alby-rei

[alby-rei]

Stake Through the Heart || Rook Hunt

You’re absolutely convinced your neighbor is a vampire. No evidence yet, but your gut—and your deeply flawed instincts—say yes. The investigation is underway. Nothing will stop you. Not even common sense.

You were already suspicious of the building when you signed the lease. The hallway lights had a flicker that could only be described as "threatening," the elevator creaked like it had regrets, and your sink coughed before turning on. But hey—rent was cheap, and you had resigned yourself to coexisting with at least one minor ghost. Maybe two if they were a couple.

What you didn't expect was your upstairs neighbor dragging a human-sized trunk up five flights of stairs at exactly midnight like it was a perfectly normal time to engage in cardio and/or hide a body.

You were brushing your teeth—half-dressed and fully irritated—when you heard the unmistakable sound of wood scraping aggressively against tile. It was the kind of noise that said, "I am absolutely not supposed to be here, but I will make it everyone's problem anyway." You paused, toothbrush in hand, and listened. Another thump. Another scrape. A strained grunt, followed by—

"Ah! The climb is arduous, but so is the ascent of the soul!"

You spit your toothpaste directly into the sink and stared at yourself in the mirror like, Did I just hear a villain monologue in the hallway?

Curiosity won. You opened your front door just enough to peek out—and there he was.

Wide-brimmed hat. Floor-length coat. Boots that definitely cost more than your microwave. And a trunk. A massive trunk. The kind usually reserved for pirates or magicians or suspicious aristocrats who "don't go out during the day."

You watched, transfixed, as he slowly dragged the thing up another step, muttering something about "fate's heavy burden" and "destiny's ever-turning wheel."

Your brain, overworked and overcaffeinated, came to a single, definitive conclusion:

Vampire. 100%. No notes.

No human being talks like that. No one wears a coat that dramatic without drinking blood recreationally. The man radiated "I sleep in a silk-lined coffin and I know all the moons of Jupiter by name."

Still, you tried to play it cool. "Hey, uh… need help?"

He turned. Slowly. He reminded you of an NPC about to issue a side quest.

"Ah," he said, bowing slightly. "A kind spirit in the veil of night. May the stars illuminate your path, trésor."

You blinked.

He smiled. Too many teeth.

"…Right," you said. "I'm gonna go back inside now and pretend this conversation didn't happen."

You shut the door. Locked it. Double locked it. Briefly considered salting the threshold but remembered you were out of salt.

You pressed your back to the door and exhaled. That was fine. Everything was fine. You didn't need to know what was in the trunk. You weren't the main character. You had a day job and seasonal allergies and no time for undead drama. You were going to mind your business.

Until the next morning, when he knocked on your door holding a fruit basket, a poetry book, and a glass bottle that may or may not have been full of suspiciously thick, red liquid.

"Good morrow," he said with the confidence of a man who still used words like morrow. "I have brought tokens of neighborly goodwill."

You stared at him.

He stared back. Smiling.

"I, Rook Hunt, am most pleased to meet you."

You took the basket. You nodded. You said thank you like a hostage in a movie.

And in your heart, you knew.

You were absolutely going to get involved in whatever this man's dramatic, possibly blood-soaked nonsense was. Whether you liked it or not.

You did not, for the record.

You didn't want to be that person. The kind who built conspiracy boards out of half-baked assumptions and circumstantial evidence. The kind who said things like "I just think it's weird that…" before launching into a theory involving aliens, lizard people, secret societies, or in this case, your neighbor being a vampire with a flair for the theatrical.

But then came The Curtain Incident.

It was the next evening. You had gone to the store for boring mortal things—dish soap, batteries, a very specific type of screwdriver that only existed in legend and IKEA manuals. You were minding your own business. You were trying to pick out lightbulbs that didn't hum when you tried turning them on.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw it: the hat.

Wide-brimmed. Looming. Definitely not weather-appropriate.

You whipped around so fast you almost knocked over a display of lawn flamingos. And there he was, in all his nocturnal glory: Rook Hunt, your neighbor, standing in the middle of aisle seven like it was a catwalk at fashion week. Long coat. Gloves. That same calm, vaguely predatory smile. And in his cart?

Blackout curtains. Three sets. Jet black. Extra thick.

You stared. He made eye contact like a man who knew. Knew he was being watched. Knew he was being suspected. Knew that this was not how humans typically purchase home decor unless they were trying to turn their living space into a vampire's safehouse slash crime scene.

You tried to act casual. Failed immediately.

"Heyyy," you said, voice cracking like a out of tune violin. "Doing a little… home improvement?"

He inclined his head. "Mais oui. The sun—ah, how she burns with such cruel passion, non? I find her embrace a touch too… insistent." He lifted a curtain panel with one gloved hand. "To cocoon oneself in shadow, to drift in velvety darkness… c'est magnifique."

You nodded, as if that explained literally anything.

"That's cool," you said, backing toward the paint swatches like they could protect you. "Totally normal. Curtains. Love that for you."

His smile widened.

You were spiraling.

Because listen: you're not completely irrational. You know some people are just weird. You know blackout curtains are a thing. Maybe he works nights. Maybe he's just allergic to joy. But also?? His shopping cart contained no other regular item. No food. No tools. Just three sets of blackout curtains, a single red candle, and—swear to God—a hand mirror.

Why would a vampire buy a mirror?! Was it a decoy? A flex? A prop for when he practiced brooding dramatically at an empty reflection?!

You left the store in a daze, carrying a pack of AA batteries and a sense of unease. As you walked home under the streetlights, you made a mental list:

Never seen him in daylight.

Talks like he's auditioning for a Shakespeare reboot no one asked for, but with more French vowels.

Dragged a suspiciously heavy trunk into his apartment at midnight.

Blackout curtains.

Keeps bringing you gifts that feel like offerings before a blood pact.

Smiles like he knows how you die.

By the time you got home, you were pacing your kitchen whispering, "He's definitely a vampire," like it was going to summon help from the garlic gods.

You considered texting a friend, but how do you even phrase that?

hey quick question if ur neighbor owns a cape and possibly a coffin do u call the cops or the local priest or like, what's the protocol here

Instead, you sat on your couch, stared at the wall, and decided you had two choices: move out, or commit to this bit like your life depended on it.

Because if your neighbor was a vampire, then you were either going to die horribly or end up in some kind of ancient blood soulmate contract by accident—and if it was going to be the second one, you were at least going to get a dramatic entrance line out of it.

You were having what could generously be described as a trainwreck of a day.

Your boss had decided to hold a mandatory team-building exercise that involved trust falls and absolutely no regard for personal space. Your lunch had been mysteriously replaced by someone else's aggressively spicy quinoa salad (you were not emotionally prepared for that level of chilli oil). And your phone had spent the entire afternoon at 3% like a drama queen begging for a charger and attention.

All you wanted—all you wanted—was to drag your exhausted corpse up five flights of stairs, collapse into your lumpy couch, and watch garbage reality TV until your brain leaked out of your ears.

But fate—unrelenting, nosy fate—had other plans.

You hit the third floor landing. Your eyes were on your phone, trying to Google "can you die from inhaling someone else's quinoa," when you looked up—and there he was.

Rook. Your neighbor. The cryptid. The probable vampire.

