princess.”

“What is it, then?”

“Love.”

“You love my hair?”

You abandon your happy, little haven in favour of taking her face in your hand. Tiny pearls of sweat blooms on her forehead while her lips are slightly parted. A knit occupies the space between her eyebrows while her eyes, usually an intense hazel brown, are now hazy with hunger.

“I love you,-” It is into the delicate lines forming at the corner of her mouth that you breathe your admission. “-and everything you have to offer.”

She says nothing, but you doubt even a thousand spoken words will be capable of touching you the way you feel deeply touched by being made aware of the effect it has on her in the fluttering of her folds as they clench your fingers. Your lady has died that sweet little death in your embrace, head collapsing onto your shoulder. It is only when her muscles have relaxed, and her core has released its grip on your fingers that they can finally slip out.

“And my dear tigress.” Fingers lazily toy with your hair. “Yes, Princess?”

“Don’t you dare hide your wounds from me ever again.” Your arms wrap around her body to hold her a little closer, a little tighter, into which she happily melts, rare moments where you can witness her softer, more affectionate side.

Nevertheless, you must have taken too long to her liking because the delicate flesh of your neck falls victim to her teeth.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Although she has left you throbbing in pain, the happiness that swells inside your chest easily prevails over anything and everything, burning so fiercely that you feel as if you can conquer the Seven Kingdoms to offer it to her on a diamond platter. Suppressing your silly little urge, you content yourself instead with a delicate press of a kiss to her bare shoulder.

“Delightfully so, Princess.”

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

[trans-ivorycello]

thinking about the wp!borm scene again. i'm not sure if this was with anyone else but i was genuinely jump scared when it happened??? like it was so sudden and unexpected i was like "WHY TF IS HE HERE" (same w my buddy who i was watching it with. hi soup), but i feel like it also is a super chance of pace from the rest of the series so far

as mentioned in one of my other posts before, when mysty's body was found, the camera changes from long, still shots to a handheld feel, focusing in and out, and ringing and muffled sounds which give the feeling of ivory actively dissociating + how intense the situation is

borm's scene, though has alot of these elements but is much, much more intense. instead of ringing it's a much more high-pitched sound that sounds really, really wrong, especially it sounds almost electronic compared to the acoustic, almost calm, instrumentals we're used too. like compared to the beautiful pianos and violins, borm's scene almost sounds like nails on chalkboard. it also sounds much more high-pitched than mysty's death which make it feel much more intense and instead of ivory dissociating, it feels like ivory's senses are heightened and she's running on adrenaline.

on top of audio, ivory is very close to the camera and the fact the camera is looking behind her so closely and shaking makes it feel like the cameraperson is also feeling the intensity of the situation, which helps convey that to the viewer as well (also, borm is, quite literally, running ivory into a wall which is. very uneasy as well). the camera coming in and out of focus, there's a very subtle black vignette that flickers in and out, which almost makes it feel like ivory is so stressed that she's nearly blacking out. we then instantly return to normal, which empathize just how stressful and foreign this entire exchange is

there's so many layers from a meta perspective that just show how stressed ivory is in this scene instead of telling the viewer directly--and instead making the viewer feel as stressed ivory in this scene and it's. So Cool

(and since i wanna mention this and this post is already getting too long, i'll put it under the cut as well. cw for mentions of vomit)

since ivory was so stressed based on the visual language, i think that's why she threw up in the shower scene as well. when someone is under a lot of stress, your body puts all of your energy into your flight or fight response instead of other body functions like digestion (which is why under a lot of stress, you can feel "butterflies in your stomach" because that's literally your stomach not working for a little bit. i've seen people theorizing that this might be ivory being implied to have an eating disorder that has purging, but i'm more inclined to believe she's just mega stressed + not really eating anything that day too). it's tiny, but it really shows how stressed ivory is because of all of this, as well as a parallel to pyro since he's the only other character to be shown throwing up, and they had that whole "staring at each other at a distance" shot in the first ep ....

[anythinggoesbutme]

Scavenger of Hearts

Jameson Hawthorne x Avery Grambs

Warnings: Implied past trauma and injury (referenced but not graphically depicted), Emotional tension and moments of vulnerability, Mentions of gun violence (non-graphic, related to Avery’s past), Brief moments of anxiety and uncertainty, Some travel-related stress and fatigue, Romantic themes and proposal scene, No explicit sexual content or graphic violence

Synopsis: On Avery’s birthday, Jameson takes her on a globe-trotting scavenger hunt filled with clues, memories, and a surprise that could change everything.

Song: “Our House” — Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

Word Count: 3,435

Authors Note: do not let me write stuff this late at night again.. i am so sorry if it’s confusing i’m praying the ending made any sense

Hawthorne House — CDT 6:00 AM

The morning light seeped softly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of her room at Hawthorne House, casting long golden shafts across the plush carpet. Avery stirred beneath the weight of silk sheets, the quiet hum of the estate settling around her like a protective cloak. The house was still — as it always was in these early hours — but today carried a peculiar feeling, a whisper of something new waiting to be discovered.

She sat up slowly, eyes blinking against the soft light, when her gaze caught a folded envelope resting neatly atop her nightstand. The paper was heavy and smooth, ivory with an embossed Hawthorne crest faintly shimmering in the morning sun.

Curious, Avery picked it up and unfolded the note inside. The handwriting was unmistakable: neat, confident, with a hint of teasing flair.

“Good morning, heiress. Today marks the beginning of a journey you won’t soon forget. Your first clue awaits where the heart of the Hawthorne legacy beats — the library. Seek the place where knowledge and secrets intertwine. Trust your instincts; they will guide you.”

No signature. No hint of who had left it, but Avery’s pulse quickened. She glanced around the room, half-expecting to find Jameson lurking in the shadows with a smirk, but the house was silent.

Pulling herself out of bed, she padded softly toward the door, her bare feet warm against the polished hardwood floors. The house always felt like a puzzle itself — every corner holding whispers of the past, secret rooms, and hidden passageways. It was fitting that today she’d be sent on a scavenger hunt through its very bones.

The Hawthorne library was an imposing space, circular with towering mahogany shelves packed tight with leather-bound volumes. The scent of aged paper mingled with polished wood and faint traces of lavender—the subtle signature of the late Grams Hawthorne, whose presence lingered like a guardian spirit.

Avery’s eyes scanned the shelves, recalling all the times she’d snuck away here with a book or a quiet thought. Her fingers brushed over spines with familiar titles—history, puzzles, classic literature. Somewhere here was the clue, tucked away like a whispered secret.

Her heart leapt when she spotted it: an old, weathered copy of The Prince, resting slightly askew on a lower shelf. She pulled it free, fingers trembling, and as she opened to the inside cover, a thin piece of parchment slipped out.

Unfolding the parchment revealed a cryptic message written in elegant script:

“To find where time bends and secrets sleep,

Seek the chamber where shadows keep.

A cipher sleeps where the clock stands tall,

Unlock its face to unveil the call.”

Avery frowned, heart racing as she remembered the grandfather clock that stood near the back wall—a towering relic with an intricate face, rumored to hide more than just time. She approached it, her fingers tracing the delicate carvings and the cool brass hands frozen at midnight.

Carefully, she inspected the clock’s base and discovered a small panel cleverly disguised as part of the woodwork. Her pulse quickened. Sliding it open, she found a small metal disk etched with strange symbols and numbers—a cipher disk, exactly like the ones Toby had crafted during their family games.

With deft fingers, she rotated the disk, aligning symbols with numbers until a coded message emerged.

“Your wings await in the city of fog and secrets. London calls.”

A soft thrill ran through her. The games had always led them to places beyond the walls of Hawthorne House — places steeped in mystery and history. London was the next step.

Just as she was about to tuck the cipher disk into her pocket, a small folded card fluttered from within the clock’s mechanism. She opened it and smiled softly at the familiar scrawl:

“Pack light, heiress. The night is young, and adventure beckons. I’m already making the arrangements.”

Her mind buzzed with questions, excitement, and the quiet certainty that Jameson had orchestrated every detail. She glanced once more around the library, her sanctuary and the place where so many secrets had been uncovered.

The scavenger hunt was just beginning.

London, England — BST 11:00 PM

The hum of the airplane engines beneath her was a steady pulse, lulling Avery into a quiet state somewhere between excitement and nerves. London awaited — a city of fog and secrets, where history coiled in every shadowed alley and beneath every gaslamp.

She stared out the window as the city’s sprawling silhouette emerged below, gray rooftops blurring with mist, the Thames cutting a winding silver thread through it all. Jameson’s words echoed in her mind, calling her “heiress” — a reminder that this journey was more than a game. It was a step into their shared legacy, the tangled history of the Hawthornes, and the future still waiting to be claimed.

London was alive with that old-world elegance and an undercurrent of danger. Avery’s hotel was nestled near the heart of Mayfair, and though Jameson wasn’t here to greet her, the arrangements he’d made spoke volumes. The scavenger hunt had started with a subtle nudge, but now the stakes were unmistakably real.

She wrapped her coat tighter as dusk settled over the city and made her way to The Devil’s Mercy, a high-society gambling club whispered about among those in the know. It was a place where fortunes were won and lost in a single hand, where whispered deals and secret alliances turned the tide of power.

Avery remembered that night with Jameson — how they had once risked everything in this very club to reclaim a lost estate, for Jameson’s father, a man Jameson could only call a father by blood.

The club’s entrance was discreet, a polished black door set into a stone façade, marked only by a small emblem of a red devil’s tail curling around a playing card. She hesitated briefly before stepping inside.

The air was thick with cigar smoke and the clink of chips. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over velvet-draped walls and polished mahogany tables. Men and women in tuxedos and gowns moved like shadows, their eyes sharp and their smiles sharp as knives.

A waiter approached, sliding a folded note into her hand with practiced ease before disappearing into the crowd.

She unfolded it carefully:

“In the game of hearts and power,

Look where fortunes bloom in the hour.

The Queen holds court where stakes are high—

Find her throne where the aces lie.”

Her mind raced as she scanned the room. The central table dominated the floor, circled by plush chairs and guarded by attentive dealers. The high-stakes poker game was in full swing — the players locked in silent battle, expressions unreadable.

Avery moved closer, weaving between onlookers. Her eyes landed on a seat draped in deep crimson velvet—the ‘Queen’s chair,’ ornate and commanding. Beneath it, taped carefully to the leg, was another envelope.

She slipped it out and unfolded a map of Europe, hand-drawn and detailed, with one spot circled in deep blue:

“Prague awaits, where bridges and secrets entwine.”

A small card was tucked inside:

“Keep your wits sharp, heiress. The game is far from over.”

The muffled chatter of the club swirled around her as Avery folded the map and tucked it safely away. She could almost feel Jameson’s presence beside her — the quiet confidence that had seen them through darker nights and deadlier gambits.

But for now, the hunt was hers alone.

Prague, Czech Republic — CEST 3:00 AM

Avery’s breath fogged against the airplane window as the city lights of Prague glittered below like scattered stars. She’d left London behind with its smoke, secrets, and high-stakes memories, stepping off the plane into a different kind of magic—a city of bridges, ancient alleyways, and hidden histories.

The driver at Václav Havel Airport met her with a polite nod and a sign that read A. GRAMBS in clean block letters. He was older, grizzled, with eyes that didn’t ask questions. Avery offered a tired smile as she settled into the backseat, the leather cold beneath her jeans.

They drove through Prague’s winding streets, where shadows curled beneath baroque facades and cobblestones gleamed with the memory of rain. The car’s headlights cut through the fog, illuminating centuries-old statues standing guard over silent squares.

Jameson had always spoken of Prague with a conspiratorial grin, as if every bridge and alleyway was a stage for the games he loved to play. She remembered the stories he’d told her—how he’d once followed a Hawthorne riddle through these very streets to recover a missing piece of the puzzle that had haunted his father.

But now, he wasn’t here. This was her journey, her hunt—guided by his clues and his voice on paper, but silent all the same.

The car stopped abruptly at the base of the Charles Bridge. Avery stepped out, her boots crunching on the damp cobblestones. The bridge stretched ahead of her like a spine of stone, its statues of saints watching over the river below.

A folded note rested on the pedestal of the statue of St. John of Nepomuk—the protector of secrets, his face weathered by centuries of rain and devotion.

Avery unfolded the paper carefully, her hands trembling just a little.

“Where time stands still, the hour is marked,

A clock that’s more than just a spark.

Seek the face where stories chime,

A secret waits in the arms of time.”

She exhaled a slow breath. The Astronomical Clock. Jameson would have picked the most iconic—and the most complicated—landmark in Prague. Of course he would.

Avery pulled her coat tighter around her as she walked across the bridge. The night air bit at her cheeks, but adrenaline kept her warm. The streets of Prague’s Old Town lay ahead, winding through a maze of ancient buildings and hidden courtyards. She moved past shopfronts shuttered for the night, the smell of roasting chestnuts from a nearby vendor lingering in the air.