He was just casually coming down the stairs, like he wasn't the most suspicious person in a ten-mile radius. Still wearing a long coat, still dressed like a brooding poet about to duel someone over honor and a baguette. But this time…

This time he had a sunburn.

Just a little one. Right on the tip of his nose. Faint. Pink. But real. You squinted to make sure it wasn't some kind of trick of the hallway light—but no. It was there. Angry and tender.

Your brain slammed the panic button.

OH MY GOD.

IT BURNS HIM PHYSICALLY.

I KNEW IT.

The conspiracy board in your head lit up. Thumbtacks connected by red string. Newspaper clippings. Grainy surveillance footage of your neighbor dramatically pulling blackout curtains shut while whispering about "la nuit éternelle." It all fit. The signs. The trunk. The curtains. The sunburn. The French.

He caught you staring and—like a man who had just stepped into a spotlight and loved it—tilted his head, utterly unbothered.

"Ah! Bonsoir, my dear neighbor. I fear I was… overzealous in my ambitions today." He gestured vaguely toward the window at the end of the hall, where the last rays of the sun were beginning to fade. "Even the mightiest hunter is humbled by the cruelty of Sól."

Sól. He named dropped the sun like it personally betrayed him. You were one step away from calling the Vatican.

You cleared your throat. "So… you got burned? By the sun?"

"Indeed," he said gravely, touching the red spot like it was a war wound. "A careless moment. I was enthralled by a flock of birds and lost track of time." He smiled. "Still, I find the sting to be a reminder—ah, how fragile the flesh, how divine the dusk."

You nodded slowly. "Yup. Happens to the best of us. Just, you know. Skin melting in the light of day. Totally normal."

He laughed. Laughed. A rich, delighted sound like he'd just watched someone walk into a trap he set.

"Your wit is ever sharp," he said, and then—because of course he did—he pulled a tiny glass vial from his coat pocket and dabbed something that might have been cream onto the burn.

You turned and bolted upstairs before he could hand you an invite to a midnight blood tasting.

In your apartment, you slammed the door, leaned against it, and let your bag slide to the floor.

It was real.

He was burned by the sun.

This was no longer a hunch. This was evidence. This was Exhibit A in your vampire trial. You didn't know what you were going to do yet—alert the supernatural authorities? Start a blog? Join him in eternal night as his dramatic, overly caffeinated familiar?—but you did know one thing:

Your neighbor was a vampire.

And that burn was your smoking gun.

The plan was simple.

Invite him over. Offer pasta. Load said pasta with enough garlic to stun a horse. Smile innocently. Observe. Wait for spontaneous combustion, bat transformation, or dramatic gasping followed by a monologue about curses, betrayal, and forbidden cravings.

It was a flawless trap. A garlic-scented bear trap of domestic hospitality.

You set the table. You dimmed the lights to a level you assumed would make him comfortable. You even lit a candle—not romantic, just for ambience. Everything smelled like garlic. The sauce, the bread, the air. You yourself smelled like you had crawled out of a room full of garlic-scented incense.

When he knocked on your door at eight o'clock sharp, you opened it with your most casual expression.

"Bonsoir, mon ami," Rook greeted, bowing slightly, because of course he did. "The moonlight suits you so exquisitely tonight."

You smiled like someone who absolutely was not trying to expose their possibly immortal neighbor through the power of garlic. "Thanks. I guess."

He stepped inside, gave a pleased hum at your lighting choices, and then—froze.

His eyes, usually sparkling with strange poetic menace, locked onto the garlic bread.

You watched in silence as his entire body tensed ever so slightly, like the baguette had just challenged him to a duel. Slowly, reverently, he walked up to the plate and looked down at it like it had personally wronged him in a past life.

"A classic," he murmured. "So bold. So… persistent."

"It's garlic bread," you said flatly.

He gave a tight smile, like a man at war with his own immune system. "Indeed. It is… not to my taste. The scent tends to cling, comme un souvenir unwelcome. It is difficult to hunt the wind when one's coat reeks of crushed cloves."

You blinked. "You don't like garlic?"

"I find it… overwhelming." He sniffed delicately. "Like a song sung off-key, but shouted."

Oh. OH.

He hates garlic.

He fears garlic.

He is one garlic knot away from bursting into flames and ascending to the underworld.

You knew it.

You were a genius. Sherlock Holmes WISHES.

But then—

He sat down.

And without flinching—he ate the garlic bread.

The entire world went silent.

You watched, slack-jawed, as he took a bite, chewed like a man contemplating the duality of pain and pleasure, and swallowed without so much as a grimace. Then he sipped the wine he'd brought—red for the record—and turned to you with a serene expression.

"Your cooking is divine," he said. "The flavor lingers like a haunting melody."

You stared at him, heart racing, mind screaming.

HE ATE IT

HE. ATE. THE. GARLIC.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN????

Was he lying? Was he in pain but hiding it because his honor wouldn't allow him to show weakness in front of a mortal? Was he so ancient, so powerful, so unknowable, that garlic simply didn't affect him anymore? Had he built up a resistance? Were you dealing with some next-level Nosferatu Final Boss?

Or.

Oh no.

What if he's a half-vampire?

What if he was born of both worlds? Doomed to walk the line between the night and the garlic aisle? Too vampire to bask in the sun, too human to fully reject pasta?

You looked at his elegant profile, the way he sipped his drink, the slight wrinkle in his nose that said he still hated the garlic but was choosing not to comment on it. The duality. The mystery. The drama. The tragedy.

You were spiraling again.

You tried to speak, but what came out was, "So… you're definitely not allergic?"

He tilted his head, smiling. "Non. I simply dislike being followed by the scent of someone's kitchen for a week."

You nodded. Sure. Totally. Not suspicious at all. Definitely something a normal human person would say. The whole garlic-aversion-due-to-personal-aesthetic thing was definitely not code for "I will turn into mist if I touch raw cloves."

He took another bite of garlic bread and made a soft noise of appreciation.

You were absolutely losing it.

Because you had no idea if you were in the presence of a man… a monster… or a fashion-forward night creature of immeasurable strength who had conquered his natural aversions through sheer will and seasoning tolerance.

And you still weren't ruling out the bat thing.

You chewed your pasta slowly, cautiously. He was either about to compliment your sauce again or turn into a cloud of smoke and vanish into the air vent.

Frankly, at this point, you weren't sure which option was more terrifying.

You'd been holding it together for weeks. Weeks of tiptoeing around your extremely suspicious, extremely courteous neighbor who may or may not be a vampire, a demon, a historical reenactor, or some kind of poetry professor. You were normal about it. Chill. Totally fine. You only Googled "can vampires enroll in rent-controlled housing" once.

But today? Today broke you.

Because today, Rook complimented your socks.

"Exquisite pattern," he had said, eyes lingering on the tiny frogs doing ballet across your ankles. "Such expression upon so small a canvas. You are, as always, a delight of aesthetic paradoxes."

You blacked out for at least four seconds trying to interpret that.

And then, without waiting, he took your grocery bags. Both of them. Including the one you packed with canned goods like an idiot. Just carried them effortlessly up the stairs, whistling some baroque little tune under his breath like he wasn't actively enabling your spiral into conspiracy madness.

And so now here you are, pacing a cracked sidewalk outside the convenience store, holding an emergency slushy and waving your arms like you're about to summon lightning bolts. Ace and Deuce are sitting on a bench watching you with the exact expressions of two people who have absolutely heard this before and regret returning your texts.