The Astronomical Clock loomed in the square, its intricate face glimmering under the streetlights. The dial’s golden details marked the passage of time with an elegance that felt almost magical.

She approached cautiously, her footsteps echoing on the stones. At this hour, the square was nearly empty, save for a street musician packing away his violin. She paused, the air thick with the scent of rain-soaked stone and centuries of whispered stories.

Beneath the clock’s mechanical apostles, she spotted a small brass plaque, tarnished with age. Its edge was loose, just enough for her to pry it up with her fingernail. Tucked beneath was another note, folded with precise care.

She unfolded it, her pulse quickening.

“Tuscany calls, where vines entwine—

Secrets sleep in hills of wine.

The game is far from over, heiress.

Follow your heart.”

A plane ticket was clipped to the note, the name Avery Kylie Grambs printed neatly on the boarding pass. Florence, Italy—departing tomorrow.

She felt Jameson’s presence in every line of that note, every turn of phrase. He’d always known how to craft a challenge that felt like a confession. And though he wasn’t standing here beside her—no mischievous grin, no teasing tone—he was everywhere: in the game, in the city, in the promise of what came next.

Avery pressed the note to her chest for a moment, closing her eyes against the city’s quiet. Then she slipped it into her pocket and turned away from the clock, her steps echoing on the ancient square.

The game continued.

And so did her heart.

Tuscany, Italy — CEST 6:30 AM

The morning air in Prague was damp and cold, a chill that clung to Avery’s bones as she boarded the early flight to Florence. She’d barely slept—her mind kept circling Jameson’s last note and the promise of the game’s next step. She could almost hear his voice: “Secrets sleep in hills of wine.”

The flight was a blur of half-awake thoughts and too-strong coffee, the horizon slowly brightening as the plane crossed the Alps. By the time they touched down in Florence, the sky had turned a brilliant blue—so different from the gray haze of Prague. She stepped off the plane and inhaled the sweet, warm air that carried the scent of cypress and old stone.

The driver—a young man with sun-kissed skin and a polite but distant smile—held a sign with her name. She followed him through the sunlit terminal, the architecture a mix of old-world grandeur and modern glass. Tuscany was already working its magic on her: a place where every breeze seemed to carry a secret.

The drive from Florence to the hills of Tuscany was a slow unraveling of landscape, each mile revealing rolling vineyards, fields of poppies, and ancient farmhouses perched on hillsides like watchful sentinels. She thought of Jameson, of all the games they’d played together—and all the games they hadn’t yet.

When the car finally stopped, Avery found herself at the gates of a small, family-run vineyard. She recognized the name—Castello di Rossi—from one of Jameson’s stories. He’d once told her about a night here, drinking cheap wine with Xander and Nash, playing poker by candlelight in the wine cellar.

The air was warm, heavy with the perfume of sun-warmed grapes. The vineyard stretched before her in neat rows, the vines heavy with fruit. A weathered stone arch led to a small courtyard, where an envelope waited on a rustic wooden table.

She picked it up carefully, her fingers trembling.

“Where hearts grow roots, love takes hold—

A secret waits in stories told.

Find the hidden cellar, the place we once played.

Inside, a treasure only you can claim.”

Avery’s throat tightened. The place we once played. She could practically hear his voice, that teasing lilt he used when he was up to something.

She made her way through the vineyard, the dirt path winding between rows of vines until it ended at a small, ivy-covered building. The cellar door creaked open under her touch, the cool air inside a relief from the summer sun.

It was exactly as Jameson had described—a room carved from stone, lined with dusty bottles and old oak barrels. She remembered the poker game he’d told her about, how he’d won and lost fortunes in laughter and secrets.

A single candle burned on a wooden crate in the center of the room. Next to it sat a wine bottle—deep red, labeled with a hawthorn flower. A handwritten note was tied around its neck with twine.

“To the girl who made me believe in more than games—

This bottle holds a promise: that no matter where we are in the world, you are never alone.

The game continues, heiress.

Santorini awaits.”

Tears pricked her eyes as she held the bottle close. It wasn’t about the wine. It was about him—always him—and the way he turned even the simplest moments into something unforgettable.

She pressed her palm to the stone wall, grounding herself. Jameson had never let her forget that life was a puzzle to be solved, but also a gift to be lived. And as the shadows of the cellar wrapped around her, she felt more certain than ever that she was exactly where she was meant to be.

The adventure wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Santorini, Greece — EEST 6:30 PM

Avery stepped off the small prop plane onto the sun-drenched tarmac of Santorini’s airport, the sharp scent of salt and sea air instantly filling her lungs. The island’s whitewashed buildings gleamed under a clear cobalt sky, perched like pearls on cliffs that plunged dramatically into the Aegean Sea.

Her heart fluttered—a mixture of excitement and exhaustion from the whirlwind journey. She clutched the small leather bag that held the notes and clues Jameson had left so far, each one a thread weaving her closer to him and the truth behind this mysterious scavenger hunt.

The driver who met her was younger this time, sun-kissed and smiling with the easy charm of the Mediterranean. He slid the car door open, greeting her with a warm “Kalimera, heiress,” before guiding her through winding streets paved in stone, the scent of blooming bougainvillea trailing in their wake.

As the car curved along the edge of the caldera, Avery’s breath caught. Below, the sea stretched infinitely, shimmering like molten glass. Blue domes and terracotta roofs dotted the cliffs, contrasting with the white walls and the endless sky.

She arrived at a small café overlooking the sea, tucked away on a quiet terrace shaded by olive trees. A note was pinned to a bottle of ouzo waiting on the table, beside a single blue hydrangea—the color of the ocean itself.

“Where the sea meets the sky in a kiss,

Look for the door that hides a wish.

Behind it lies the memory we share,

A secret kept with utmost care.”

Avery’s fingers trembled as she folded the note, eyes scanning the terrace. There, almost hidden behind a vine-wrapped trellis, was a small wooden door painted the exact shade of the ocean. She moved toward it, heart pounding.

The door creaked open to reveal a cozy room filled with old photographs and trinkets—a small shrine to moments she and Jameson had shared, though he’d never spoken of them aloud. There was a faded Polaroid of them laughing in a rainstorm, a ticket stub from a concert they’d both loved, and a small, leather-bound journal with her initials embossed on the cover.

She flipped open the journal, the pages filled with Jameson’s looping handwriting.

“To my heiress,

No matter where we wander, this game is ours to play.

Meet me where the sun sets over the sea—where time stands still and hearts find home.

Next stop: home.”

A shiver of anticipation coursed through her veins. “Home.” That word wrapped around her like a promise—and a question.