"He complimented my socks," you repeat, wild-eyed. "Who even sees socks? Who notices frogs doing ballet unless they're training themselves to observe every detail of their next victim?"

Ace slurps obnoxiously from his ice cream cone. "Dunno, sounds like you just have a weird crush."

You point at him like you're about to smite him. "I will take that cone out of your hands and launch it into traffic. Try me."

He raises both hands. "Okay, okay, chill! Just saying. You're the one who keeps inviting him to pasta night and analyzing his cutlery use like it's a crime scene."

Deuce, bless his concerned little heart, tries to play diplomat. "Maybe he's just… a polite guy? Some people are like that. Maybe he was raised well."

You whirl on him. "No, Deuce. He's not just nice. That's vampire hospitality. They're known for being strangely polite before draining your life force."

"…Is that a thing?" Deuce asks, already regretting it.

"YES," you shout. "It's part of the psychological warfare. They lure you in with compliments and help carrying your bulk baked bean purchases, and then bam—next thing you know, you're waking up with two holes in your neck and an allergy to garlic."

Ace is now straight up cackling. "Oh my God. You think he's grooming you. For blood reasons."

"I'm not saying he's gonna drain me tomorrow," you mutter, offended but also a little flattered at the thought. "But I am saying I've been watched like a fine wine and I feel it. He called me a 'treasure of contradictions.' Who says that? No one normal. That's Dracula-core."

Ace, still wheezing, gestures with his cone. "You're insane. I love it. I'm not helping, but I'm definitely watching you go down in flames."

Deuce pats your shoulder gently. "I mean… if he tries anything weird, I'll beat him up?"

"That's sweet, Deuce. But he'll probably just evaporate into mist before you can land a punch."

At the end of the emergency meeting, which concludes with you scribbling "suspiciously aware of frog socks" under Rook's name in your increasingly unhinged spiral notebook, you realize something tragic.

You are no closer to solving the mystery.

Rook remains an enigma. A poetic, shadow-wearing, door-holding enigma.

He may be a vampire. He may just be French.

He may, horrifyingly, be both.

And so, you slurp your slushy. You stare into the distance. You prepare yourself for another sleepless night of Googling "can half-vampires enter your apartment without an invite if you leave the door cracked."

This was for research. Pure. Intellectual. Unbiased. Definitely not emotionally compromised in any way. You had a theory to prove and a public duty to fulfill. You were a lone academic on the brink of a supernatural breakthrough.

This had nothing—nothing—to do with the fact that Rook Hunt had the kind of smile that made your lungs forget how to function, or that he said things like "Ah, your laughter—it rings like wind chimes in spring rain," and then meant it.

You were a serious investigator. You were hunting the hunter.

That's why, when he asked if you'd accompany him to an "exhibition of twilight-themed oil paintings" this Friday, you agreed.

Not because he looked like he belonged in an oil painting.

Not because he bowed slightly when he said "It would be my honor."

But because, scientifically, museums are great places to see if a person casts a reflection in glass.

"Consider this a field study," you muttered to yourself in the bathroom mirror, fixing your hair for the fourth time. "Not a date. A field study."

The "not-dates" kept stacking up after that.

A sunset walk through the botanical gardens ("Ah, the dying light brings out the golden undertones of your soul," he said, and you nearly tripped into a decorative pond).

A late-night jazz café, where he sipped his wine and you absolutely did not spend the entire evening imagining what he'd look like with his hair down and a dagger in his teeth.

A poetry reading. Where the poet stopped mid-verse because Rook was clapping too emotionally.

He always paid. He always pulled your chair out. He always smelled like cedarwood and wind.

He called them dates.

You called it recon.

You brought a tiny hand mirror to dinner once. "Oh this? I just… use it for checking my eyeliner. And your reflection. No reason."

He didn't even blink. "Ah, how clever. But perhaps you'd see more clearly if you looked into my eyes instead?"

You choked on your breadstick.

Every time you tried to interrogate him—"So, what's your opinion on eternal life?" or "Ever wake up craving plasma?"—he'd laugh, then dodge the question with something outrageous like, "Only a fool seeks eternity when each moment with you is already infinite," and you'd have to physically reboot your brain like a crashed laptop.

You were flailing.

You kept trying to stay professional. Collected. Objective.

But it was hard when he looked at you like he was composing a sonnet in real time.

When he held your hand like you were made of porcelain.

When he picked a flower off a tree and tucked it behind your ear without asking and whispered, "Even the moon must envy you, mon chèr."

You were on high alert. Not because you liked him. No.

You were vampire watching.

That's why you kept a notebook titled "Behavioral Observations of Suspected Night Creature." Not because you were doodling little hearts around his name. That was for decoration. To, um, throw off suspicion.

And yes, you did Google "can you date a vampire if it's for science," and yes, you did find three different Reddit threads about people claiming their immortal lovers left bite marks shaped like the Eiffel Tower.

But that was research.

Totally. Entirely. Academic.

And if your heart skipped a little when he kissed the back of your hand and called you his "bravest flame in this dim world"—that was probably just heartburn.

You were on a mission.

You were not falling for him.

You were simply… emotionally compromised by how obscenely attractive his collarbones looked in candlelight.

It could happen to anyone.

Dinner had been amazing. Which was kind of the problem.

You weren't supposed to be this charmed. You were supposed to be investigating. Your whole deal—the entire point of this increasingly suspicious series of encounters—was that you were gathering evidence. You were the lone voice of reason in a world of garlic apologists. You were the slayer. You were—

"You have a beautiful way of smiling when you're trying not to laugh," Rook had said tonight, eyes soft, head tilted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked with your mouth half-full of food and trying to hide it behind your napkin.

And you had smiled wider. Like an idiot. Like a fool. Like someone who was no longer on the hunt but absolutely being hunted.

He had pulled out your chair. Tipped the waiter. Paid the bill while you were in the bathroom. Walked you home under the glow of warm street lamps and murmured poetry under his breath when he thought you couldn't hear. He held your hand when you almost tripped on the curb like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You let him. 

You had, in fact, squeezed his hand back.

What the hell was happening to you.

When you finally got back home and closed the door behind you, still glowing with post-date buzz and clutching the flower he'd picked out of someone's garden "because it matched your joy," you stood in your dark living room and had a single, terrifying realization.

You hadn't looked for a single vampire sign tonight.

You hadn't tried to check his reflection in the restaurant windows.

You hadn't counted how many times he blinked per minute.

You hadn't casually brought up crosses or holy water in conversation.

You hadn't even offered him garlic bread as a passive-aggressive test.

In fact—

Oh god.

You had leaned in. You had laughed. You had flirted back. You had let him compliment your soul's timbre and hadn't even made a joke about bloodlust once.

You had been on a normal date. Like a normal person. With a man you liked. Who may or may not have been literally undead.

You slowly sat down on your couch, holding the flower like it was damning evidence and also maybe your new favorite thing. You stared blankly at the wall for a full minute before whispering, with great horror:

"Oh no. I'm into it."

You, the world's most paranoid supernatural truther, had let your guard down. You weren't even wearing your emergency clove of garlic necklace. You had become everything you swore to destroy.

Worse—you hadn't even noticed.

And now you were spiraling.