As the sun dipped lower, casting a golden glow over the cliffs, Avery sat on the terrace’s edge, the warm breeze tugging gently at her hair. The sea whispered secrets below, and somewhere beyond the horizon, Jameson was waiting.

And she was coming.

Blackwood Forest, Texas — CDT 1:00 PM

The sun had just slipped beneath the horizon in Santorini, painting the sky with streaks of pink and gold, when Avery closed the leather-bound journal and tucked it carefully into her bag. Her heart raced with a mixture of hope and nerves. The final note had led her here—to the promise of “home”—and Jameson’s words echoed in her mind: “Meet me where the sun sets over the sea—where time stands still and hearts find home.”

But as she prepared to leave, her phone buzzed—a message from Jameson. Just two words.

Blackwood Forest.

The name sent a thrill down her spine.

The Blackwood Forest was no ordinary place. Nestled deep in Texas, it was a sprawling ancient woodland bordering the Hawthorne estate—a place steeped in family lore and whispered secrets. It was where the brothers Hawthorne had often disappeared during childhood, where shadows stretched long beneath towering oaks and where time seemed to slow.

Without hesitation, Avery booked a flight. Her journey was far from over.

The plane touched down in Texas at midday, the heat of the Lone Star sun wrapping around her as she stepped into the thick summer air. A hired car awaited to drive her to the edge of Blackwood Forest, where the dense canopy of moss-draped trees loomed like a gateway to another world.

The drive was quiet, her thoughts spinning as she gripped the note Jameson had left in Santorini. The familiar scents of pine and earth filled the air, grounding her.

At the forest’s edge, a weathered wooden sign carved with the Hawthorne family crest greeted her. Avery stepped into the dappled shade, the crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot the only sound besides the distant call of a lone hawk.

She walked slowly, the soft rustling of the forest wrapping around her like a cloak. The path wound deeper into the woods, leading to a clearing bathed in gentle sunlight. There, a single leather satchel sat resting against the trunk of an ancient oak.

Inside was another note, penned in Jameson’s unmistakable handwriting.

“Heiress,

This is where stories begin and end.

Where the roots run deep and the branches hold dreams.

Find me where the wildflowers bloom, beneath the oldest oak.

Your journey ends soon, heiress. I’m waiting.”

Avery’s breath caught as she looked up at the towering oak, its gnarled limbs stretching wide and strong.

Somewhere nearby, Jameson was waiting, ready to turn this scavenger hunt into something more—a promise, a beginning.

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter six: leftovers

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Chapter Five |🩸 Chapter Seven (Coming Soon)

🩸Full Chapter List |🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire. 

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter Summary: Naomi recalls what brought her to Baldur's Gate

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“No one will remember the dead queen in a few short generations, but a great lament might be sung a thousand years hence.”

-Libris Mortis

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

The mantra in Naomi's mind works as well as Astarion’s compulsion to remember. No matter how many times she repeats it, she can’t shed the raised-hair awareness tingling through her every inch. She can’t shake the realization settling stony in her stomach.

This isn’t a nightmare at all. All her life before must’ve been a slumber. This is as awake as she’s ever been. 

The very air of the room feathers over her arms, cool like the marble pressing against her back. She never realized, before, even having grown up in the Underdark, how many soft-crushed hues the shadows have. In the moonlight slanting in from the tall arched windows, Naomi sees at least a dozen glittering colors she doesn’t have names for.

She licks her wet lips, the lush taste of life bursting succulent on her tongue. Even her unbeating heart seems bathed in this sudden flood of feeling. She could run for miles without tiring, such is the vitality throbbing through her limbs. 

But instead, she cowers, tucking her knees tightly to her chest, too aware of the sticky coating on her skin. Of the sweat, tears, and blood painted there. She blinks feverishly, but the room is still scintillating in its saturation. There’s still vivid, crimson stains in the plush ivory rug blanketing the vestibule. And the pitcher is still painfully empty. It rolls to stillness nearby, not one drop left to leak from it.

Despite the dizzy state of her senses, cutting beneath the heady nature of them all is an ache. Longing. It’s not what she should feel, staring at the bloody mess she made, void of her husband’s company for the first time since this nightmare started. And yet, her gums pang with it. 

Will it always hurt? she wonders, grazing her new fangs with trembling fingers. The answer comes from an instinct within, but it feels entirely foreign to her -- like the snarl that slipped from her lips when Astarion tried to take the pitcher away.

No, it won’t. It didn’t hurt when she drank. For those few spellbound seconds, she didn’t feel anything but divine.

Now, she feels nothing but nauseous. With a sigh, Naomi peers down the narrow hall shrouded in steam. Astarion said there was a bath. 

Her senses tell her she could reach her destination in an instant -- power throbs within her bones. But the idea of moving at more than a snail’s pace makes her stomach lurch. So instead, she crawls down the corridor.

It feels like hours before she finally reaches the chamber at the hall’s other end. A vast monster of a tub awaits her there. The golden claws propping the tub above the floor belong to an ornately carved dragon clinging to the underside. At one end of the tub, a hissing plume of magic steams from the dragon’s maw, billowing against the porcelain. Naomi catches her own reflection in the pearly white sheen as she heaves herself upwards.

Experimentally she dips a toe. Heat prickles pleasantly across her skin. Hot, but not scalding. She casts a wary glance back at the empty vestibule and the bedroom beyond, then sheds her robe and the sheer nightgown beneath it. The bulky amethyst on her left ring finger won’t budge one bit. Resigned, she slips below the surface with it stuck stubbornly in place.

For mere seconds, the water clouds red. She frowns as it clears again. No trace of blood is left behind. It’s only her, stewing in the steam, peppered in freckles she recognizes, but a few stray, decidedly aged scars she doesn’t. If that wasn’t disconcerting enough, her head swirls with a semi-sweet, familiar scent cloying in the air. Astarion’s cologne mills in it, but it’s softened with floral notes -- lavender -- that inexplicably soothe her.

Once she’s scrubbed clean, she lets her head loll back against the tub’s edge. Gods above, the whole ceiling’s a mirror. For a vampire, Astarion’s awfully fond of them. But then, Astarion doesn’t seem bound by the same rules as the vampires she’s heard tales of before. And by association, it seems, neither does she. A familiar stranger with cherry-red eyes scowls down at her.

It’s then that she hears it: the faintest echo of a song, played on some far-away piano, close and far all at once like a teasing breeze. She can nearly taste the lyrics dancing, bittersweet, on the tip of her tongue.