Because he was so weird. And so poetic. And so suspiciously strong when lifting heavy objects with no visible strain. And he knew so many historical references and always seemed to know when the moon was full and probably didn't even own a full length mirror, and yet—

He made you feel like you were the center of the universe.

You buried your face in a pillow and screamed for three seconds.

Then you picked up your notebook of vampire observations, stared at it, and quietly flipped it closed.

For now.

Not forever. You were still reasonable. You were still observant.

But maybe… maybe you could let yourself enjoy this.

Maybe, just for tonight, you didn't need to know if he slept in a coffin.

Maybe he was a vampire.

Maybe he wasn't.

But tonight he kissed your knuckles like you were made of starlight and promised to write you a poem, and honestly?

That felt a lot more dangerous.

It started with a cough. A sniffle. A minor ache in your bones that you absolutely ignored, because you were a functioning adult with deadlines and a very real fear of your boss showing up in your nightmares wielding a spreadsheet.

You told yourself it was fine. You were fine. You could survive on four hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, and the sheer force of spite.

By day three, you were half-delirious, wearing two mismatched socks, and attempting to microwave a cold compress while muttering "this'll fix it" like some kind of cursed wizard. You were not, in fact, fine.

And that was when Rook showed up at your door.

Unannounced.

With soup.

"You did not reply to my messages," he said, like that explained how he somehow knew you were dying. "I feared you had succumbed to some terrible affliction of the soul. Or perhaps a particularly villainous flu strain."

You tried to smile and failed. It came out looking like a grimace. "It's not that bad," you croaked, clutching the doorframe for stability like gravity had become an optional setting that you'd accidentally toggled off.

He gave you a look. One of those devastatingly fond ones. The kind that made your insides do cartwheels despite the fever.

"Mon pauvre cœur," he murmured, brushing hair off your forehead with all the delicacy of a man who absolutely did not know what personal space was, "even your aura looks congested."

You were too weak to argue. Too feverish to care. You let him in.

He floated around your apartment like a very helpful, very beautiful hallucination. He made tea. He changed your blanket. He hummed something suspiciously like an 18th century lullaby while rearranging your cluttered living room into a sickbed worthy of a fever-ridden noble, which you had definitely not asked for, but you were too busy dying and blushing to stop him.

And then he brought the soup.

It was… soup. Probably. You couldn't taste it. You could've been drinking warm mop water for all you knew. But he was feeding it to you with this maddening look of gentle amusement, like he was taking care of a wounded dove he'd found by a pond and had already named and written a sonnet about.

He knelt next to you on the couch, one hand holding the bowl, the other carefully tilting the spoon toward your mouth. His voice was low and tender.

"You must eat. Even if only to give your immune system the dramatic support it deserves."

And you—

You just looked at him.

Hair pulled back, those ridiculously green eyes crinkled with worry, coat sleeves rolled and he was feeding you soup and calling you mon cœur and—

Oh.

Oh no.

You were in love with him.

It hit you like a falling anvil. Right in the heart. The full Looney Tunes experience.

You were in love with Rook Hunt.

Weird, dramatic, possibly-a-vampire Rook Hunt.

Who once described your laugh as "a forest waking in spring."

Who carried around obscure herbal tinctures and had once given you a bouquet that included a flower used to curse kings in the 1400s.

And you did not care.

You were flushed from fever and feelings, you looked like a raccoon that had been hit by a truck, you hadn't washed your hair in a shameful number of days, and yet this man was looking at you like you were the embodiment of a love ballad—and for once, you believed it.

Garlic, sunlight, potential bat transformation—none of it mattered anymore.

You'd fallen. Hard. Unrecoverably. Irreparably. Ridiculously.

You swallowed the next spoonful of soup with the gravity of someone accepting their fate, and Rook smiled so warmly it was unfair.

"…Can I ask something?" you mumbled, voice a little hoarse.

"But of course," he said, setting the bowl down gently.

You looked into his eyes. "If I die from this fever… will you write me an epic poem and read it dramatically at my funeral?"

He blinked. And then laughed. Soft and breathless, it felt like sunlight through curtains.

"Mon amour," he said, like that was a thing you both had agreed on, "I would do so even if you were merely five minutes late to brunch."

You sighed. Leaned back. Let yourself fall fully into the pillows and into this moment. Feverish, exhausted, helplessly enamored.

Vampire or not.

You were doomed.

You woke up to warmth. You shifted under your blanket, eyes squinting against the morning light filtering through your curtains, and that was when you noticed it:

Rook was sitting beside you.

Still holding your hand.

You blinked at him, groggy and confused and still crusted in the aftermath of a full immune system breakdown, and the first thing your brain offered up was:

He was warm.

Which, scientifically speaking, meant he wasn't technically a full vampire.

You lay there, fever-free but still dumbstruck, staring at his hand in yours. He wasn't wearing gloves. His palm was pressed to yours like it belonged there, fingers curled so gently it was like he was afraid you'd vanish. And his hand was warm.

Your inner conspiracy theorist made a brief, tired attempt at logic:

"He's warm. That means he probably has a functioning circulatory system. Which means he probably doesn't sleep in a crypt or consume Type O-Negative on toast. Probably. Probably."

But the part of you that still had soup breath and eye gunk and emotions just went, Shut up. He stayed.

Because he did. He had stayed. All night. Sat by your couch with his coat thrown over the chair and a book he never got around to reading and a cup of tea that went cold. And he was still there now, sleep-rumpled and beautiful, watching you like you were more fascinating than the rise and fall of empires.

When he noticed you were awake, he smiled, slow and soft.

"Ah, bonjour, petit trésor," he murmured. "You look slightly less haunted. A triumph."

You made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a dying toad. "How long…?"

"All night," he said, like it wasn't a big deal. "I could not leave while you burned like that. It would be a crime against romance."

You tried to sit up.

Your body politely declined the request.

Rook tsked like a disapproving aunt and pressed you back down with one hand—still gentle, still infuriatingly poetic about everything.

Then he placed the back of his other hand against your forehead, checking your temperature.

"Much improved," he said, beaming. "Your internal sun begins to rise again."

And in that exact moment, with his hand on your face and his eyes glowing like the sunset in a prose-heavy novella, you realized something extremely stupid.

If he leaned down right then, bared fangs, and whispered "May I bite thee, my precious bloom?"—you would have said yes.

You would have said yes so fast.

You would've thrown your neck back and exposed the vulnerable curve of your throat like you were in a Twilight reboot. You absolutely would have gone down in history as the idiot who looked at their maybe-vampire crush and thought, Take a nibble, king, I trust you.

He wasn't even doing anything. Just sitting there. Holding your gross, clammy hand and looking at you like you hung the stars.

And somehow, that was worse. That was so much worse.

You'd completely lost. He could be a vampire. He could be a wizard. He could be a really enthusiastic barista. You did not care.

Because last night, you had been miserable and messy and borderline incoherent, and he had stayed. He made soup. He hummed lullabies. He called you his heart's ember and meant it.

You were in love.

Utterly, helplessly, stupidly in love.

And as Rook gently brushed your hair off your face and offered you a glass of water with all the reverence of a man presenting the Holy Grail, you decided you'd deal with the vampire thing later.

Preferably after he kissed you.

Or after you asked if he was free for dinner again next week.

You know.

For research.

You ended up taking another nap. 