The song carries her mind away to a world where her eyes were still violet, down the path of the scar that curls across her nose. Her fingertips find it now, skimming its thin trail as if she could so easily retrace the path that led her here. Her mind tries to, like following faded pencil marks on aged paper. Memories that should have been recent, but now wear the dust of three years she can’t account for.

A hairline slice of sunlight used to cut across the hot springs near her Underdark home for no more than a few minutes each day. What a mighty blade the sun must be, to delve to such depths. Someday, Naomi would think, each time she saw that searing razor appear and then vanish again. Someday, she would see the surface.

Someday, the waterfalls by the temple seem to whisper.

There was no lightning strike moment marking the day where ‘someday’ became ‘now, or never’. It wasn’t the twentieth funeral she sang for or some other macabre milestone. It wasn’t the first or last time the temple would lose members to the Lolth-sworn. They weren’t the closest friends she had lost. The color of their blood on the stone wasn’t what sent her away from the Eilistraeean temple that raised her. 

It felt cumulative; every drop of blood her kin shed at the hands of Lolth-sworn, the duergar, and all the Underdark’s other dangers weighed down the scales over time. Nearing her one hundred and twentieth year, Naomi began to see her life from the bottom side of the hour glass.

Drow can live just as long as any other elves, in theory. Down in the Underdark, they hardly ever do. She didn’t want to die for something righteous, like her parents and their cult did, like her brother would have wanted her to. Like so many of the temple’s residents had and would. 

And in a way, wouldn’t ascending like the birds tattooed on her cheek be honoring her parents, after all? Sure, she didn’t manage to ‘pray the drow away’ like they’d hoped. But wouldn’t seeing the surface they made such a fuss about be the next best thing?

Naomi wanted to live, out in the light, singing songs bathed in it. So, she left while she still could.

The surface greeted her with the glare of the sun setting her skin alight, branding it with a shade she’d never seen herself in. And so many freckles, she was sure it had to be death pox. Sure her adventure to the surface had ended before it had truly begun. Sure she would die in the bed of the first inn she could find, shivering in scratchy, flea-bitten blankets with only the sound of her own retching for company.

Except, the inn she happened upon happened to have a bard. On the day when Naomi’s fever reached its apex, that bard played the flute.

The tune crept beneath her door, curious and lilting. The song caressed Naomi gently, like a hand stroking her back and wicking the sweat from her forehead. Soothing, in its sweetness. She can’t remember for the life of her how that song goes, only that it saved her from certain death.

The sun sickness burned fiercely, and then faded. When, finally, her legs could bear to wobble from the room, she learned her bardic savior was another drow. Her name was Melle. She’d never seen the Underdark before. Naomi had never seen anyone half as pretty in her entire life.

“I’ve never known anyone who plays like that,” Melle told her, after their first performance together.

“Like what?” Naomi asked.

“Like you’re trying to haunt everyone here. It’s a tavern, love, not a fucking funeral.”

So Naomi practiced her fingering. Her vocals. She refined all of her arts with precision and care until even her harshest critic would cry for her. 

Please, please.

And when she stroked her fiddle, night after night, the coin fell into her cups and Melle fell into her bed.

“How about now?” Naomi asked when they’d finished one evening, and sent the last barfly staggering home. “Am I still haunting you?”

Melle shrugged with a coy smile. “I think you’d fare fine with one of those acting troupes in the Gate.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re great at playing a part.”

“You think I’m faking?” Naomi laughed. “I know you didn’t, love.”

“I think,” Melle said, twining her wrists behind Naomi’s neck, “you should play something that’s really you.”

Naomi doesn’t remember what song they played their last night together. But she knows the melody that patters through the palace by heart. It came from hers, after all. 

And Astarion knows it, too. She sinks deeper into the tub with a growing unease. If he knows that song… Perhaps he had something to do with what happened next.

Naomi was always shit at the lute, but it’s easier to sing with than a fiddle. So she strummed a few quiet chords, and let her lips pour with the song she wrote for her summertime lover. 

And when her song was over, it was all over. The look Melle gave her wasn’t just unaffected. It was unfeeling. Cold. Callous. Indifferent. She left that way, without so much as a word.

For a tenday, Naomi was the inn’s sole player. The proprietor was furious at first, but came around when they saw the coin that came in droves for Naomi on her own. More than she and Melle ever made together. 

Naomi danced. She played. She drank. She laughed. She was over it, of course. Melle was just the first pretty person she saw on the surface. She’d seen precious little of it, even after all her plans and anticipation. There would be prettier people. Better sights and songs. Come summer’s end, she'd set out to see it all herself.

Maybe she’d fare fine with one of those theater troupes in Baldur’s Gate.

But then--

Melle’s face in the late night crowd.

“You came back!” Naomi gasped. Melle’s arms were rigid as swords, but she swooned into them anyway. She didn’t see her lover’s eyes glinting with steel while hers were blurred.

She didn’t feel the chill until Melle spoke, her words flat. Lifeless.

“You stole from me.”

The dagger  flashed across Naomi’s face. Her scream tore from her throat like a page ripped from its binding. All the color, the laughter, the light of the tavern sloughed away with that sound. Torn off like a mask. 

Gone were the inn’s patrons, its hearth, its warmth. In an instant, all of it was snuffed to gray, permeating silence. Naomi stood at the heart of the husk that remained in its stead. Thick dust coated the vacant tables, as if no one had stood there in a century.

But it was real. Naomi staggered to the cracked mirror nailed to the wall, swiping it clean with her sleeve. The new scar on her nose still glistened, red and raw. Fresh from Melle’s dagger, lying discarded with her flute among the other leftovers. Here and there, such trinkets rested, faded or rusted like ill-tended antiques. Yet she couldn’t find a single body. Not one other soul. 

Her eyes dropped to her quivering hands. There wasn’t one speck of blood on them, but still they were stained. Black marks crawled from her fingertips to her wrists, like ink filling her veins. 

When she stumbled out into the night, the crickets still hummed. Little flickers of candlelight still quivered in the windows of the nearby village. She whirled around, and the dark windows of the empty inn glared back at her like empty sockets in a skull. In that numb moment of disbelief, Naomi thought of Calaerys, of the way her brother’s very skin seemed to dissolve in the wake of her shriek, of the moment he became nothing but bone before her.

She fled back beneath the ground, back to the Underdark, where she never meant to leave again. Except when she arrived, she found her temple buried. A rockfall. All that was left of her home was rocks, bones, and…her.

She’s not sure how many eulogies she’s given. How many friends she buried. But she remembers her last lament keenly. It was the last song she ever sang. She laid her kin to rest, and surfaced again with a solemn swear: no soul left alive had ever heard her sing, and she’d never sing for another. Not again. Not ever.

She set off for the Gate. To play a different part. To start a different story. One she’s apparently missing many chapters of. Naomi swirls a finger in the water as the last notes of her song slip fluidly into some moody melody she doesn’t recognize. 

Did she sing for Astarion? Did she break her promise for him? For her…husband? Does she haunt him, too? 

Does the devil she met along the way to the Gate have anything to do with her broken recollection? His name is scalded in the back of her mind: Raphael.

She can’t be sure how much time passes, soaking and dwelling. Maybe it’s the nature of eternity, to lose track of hours as if only minutes have passed. The water never cools, and her skin never seems to prune, either. 

The distant music from elsewhere in the palace is a welcome sort of company. Less so is the second sussur bloom humming in the far corner. She briefly contemplates ripping it out, root and stem, but she isn’t certain the sudden flow of the weave back into the room won’t cause Astarion to be immediately alerted. Instead, she lets the music lull her, even if her connection to it feels muted.

Birdsong breaks through her fogged mind. Sunrise bleeds scarlet over the marble floor. She jerks up abruptly, water sloshing over the sides as she stands and clenches the edge of the tub. Astarion said he’d return in the morning. She’d rather he not find her waiting naked. Not in a bath clearly big enough for two.

Her stomach flips as she looks up. Nothing and no one stares back at her from the mirror overhead. Even her reflection has left her. Naomi’s legs wobble, slipping on the slick marble. She flops from the bath like an overcooked noodle.

Grimacing, she pulls herself upright with limbs like jelly. All the strength surging through her before seems entirely sapped from her body. A strange, gnawing feeling wakes in her stomach, a familiar dryness prickling at the back of her throat.

It wasn’t enough; Astarion will bid her to drink blood again when he returns. Something more fitting for her palate, he said. He was hardly keen on bargaining to begin with. He’s even less likely to entertain the idea, this time.

And she’s not keen on fighting him anymore -- on that matter, at least. She can pretend it’s wine. Be civilized.

Once it’s in her mouth, it puts anything else to shame, anyway. If it means being strong enough, or sharp enough, to seize an opportunity to slip from the room, or the palace altogether, then it’s necessary.

Still, her stomach twists as the sight of the bloody handprints, drying dark in the vestibule’s fur rug. She finds her robe, and a plush black towel, and surveys the macabre scene she left behind.

Nobody died. Here. Either Astarion keeps his supply captive, or, someone did die. In a different room.

She’s not precious about death. Or a stranger to it. No child of the Underdark is. But she’s not exactly keen on slaughter or slavery, either. Those are the hobbies of the Lolth-sworn, not Eilistraee’s followers. She eyes the empty pitcher warily. That…couldn’t have been a whole person, could it?

It’s not an answer she’s likely to find staring at it. She turns her attention to finding clothes instead. There’s a shut door on either side of the short hallway leading from the vestibule to the bathing chamber. Experimentally, she pushes one. It opens readily. Warily, she steps inside.

She’s not sure what she expected to find, exactly, but it wasn’t a sewing closet. Well, ‘closet’ is a significant understatement. Studio would be more apt. Naomi paces the bolts of fabric that line the wall on one side of the room, her fingertips periodically grazing over silk and satin. The opposite wall is comprised entirely of dark polished drawers. She peers inside of one to find dozens of glinting needles. Another is filled with nothing but spools of black thread. Others hold more thread, along with ribbons and pins, in all manner of colors.

There’s a heavy, ornate desk at the heart of the room with a mess of sketches strewn across it. A mannequin poses in front of the desk, a half-finished skirt of midnight velvet clinging to its waist. Hesitantly, she drifts closer, picking up the parchment at the top of the stack.

The nausea rears its head again. The back of her throat burns. She drops the pages, as if burnt by them, and leaves the room briskly. She shoves into the door on the other side of the hall.

Well, she won’t be spoiled for choice. Inside the closet -- which is the same size as the vestibule itself -- hang dozens upon dozens of glittering gowns, slinky shifts, and low-cut garments of every shade and sheen. Those that resemble anything modest are adorned in swirling, shimmering embellishments. Her fingers graze several gowns as she passes, sure all that lace has to itch something awful. But everything she touches practically melts into her fingers. 

She frowns, her mind racing. Surely he doesn’t…make all these himself? He hardly seems the sort to be bothered with labor.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickle with unease. A figure lurks in her periphery. She spins about to face the intruder, stomach lurching. 

It’s…only another mannequin. The groan of relief she lets out sounds more like a growl. Her glare gradually softens as she studies the rather imposing figure poised at the center of the room. The wood is painted -- she recognizes the shade of bluish lilac. The mannequin wears a pristine set of scale mail and leather armor. She recognizes the colors of the dyed leather, too: deep burgundy, and bright turquoise. Just like the bedding in the other chamber. There’s even an ivory wig atop its head, braided back into a bun. Sheepishly, she tucks her own damp hair behind her ears.

This is supposed to be her. Unless it isn’t, and her vampire just has a fetish for a particular look of drow. Vaguely, she recalls stories of another vampire -- Strahd -- with a similar obsession. That might explain all the sketches of her in his sewing room.

But then, Astarion hasn’t called her by any other name. And those colors happen to be her favorite. They remind her of home. Of simmering hot springs, colorful stalactites, and bright mushrooms. They’re the most frequent colors among the many garments surrounding her.

There’s a second mannequin, clad in decorative leathers. They’re not as ostentatious as what Astarion, apparently, wears on most days. Practical, but still pretty, with a ruffled collar and sleeves. The other side of the room seems to house Astarion’s clothes. It’s hard to say which side has more.

She finds smallclothes in a polished dresser near the mannequins. Though, there seem to be sparingly few to choose from. And what choices she has leave sparingly little to be desired. Strangely, in her search for underwear, she encountered drawer after drawer filled with evening gloves. The vampire has strange priorities.

Sighing, she shifts through several selections on the racks, relieved to see they’re not all ball gowns. There’s a few outfits that seem suited for travel -- fine black leathers and fanned lace collars. All very vampiric. There’s a spattering of doublets and trousers, too. Similar to what Astarion wore before, but tailored for a different figure. 

The rather simple dress shirt hanging between two backless numbers sticks out like a sore thumb. She pulls it from the hanger, rubbing the cream-colored fabric between her fingertips. There's a storied nature to it, written in the subtle stitches outside the seams. It must’ve been mended a time or two. The ruffled collar isn’t out of fashion per se, but seeing it among such pristine, ostentatious ensembles, it looks to be from another life entirely. 