You were floating somewhere between sleep and soup-induced delirium, the kind of half-conscious state where time didn't exist and the laws of physics didn't exist either. Vaguely, you were aware of warmth—sunlight, probably, or maybe just the lingering fever turning your body into a baked potato. But then movement caught your eye. A silhouette crossed your blurry vision, elegant, composed, and way too vertical for this hour.

Rook. He'd stayed again.

Then he did the unthinkable.

He walked to the window.

He reached for the curtain.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

He said, casually, as if it were normal behavior, "You must receive a little sun, mon trésor. Even a flower must bloom."

You made a sound. It was supposed to be words. It came out more like a blender choking on gravel.

Because no.

NO.

You watched his fingers brush the curtain, and something in your barely-functioning brain screamed, "HE'S GOING TO COMBUST."

You didn't even think.

You launched.

With the coordination of a squirrel on Nyquil, you hurled yourself across the couch, staggered upright, and threw your full weight into him just as the sunlight began to stream in. "NO—YOU'LL BURN," you shouted, with the certainty of someone who'd done zero research but had watched two vampire movies once in high school.

The two of you hit the floor in a pile of limbs, your fevered body sprawled dramatically across his chest like you were shielding him from a grenade.

There was a pause.

A long one.

Rook blinked up at you.

Then—like you'd just told him the funniest knock-knock joke in history—he started laughing.

Loudly. Joyfully. Like a man who had just been tackled by his crush and decided it was the best day of his life.

You were still clinging to him like a paranoid marsupial, blinking in confusion. "What? Why are you—? You were in the sun!"

He wheezed. "You thought—mon dieu—you thought the sunlight would incinerate me?"

"Yes???" you said, still on top of him, still wildly unsure about the rules of nature. "You—midnight moving, blackout curtain buying, garlic bread dodging—you showed so many signs!"

He laughed harder. "Oh, mon trésor, I gave you those signs. You were so adorably suspicious."

You froze. "You what."

"I knew from the first moment you side-eyed my coat like it was made of coffin lining," he said, beaming. "You were so serious. So intense. So endearing. I could not help myself—I wanted to see how far you'd go."

You stared down at him, horrified. "You knew I thought you were a vampire and you played into it?!"

"Mais oui," he said cheerfully. "You were like a curious little owl—staring, theorizing, leaving garlic on your balcony. I was enchanted."

You felt your soul attempt to leave your body via cringe teleportation. "Oh my god. I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot raccoon caught with both hands in the garbage bag."

"You're delightful," he corrected. "And very creative."

You groaned and flopped forward until your face was smushed into the side of his neck, which, to your horror, was warm and pulse-having and distinctly not vampire in nature. You could feel your dignity dissolve molecule by molecule.

"So you're human," you muttered.

"Yes," he said, "Entirely human."

You made another noise of despair. It sounded like a dying fax machine. "I tackled you."

"You did. With great passion."

"I thought I was saving your life."

He tried very hard not to laugh again. "You were magnificent."

You sighed into his neck. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

"It's one of the best things that's ever happened to me," he said brightly. "I got tackled by someone who cares. How very romantic."

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"And yet," he said, cupping your cheek with a hand full of laughter, "I did stay all night with you. Even made you soup."

"…You did do that."

"And if I had been a vampire," he added,  "I assure you, you'd be one by now."

You groaned again. And then stayed where you were, because honestly? You were still kind of in love. Vampire or not.

Even if he was the most dramatic man you'd ever accidentally tackled.

You told them over milkshakes.

Because if you were going to admit to wildly misdiagnosing a man as a nocturnal bloodsucker and then also falling stupidly in love with him, it needed to be over something cold and full of sugar. Preferably in public, so they wouldn't scream.

Ace was halfway through slurping his chocolate shake like it owed him money when you said, in your best casual voice, "So… turns out Rook's not a vampire. He's just French."

Deuce blinked slowly. "What?"

"Yes," you sighed. "Like baguette and poetry and politely opens doors French. Not sleeps-in-a-coffin French."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Ace let out the longest, most dramatic groan known to man, dragging his hands down his face like you personally had caused his suffering. "Oh my god, DUDE."

Deuce, meanwhile, turned to Ace and, with the unshakable calm of someone who had been waiting for this moment, said, "Pay up."

"What," You snapped, "you bet on this?!"

"Yeah," Deuce said, deadpan. "I bet you'd fall in love with him. Ace thought you'd just spiral into full conspiracy and get arrested trying to break into his basement."

You squinted. "Rook doesn't have a basement."

Ace gestured wildly. "AND YET YOU WOULD HAVE FOUND ONE."

You groaned and covered your face. "This is the worst."

"No," Ace said. "The worst was you texting us at two in the morning like 'what if he's half vampire and garlic only makes him stronger.'"

"I was being thorough!" you cried.

Deuce helpfully added, "You also asked if vampire sunscreen exists."

"I WAS SICK," you yelled. "ON MEDICATION. MY BRAIN WAS BARELY FUNCTIONING."

"And yet," Ace said, sipping his drink loudly, "you tackled him. You physically tackled a man because he tried to open a curtain."

You made a noise that could only be described as internal combustion.

"Oh," Deuce said suddenly, "by the way—I almost called an actual mold inspector? Like, to check your house? Because your vampire theory was so intense I thought you might be hallucinating from spores."

You gawked at him. "You thought I had mold poisoning and your solution was not telling me and just… calling a guy?!"

Deuce shrugged. "I was trying to help."

Ace pointed at your milkshake. "You don't deserve that."

You flipped him off.

"Anyway," you grumbled, "I love him."

Ace choked on his drink.

Deuce blinked. "Wait. You what?"

You sank lower in your chair, hands over your face. "I said I love him. Okay? Because he took care of me when I was dying and he's warm and nice and has cheekbones like a fantasy novel villain and I'd let him bite me even though I know now he has a working circulatory system."

They both stared.

Then Ace said, "You are so weird."

And Deuce, bless his heart, just patted your shoulder and said, "That's kind of romantic. In a fever-dream, garlic-bread, public-health-incident kind of way."

You sighed into your straw.

Ace, of course, was already texting someone. "I'm telling Rook he better marry you before you accuse him of being a merman next."

You scowled. "That was one time and he was very wet."

"You were following him around with a seashell, bro."

You groaned and started googling "how to fake your own death with dignity."

Somehow, they still paid for your milkshake.

Rook had taken you out to some quaint little garden bistro.

He'd spent the entire evening being charming in that completely effortless way he had—holding the door open like it was an art form, ordering in lilting French, complimenting your laugh like it was a rare wine, and absolutely ruining your ability to think straight.

And you—foolish, once-misguided, now-fully-delirious you—had melted for all of it.

You'd laughed, and blushed, and kicked his foot under the table like someone who hadn't once sincerely believed he was going to transform into a bat mid-conversation.

Now, you stood outside your apartment under the stars, the night cool and still. Rook faced you, hands behind his back like he was either about to recite a sonnet or present you with a rare bird. You were prepared for either. What you were not prepared for was what came next.

"Mon cœur," he said, gently, "would you allow me the honour of calling you my partner?"

Your brain static'd. Just—flatlined.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Stared at him like he'd asked you to solve a riddle in a collapsing building. And then you did the only logical thing your brain could come up with.

You kissed him.

You kissed him like your life depended on it, like you'd never get another chance to make up for all the garlic bread and wild accusations and crime-scene-level suspicion. He made a quiet noise of surprise—pleased, delighted—and kissed you back, one hand moving to cradle your cheek like he was holding something deeply precious.

When he pulled away, he was smiling.

The smile was resplendent. The kind of smile people wrote poems about. The kind of smile that had absolutely no business being that sweet or that bright or that heart-wrenchingly warm.

It didn't matter that he wasn't a vampire.

Because with that smile?

He drove a stake through your heart anyway.

You stood there, dizzy, in love, fully emotionally slain.

He tilted his head, as if waiting for you to say something, but all you could manage was a breathless, "Yeah. Yes. I'd—yeah."

"Ah," he said, eyes twinkling. "Alors, it is official."

He twirled you like a ballroom dancer in the middle of the sidewalk.

You let it happen.

Because honestly? Your first impression may have been unhinged. You may have staged an entire fake investigation and tackled him in broad daylight. But this?

This was it.

He was your person.

Not a vampire. Just tragically French. And unfortunately perfect.

Masterlist

[alby-rei]

Any HC's for how Rook would act around his crush when he realizes he has some major feelings for them and that it isn't a passing infatuation?

—Rook x Crush!reader. no cw/tw. dividers: uzmacchiato.

note: sorry this took so long!! but I hope you like it!!

Rook is still poetic but quieter. Known for his flamboyant and dramatic style, he often waxes poetic about beauty and emotion. However, upon realizing he truly loves someone, he becomes a bit softer. Although he continues to use poetic language, his tone shifts to one of sincerity and reverence—less dramatic flair and more heartfelt connection.

He observes more thoughtfully. Rook has always admired his crush (with their permission or from a respectful distance), but now he watches for different reasons—to understand them. What brings them joy? What comforts them? He memorizes these details like a beloved song.

He feels more nervous than he expected. While Rook is generally confident, real feelings make him vulnerable. When he’s alone with his crush, he sometimes stumbles over his words or bites his lip to avoid saying something too forward. His hands twitch with the desire to do something romantic, but he restrains himself out of respect.

He wants to be chosen, not just admired. Rook’s world revolves around admiration, but when it comes to real love, he doesn’t want to be the only one giving it. He wants to be seen. Quietly, he hopes his crush will one day look at him the way he looks at them. He continues to give without expecting anything in return, but that small hope is always there.

He subtly tones down his flamboyance (at least in front of others). Those around him might notice that he is a little less dramatic around his crush—not due to a loss of interest, but because his feelings have deepened. It’s no longer a performance; it’s personal and intimate. His body language becomes gentler and more respectful, and his voice softens when he speaks to them.

Vil picks up on it immediately. “You’re more dramatic than usual. Don’t tell me you’ve actually fallen in love this time.” Rook gives a rare, honest answer, “Oui, Vil—mon cœur is no longer my own.”

Epel catches him writing their name in cursive in the margins of a notebook and teases him mercilessly. Rook laughs it off, but his ears are red.

He brings meaningful, rather than flashy, gifts. Instead of grand gestures, he chooses small, thoughtful offerings that carry deep significance, like a wildflower that reminded him of their laugh or a handmade charm infused with their favorite scent. He wants them to feel understood, not just admired.

He becomes more considerate in subtle ways: offering a handkerchief before they sneeze, remembering their favorite drink without being asked, standing between them and strong winds.

Rook establishes deep eye contact and shares soft smiles. He holds their gaze a second longer than usual—not teasingly, but lovingly. When they laugh or smile, he silently watches, content. Occasionally, he places a hand over his heart, as if to steady it, and the blush on his cheeks is genuine.

He writes poetry but keeps it to himself for now. His journal fills with pages about them, but he isn’t ready to share it. When the time is right, he’ll offer a page as if it were a piece of his soul—simple and sincere.

He becomes more protective in subtle ways. While he won’t fight their battles, he remains nearby if they need support. He wants to be their steadfast shadow—present, warm, and dependable. He listens, creates space for their emotions, and encourages their growth, cheering them on without demanding the spotlight.

Rook isn’t afraid to bare his heart—but this is different. This time, you’ll see the tiniest tremor in his hands, and the slight unease in his eyes. He’s confident, but so deeply invested in your answer that it shows. “You are no longer a muse I admire from afar. Mon cœur—my heart—it beats with you in mind.”

[alby-rei]

LAST MIDNIGHT. floyd leech

MAKING MOVES, MOVING IN. floyd leech

DEFLOWERED. floyd leech

LAST MIDNIGHT. floyd leech

requested by: anon / cake details: red velvet cake (royalty AU) with buttercream frosting (mutual pining)

Third time's the charm is how the saying goes. If you last through the first and second tries, there is sure to be good fortune on the other side. All you have to do is see it through until you reach the metaphorical pot of gold at the end. However, by all accounts, the third time is not the charm for you. 

The deal is that you only get three nights. Nights full of ecstasy and delight, void of any punishments. Nights where you could live in the shoes of everyone else, nameless and chesired, void of your identity.

Your fairy godmother had raised up her spindly index, middle, and ring fingers. Skin peeling away to reveal jagged bone, she dropped each from right to left as she narrated how your temporary reprieve was secured for three blissful times until the last midnight passed. At the third break of dawn, you would depart from the prince you sought for company or she would collect your soul as punishment for a broken deal.

The first two nights were wondrous!

There are so many experiences that were virgin to you, that he opened up the gates to. The world previously known seems like a drop of rain in an ocean now. With the prince, you feel like you are on another planet entirely; he alters your gravity and messes with your perception in irrefutable ways. His presence is as life-changing as the diagnosis of a deadly disease or the birth of a newborn.

When you are on your deathbed and memories start to fade, sunken and molting into the mattress like fungus, you know that you will be able to perfectly and thoroughly recall these moments with him in your mind.  

Watching Floyd now, your hippocampus stores everything like a camcorder, passive and open. 

He is barefoot, hair askew, a damp white button-up clinging to his back. He is going around the shoreline of the beach to collect stones, expressing unrestrained displeasure or joy at the ones he picks up, cradling them in his palms like a squirrel trying to stuff as much food as possible in his mouth. He is the type of muse that would not be limited to one art medium; there would be sculptures, poems, paintings, and music in memoriam of him.

You can only record him in memory, like a souvenir shelved in your brain. It is impossible to banish the light smile off your features at the mere sight of him. 

“Shrimpy,” he calls, though your attention is already on him. You do not move until he starts to wave. Liking to physical evidence he wants your company. “Come here!” His gesturing causes a few stones to slip out his grasp.

No sand miraculously stains the expensive silk of your outfit. It must be a touch of fairy magic, allowing you to make your way over to the prince without having to worry about any annoying sediment ending up where it shouldn’t be. Just as you come shoulder to shoulder with him, grainy rocks are being guided into your hand.

“Ya ever learn to skip stones?”

“I cannot say I have.”

“After tonight, ya can say it,” Floyd grins.

Here it is — you observe and take a picture of the three stones in your hand, flat and smooth; they remind you of full moons — yet another experience he has the keys to. Before, you knew little of what was beyond the walls of your imprisonment. There is a younger version of you that could never fathom getting to see or smell the ocean. 