Someone else’s. Not a vampire lord, ruling from his castle. Naomi can empathize. She doesn't belong here, either. Or, maybe it's simply her bardic nature drawing her to the only garment here that seems to have any history besides hanging in wait.

The once-fine shirt is big on her, but she finds a strange sense of solidarity, of comfort, in tucking it into a pair of too-long, belted leather trousers, and tightening the criss-crossing strings across the breast for some semblance of modesty.

And not a moment too soon. She feels the quiet knock on the door like it's pounding against her own ribs. Naomi staggers hastily into the narrow hall, a sudden flurry of nerves leaving her lightheaded.

Astarion surveys her from the open archway into the bedroom, her own bloody handprints paving a path across the rug between them. It shouldn’t surprise her that he’s already entered the room soundlessly. That he’s already there, awaiting her. Still, her stomach flips as their eyes meet. His wide ones match the carmine color of the stains she left.

And, somehow, he looks to be the one startled by the sight of her.

“You--”

His eyes scan her up and down, his jaw slack for a moment before he collects it from the floor.

“You sweet, sweet thing.”

His smirk blooms into a full, sharp-toothed smile. Naomi blinks feverishly. It’s like the clothes she chose dissolve altogether beneath his hooded gaze. She crosses her arms over her chest, abruptly uncrossing them as she realizes the motion only offered him better view of her breasts and why did she pick this thing to wear anyways, it doesn’t even fit, it--

She freezes. His stomach quivers with a chuckle she can only surmise is at her expense. 

Oh no.

A/N: So, more backstory. But maybe more questions than answers for now. 👀

I am so sorry this one took me so long! I switched gears for a while to work on another fic, Dhampir Dreams (go check it out if you need a fix of breeding smut!), and then life got hectic. This chapter ended up splitting in half on me so the good news is, I already have a bit of the next one written!

More time with Astarion coming next chapter. And then an Astarion POV chapter after that. 👀 HUGE thank you to my beloved @amoremagnificentbastard for doing a final read-through, being just a fountain of support, and an overall stellar human who I am blessed to call friend.

Thanks for reading, I hope life is being kind to you!

[w3sternwild]

LOVEFOOL: CHAPTER I

word count: 2.3k

chapter II

It was as if her voice were the steam produced by hot coals and water: thick, heavy, and demanding, dilating the pores of the listeners, entering like poison. Prying their attention from their greedy hands. Each and every member of the audience was transfixed by her, undoubtedly for varying reasons, but nonetheless within her grasp. Some listened to her voice with money on their mind, others contemplating what other talents she may possess beneath that ivory silken dress she wore. Jayce, deep within the audience of patrons and elites, could only stare at the glittering gold that was her left index finger.

Once her performance concluded with a passionate high note, her chest heaving with tired breaths, she bowed courteously, allowing the coy upturn of her lips to take place once again. The guests returned to their conversations, some patting - or even going as far as to grab, as one audacious old man chose to do to gain her attention - her arm to announce how wonderful it was to hear her sing. She thanked them politely in a changed, comparatively small, voice. Timid. 

Jayce found his eyes lingering on her as she nursed a glass of champagne, standing at the edge of the room. He thought she looked fascinating - the kind of beauty that makes you stop and wonder. She seemed to be aware of that, too, because she gave an older patron a darling smile when he approached her, his hand instantly going to rest upon her lower back, exposed with the low cut of her dress, tugging her closer than what could possibly be comfortable. The skin-to-skin contact made her shudder. 

They exchanged conversation for a few minutes, the man uttering words that undoubtedly bored her. But she played along: laughing at his dreadful jokes, batting her eyelashes down at him (he was quite the stubby man), and going as far as to grace her fingertips upon his arm. Her smile never left her face.

It wasn’t until he leaned in to whisper something in her ear did that smile fall. Jayce observed the irritated downturn of her lips, the hateful glint in her eyes, all of which vanished as soon as the man pulled back to gauge her reaction to his purred suggestion. Unsurprisingly, she gave him an enthusiastic nod, speaking something lowly that looked to be an attempt at excusing herself.

Jayce had observed carefully the final moments of her performance: the swift shift in her persona, with the smirk and the timid voice, and eventually the smooth exit onto the balcony. 

These events were always unbelievably stifling. Perhaps because they were Salo’s, and he always made a point to direct the scrutiny of the syndicate to his beloved star. The cool air of the night did provide some relief, evaporating the heat that pooled beneath her skin in silent warning. As did the metal railing of the balcony which she leaned heavily upon, fingers clasping and unclasping in an attempt to gather her ever-crowding thoughts.

She didn’t get to have her burnished little cog with her this evening, the dress she wore providing nowhere to store it without producing a conspicuous outline of it. In spite of this, she did favour this dress, its long sleeves giving them less to touch. She instead had to mimic the movements she’d typically make when turning her cog over in her hands as she thought, disgusted, about having to spend the night with that dumpy man. It was easy to forget the core purpose of her work at times like these, letting anger and frustration fill the hole in her chest. A product of insatiable debt.

“I’m glad I’m not the only one in need of some air.” A voice sounds behind her; it was masculine, smooth, and very pleasing to the ear. Not so much her’s, for an instant, when her face scrunched in a scowl before she turned to glance over her shoulder, preparing to feign interest for the umpteenth time tonight.

The face she was met with, however, made her pause briefly. She had not seen this man in person before, but unbearably often in pictures. This ‘Golden Boy’ was proverbially shoved down her throat at least three times per day. Piltover’s illustrators got a few things right, though: his dark hair, combed through maybe once, twice, before calling it a day and allowing it to do whatever it pleases. Some strands hung over his forehead, although they didn’t get very far for their shortness. His jaw was as strong as depicted, too - nicely squared, covered by a five o’clock shadow that few could pull off with his finesse, she decided. That was as far as illustrations went, however, because they failed in almost every other department, a fact that grew clear with every hesitant step he took further out into the chilled air, “You don’t mind if I join you for a bit?”

She shook her head, having now completely lost the energy to appease anyone with sportive compliments or suggestive stroking-of-arms. He nodded slightly, still evidently unsure, but rested beside her regardless, looking over the impressive view that was Piltover. His apprehension grated on her: if you want to fuck, she thought, spare us both and just say. There was nothing worse than an indirect client: it made the whole process much drier, longer than necessary. This, to her, was work, and whilst she tried her best to make it feel natural and intimate as instructed, her balcony time was purely for her and her only. He disrupted that.

After a few moments of quietly watching him through her peripheral, she posed rather dryly, “Why are you nervous?”

That seemed to trip him because his eyebrows raised in surprise, his mouth opening and quickly closing once again. “I’m not nervous.” He finally decided, though his fingers played with his cuff in what was either habit or in fact nervousness.

She huffed at this, giving him a mildly incredulous look before snapping her stare forward again. “No one here asks for permission for anything.” She countered, gesturing behind her lazily. He couldn’t tell if she was referring to his hesitant entrance or the bustling room of self-important elites in the room a few paces away.

“Being polite doesn’t mean I’m nervous.”

A few beats. “I suppose.”

More silence followed. Jayce was reticently (stubbornly, offendedly) brewing on her accusation and tone, which differed so drastically to how vibrant she appeared on stage. He felt somewhat cheated, something he did not doubt she did intentionally by the way her sharp eyes glanced up at him testingly, lips curved rather sardonically.

“Don’t you have investors to schmooze?” She asked pointedly, an uncomfortable mixture of teasing and accusation within her voice. 

Jayce elected to take it as the former, and replied by turning slightly to rest his side and elbow upon the railing to face her properly, “‘I think I've done about as much schmoozing as I can handle tonight.”

She pursed her lips, nodding slowly as if she were taking extra care to comprehend every syllable. “Has the Golden Boy lost his shine?”

The early traces of a grin developed at her words and he groaned a little, “God, I hate that nickname.” His hand came up to pinch his brow.

She looked over him, observing the light mauve colour of his lips, which were fairly full and rather downturned at the corners. When he removed his hand to look at her, she realised the illustrations did not and have never done his eyes justice. She thought they were interesting, like molten pools of honey or melted butter - light and warm, nice to swim in. His mouth opened to speak, and it was then she was so kindly displayed with the sharp point of his canines, the tip of white that appeared as he spoke, and the obscure but charming gap between his two upper front teeth. “I've heard some of the other guests calling you their ‘Golden Songbird’. They love you up there.” 

She cracked a smile, turning once again to look at the city before them, her right finger going to trace the golden intricacies of that of her left absentmindedly. She looked down at it, as did Jayce (with great curiosity but not wanting to offend her if he asked about it). Her whole index finger was gone, extending from her wrist an aureate contraption that assembled at the stump of her finger, extending to form the shape of what she lacked. Decorating it were little floral designs, curling their way up the prosthetic. “I can’t say the feeling is entirely mutual.”

“Well, then, I suppose some hearts are bound to be broken.”

“Bold of you to assume they have hearts to break.” Jayce chuckled at this, nodding lightly in agreement. She, on the other hand, couldn’t understand why she had admitted that in the first place. Why she had assumed he was not as vile as some of the elites were.

There was a comfortable lull in their conversation for a few moments before he spoke again, “Your voice - it really does sound magnificent.” He cringed internally at how pathetic he sounded, and with all his intelligence he chose to add, “I’ve never heard anything like it.” 

He could tell she was growing more and more resolute in her belief that he was entirely airheaded.

Her eyebrows raised in a soft, cynical furrow. Stupid. “That’s very kind of you.” She said rather tightly, and any sort of rapport that had been flimsily constructed between them was kindly shattered, her next words cutting, “Councillor Talis, I’m not the greatest fan of euphemisms.” 

It was his turn for his brows to draw inwards, more out of confusion than anything, “I’m sorry?”

She leaned slightly closer, her eyes steady upon his. She was about a head shorter than him, but twice as abundant in wrath when vocalising her thoughts from before, “If you want to fuck, all you have to do is ask.” 

It was at this Jayce realised that the person she was inside the gala hall was much, much different to who she was when she stepped outside. 

His surprise shot his eyebrows up his forehead, disbelieving of her crudeness and somewhat offended she’d think so lowly of him. He settled his expression, hoping his composure would show his sincerity, although he couldn’t help the faint incredulous smirk on his lips, “I didn’t come out here for sex, Miss.”

Her expression fell - not in disappointment but surprise - her eyes lighting up with a particular curiosity, “Then why are you out here?”

“Needed some air.” He repeated frankly, though not without a hint of teasing within his tone.

She opened her mouth to retort, a taunting smile forming on her lips to accuse him of lying, but she was harshly interrupted.

“There’s my star! What a gorgeous performance you gave us.” A shrill voice joined them, sickly sweet and recognisable, along with the call of what Jayce assumed to be her name. She muttered something he could not hear under her breath, releasing a shaky sigh. Salo sauntered through the glass doorframe, his red coat billowing out behind him with the new breeze, his arms open and inviting, if that was possible. His eyes flicked over to Jayce, who straightened himself defensively, almost habitually. “Councillor,” Salo nodded to him, “I see the two of you have met.”

There was something sour on Jayce’s tongue, like he’s involved himself in an interaction in which he is not remotely wanted. He glanced down at his “star” beside him, taking in her increasingly stiffened posture, her hands clasped in front of her formally. She did not look up at him, eyes trained on something interesting on the stone floor a few metres from her, despite being very much able to feel his gaze on her. “Yes,”  he affirmed, looking back up to Salo, “Turns out she’s just as good at talking as she is at singing.” 

She wanted to scoff, and did in her mind, but the feeling of Salo’s icy glare pinned her to where she was, glued her mouth shut. She hated what he had done to her, molded her into something small, something weak. Salo smiled cordially, Is that so?, his eyes said. He hummed, clicking his tongue in faux disappointment, “Well, I am deeply sorry, but I need to borrow her for a few moments. Is that okay with you, Talis?” It was not a question. 

Her legs moved without needing much instruction as they pulled her towards Salo and his vaguely open, beckoning arms. He placed his hand heavily on her shoulder, leaning to give her a searing smile to which she responded with a forced one of her own. “Have a pleasant evening.” Salo said with a curt nod, all but pulling her with him as they retreated back to the bright luxury of the gala. She could hardly get out her faint “Goodnight” before she was tugged away.

Salo cast the man behind him a glance of admonition, warning him of something he couldn’t quite decipher, but he knew for sure was something dangerous.

Jayce was left standing there with an immense frown upon his face. The distinct, sudden switch between the woman he spoke to alone to who she was with Salo deeply unsettled him. Granted, she wasn’t particularly amiable when they had been speaking, but there were instances when he thought he was winning her over, at least a little.

But Jayce, much too determined for his own good, was resolute in finding out what was the cause of such a shift in demeanour.

Note: Thank you so much for reading, I hope this was okay. Let me know if you want a chapter 2, or if you have any questions or feedback send me an ask!