The prince nudges your shoulder, wetting the area. Seaweed hair is flopping over his eyes, dripping pins of water over his nose and stretching dimples. Earlier in his hunt, he dove into the briny waves to retrieve some of these stones, submerging and sliding yards away from shore before he emerged victorious, rock raised in the air, shouting his glee as you laughed on the edge of grass and sand at his ridiculousness. 

Skipping stones in hand, you laugh again, “I’ll be positively bragging about it tomorrow!” You have to keep this affair a secret, magic rules and all that, but you can still appease his ego.

“It’ll only be worth braggin’ about if you can beat me,” he challenges just as his left arm comes up in one snapping pitch. Your heart follows along with each bounce it does across the water. It finally sinks into the ocean at a grand twenty-eight. “Though, I don’t kn-ooo-w, I think I got ya beat, Shrimpy.”

Floyd’s fingers enclose around your dominant hand before you can respond. The touch is welcomed easily — after all, for the past two nights you have danced, played instruments together, and walked hand in hand to secret places — thus, you take the backseat, pupils like lens, to watch him maneuver two stones out of your hand so only one remains. 

He instructs you by starting with the position of “Ya thumb goes … here, and ya wanna put your index on the edge like this” and then, hands on your waist guide to move “Then, you wanna stand like this. And, start pullin’ your arm back to prepare to pitch it.” as he guides you into a demonstration of the throw, he adds pressure on your hand to ensure that “when ya let go, snap your wrist forward like that.”

“Like this?” You keep the stone in your hand, only miming your future throwing posture. 

“Like that, Shrimpy,” the prince affirms, beaming with pride.

Straightening up, you tighten your hold on your stone even though you are supposed to have a loose hold or risk messing up the shot. You do not want to disappoint him by being a terrible stone-skipper. Why does even the miniscule seem so important in his presence? 

It’s probably because he’s staring at you. 

His eyes are incredibly soft. He is giving you the kind of look that could translate to I’m happy to share this moment with ya. Though you told yourself you were going to absorb everything tonight, document it in your hippocampus down to the last color, you find it hard to raise your gaze and meet his burning stare.

So, you release the stone. It skips twice before drowning on the third. Plu-nk! 

“Damn, I thought I could,” you mumble off, jaded. You were expecting a better outcome.

“Hey, you skipped it,” the prince cheers with enthusiasm, smothering out your negativity. “I didn’t skip mine on my first try.”

“Really?” You find that hard to believe; he seems like a natural at everything he’s shown you, talent in his bone marrow.

“Really. Threw ‘em too hard each time. Got really frustrated and didn’t pick the habit back up ‘till I felt like it.”

Before you were temporarily released from your imprisonment, you had heard about the twin brothers. Heard about the left-handed prince with the attitude like a cloud, causing storms one minute or simply harmless fluff the next. He is volatile. Likely to change for the worse if circumstances bore or vex him. 

“Do you get bored easily?” 

You imagine he does, traveling through life on whims, never content.

“Nah,” he disagrees blatantly with your assumption. He skips one of his own stones, left hand as confident as ever. “I just get bored when I get bored.” 

With each jump across the waves, your heart beats rapidly. 

It isn’t such a sentimental sentence. Hell, he is outright disagreeing with you. But his words still plant a seed of appreciation for the time you two have spent tonight. No ties of obligation keep him with you; no sudden kinks have caused him to deviate from your side. It causes your eyes to slide to the sand, face burning with no sun to blame it on. 

You have to calm your skipping heart.

Later in the night, you are climbing back up to the edge where sand and grass intersect to head back to the castle with the souvenir conch shell Floyd has given you when he pipes up next to you, “Will I see you again tomorrow night?”

Neck snapping up, you look at him in muted surprise. Eyes wide and shiny. Smile slow to emerge but certainly emerging.

You really are so captivating. It’s why he’s been staring all night. Focused on you like an artist mapping out his still life sketch. 

He’s been thinking about getting commissions from those court painters to capture your likeness. Apprehensive at the possibility that you might just vanish into the dawn one of these nights, he’s been debating it seriously. Scared at the notion of never getting to get to see your face again. He can barely sit through the things – always shuffling his feet, biting different areas in his inner mouth, jittery all over – as they put paint to canvas. 

On a sympathetic level, he doesn’t want to put you through that. On a selfish level, he wants a museum, wall to wall, of portraits depicting you, the stranger he’s been lucky enough to see three nights in a row. 

Third time’s the charm, right?

Time has slipped between Floyd’s fingers like sand. He has been simply having too much time and forgot to mention earlier how he wants to return the exchange, to enter your world. 

The palace is s-ooo-o boring! But, it has been altered by your presence. Floyd has been a soaked match, unable to burn, until you came along. He is positive that your world, beyond his imprisonment, is just as captivating as you are. You are the key to his gates. 

God, you really are so beautiful.

But when you smile?

It could rival even the rising sun.

Floyd watches with a smile on his face —- awaiting your answer, as orange bleeds out onto the water and dawn starts to rise over the horizon — the light in your eyes dim before you collapse in a heap.

MAKING MOVES, MOVING IN. floyd leech

requested by: @clowning-constant / cake details: marble cake (NRC) with buttercream frosting (mutual pining) and sprinkles (specific to requester)

“Hey Sealie,” Floyd says, tone light but not entirely friendly.

He’s not exactly thrilled to see the little fur ball, but it’s not too bad to see him either. His presence implies the fact that you could be nearby. That knocks him just a little bit out of his funk.

The basketball ricochets off the backboard, not even close to the hoop.

Hm, not enough to knock him out of his funk completely.

“What’s up with ya,” he prompts, reaching out sideways to scoop back up his ball. The little dire beast is an interloper on Floyd’s Alone Time after he skipped out on his afternoon classes, so it better be worth his time.

Grim has been searching for the eel-mer for the whole day. Sevens, it shouldn't be so difficult to find someone so tall! Hunger pangs are gnawing on his stomach — he just ate maybe an hour ago — so excuse him if his next words,

“My Henchman wants ya to come live at Ramshackle with us!”,

don’t come out so elegant.

The basketball thuds against the backboard so hard that it looks and sounds like the plexiglass is going to break just down the center. It is also another shot missed.

“Na-aaa-ah.”

Any other time, Floyd would be tickled pink and about to burst into sea foam. 

He’s a bit too rough around the edges, all thuggish and gangster-esque, but he metaphorically kicks his feet like a schoolgirl at the mere mention of you. A grin wide enough to split his face would be emerging at the idea, him hosted up in Ramshackle with his Shrimpy; even if Grim’s words aren’t true, he would tease you to an early grave with the notion.

Instead, he reaches out his leftie, scoops up his bouncing basketball one handed, and dribbles it in front of him.

“Thanks for the offer, though.” 

Bang! Everything but net.

“Wha!”

It’s not what Grim is expecting at all.

Because, Floyd is always hanging around Ramshackle. Where it once started out as Malleus Draconia’s hole in the wall, the second years becoming third years and the graduation of the third years led to this natural transition of loitering and, quite honestly, trespassing to transpire!

Grim starts listing his very persuasive reasoning:

“Ya already have a toothbrush there!” Not that special, so do Deuce and Ace.

 “And, you’re over for dinner every other night.” Only because someone eats without limits unless there’s a big eel-mer blocking the fridge door.

“It would make everything so much easier if ya just moved your stuff into a spare room.” It would also lessen up the chores on Grim’s end. “Then, finally, my Henchman would stop talking about you so much!”

The shot that Floyd was lining up suddenly, hands held out, moving the basketball left and right to find the correct flight path, is suddenly realigned; all his attention arrows down to Grim.

“Shrimpy talks ‘bout me?”

Inside Floyd, a switch has been flicked. Grim can tell, animal instincts prickling his skin. It is especially evident with the way Floyd’s eyes shift, pupils dilating and the rings of yellow and olive shining like plugged in Christmas lights.

Grim is scrabbling to backpedal, weighing who’s going to fry his tail more — you or the immediate threat. “Well, they, um, they just talk. They talk about Ace and Deuce all the time. They complain about the Headmage. They name drop. They talk in general, so! Eek!”

The hard maple floor of the court ripples with the effect of Floyd’s bounce, deliberately aimed at Grim’s feet. With his height, it’s like an earthquake to the dire beast.

It resets him though, stops his yammering, s-ooo-o. 

“What kinda things,” Floyd drawls, all peachy-keen now.  That glowing yellow eye is like a sun flare.

“Well, just, uuum, just,” Grim’s stuck between keeping his Henchman’s secrets and keeping his head.

“If ya tell me, I’ll pack my stuff tonight.”

Which equals no more chores for Grim.

“They like how sweaty you get after basketball.”

Not exactly the most charming thing to be taken away from lengthy, lengthy talks but it’s the first thing that comes to his mind.

Floyd pauses like a buffering DVD, ball still in his hands. Not perturbed by the information in the slightest; he likes when you’re sweaty too, always playing tug-of-war with animal pleasure and human decency to not take a giant, sweeping lick from your clavicle, across your neck, and end at your ear. You doing P.E. is just as charming as you doing anything else.

“Reall-y, what a weirdo,” but his dumb grin says otherwise, “they’re always so squirmy ‘bout it,” he’s been punched enough in the ribs to know to stop draping himself over you when a game or practice is finished but now?, “Got anythin’ else?”

“Myah, I don’t know!”

Grim’s ready to turn tail. If you find out about just that one sentence being said, he’ll be doing dishes for months until his paws wash right off.

Floyd smells the hesitation in the water.

“C’mon, don’t leave me high and dry. Ya want me to move in right? Gonna need some motivation to help me start putting all my shoes in a suitcase.”

Well, now Grim’s not so sure about the whole moving in part. Floyd can definitely reach high up places for dusting, but he’s also Floyd Leech.

“Ya know, I think we’re too crowded in Ramshackle. Plus, all the ghosts haven’t been told about this yet. Squatter’s rights, and ummm… I’ll go debrief with them then I’ll come back to- y-ouch!!”

Held between Floyd’s hand is Grim’s trident-shaped tail. Crouched down to his height, the brute rests the basketball under his knee so it doesn’t roll away. He smiles a smile that is too toothy.

“Don’t ice me out, Sealie, c’mon. I just wanna hear what Shrimpy's gotta say. How about this, for everything you tell me, I’ll buy ya a jar of tuna.”

Floyd doesn’t fish — a little too existential for his taste — but he knows when he’s got them hook-line-sinker.

Grim shuffles on his hind legs but it is already clear by his pursed lips that he’s gonna spill some more stuff. 

Floyd listens, rapted, as both the double doors and Grim’s mouth open.

“My Henchman thinks you look real sexy when your cleavage is showing in your uniform!”

In such an empty gymnasium, the sound travels well.

“Grim!!”

“Shrimpy!” Floyd greets you jovially, letting go of your cat’s tail and standing up. He’s pleased as punch, ready for the entertainment of a lifetime.

His hand coming up to unbutton his third button is inconspicuous.

DEFLOWERED. floyd leech 

requested by: anon / cake details: red velvet cake (royalty AU) with edible flowers (fluff) and citrus glaze (smut)

It all starts with him insulting your father. 

A bizarre thing. 

However, you cannot help that it has you biting down on your index, lungs quivering with concealed laughter as deeper and deeper, this fearless jester twists the knife of comedy into your father’s stomach. Insults about his latest failed crusade, jabs directed toward his growing weight, and well-timed criticism about his inability to rule a kingdom. One joke has you contorting in your seat, throwing an arm over your face and squeezing tight into your chair with bouncing shoulders and quivering legs. He leaves you gasping for mercy, stop! stop! hehe!, as your grin spreads ear to ear. 

He is perhaps the only man in the world who can achieve such a feat. Gasping for mercy that is.

For your own pride, you would like to say you do not how this situation came to be. You would pledge to the court that your jester is a disguised fae, seducing you with witchcraft and making you do unholy things. Usually, there is more sense in your head; Floyd happens to suck it all up with a straw, a vicious butterfly on top of a delicate flower.

Sex in the botanical gardens? Surely, you should know better. There are only so many flowers to cover the scent, only so many plants to cover the sight, and nothing to cover the sound as you gasp wantonly.

“Fuh-Floyd! Ah – augh. Fuh-Fl–!” When you throw your head back, it bounces off the gazebo’s floor. Tears prick like thorns in your eyes. “Ehhh–Enough. I … eugggh.”

“One more. One more.” Floyd encourages, looming over your body. He kneels between your thighs, straddling around the right thigh while the other shakes and seizes over his left thigh. Relentlessly, without a shred of any mercy, he pumps himself into you.

You cannot see it given the ruffles of silk and taffeta that flow from your waist. Your tailor would be double-over from a heart attack if he knew you allowed his masterpiece, designed specifically for today's upcoming tea party, had been shoved aside by Floyd’s hands like those intricate laces were nothing more than lousy wrapping paper to get to the valuable present underneath. 

You had told Floyd, pulling the hair underneath his monk cowl like horse reins to get him to pay attention, to be careful but you think you heard a tear all the same. The absolute brute.

However, his brutish attributes are usually what calls you back to him. It is certainly brutish now. The girth of his cock oscillates back and forth like a wild pendulum, pulling himself back only to return with added vigor in each thrust. His pressure suffocates you like he is atmospheric. He is the air you need to breathe in a way. 

To be drowned in him is an eudaimonia summit that you can only reach with his help.

As if reading your mind, Floyd bends down closer to you. Balls slapping hard against your leaking pussy, sending juices ricocheting into a messy puddle around your combined sex, he leans down to get a better look at your face.

With the way you two are positioned, there has mostly been constant eye-contact between the two of you. You love his face. This is the hardest part of being in love and needing him like oxygen. When his nose crunches as he laughs, when his eyes gleam as he looks, even the miniscule flop of his tongue as he talks and talks, it makes everyone else seem ugly.

His handsome face leans down to grin at you; you choke out a loud, bashless moan. On the gazebo floor, you press your check down hard, jaw hanging open involuntarily and eyes squeezed tight as his cock gives a particular hard punch to just the very gated edges of your cervix.

To be under his gold eye feels like being burnt by a sunbeam.

Floyd plants a tiny garden of kisses on your face, moving from forehead to cheek to ear to chin to nose to lip. Mouth already limp, he meets no resistance when he sticks his tongue into the embrace. You try to kiss back as well as you can with your soul being fucked from your body.

He is so greedy. Knowing exactly which way to slip past your defenses with a correctly timed joke, he managed to go from simply his knuckles up inside, from his tongue lapping up the first orgasm, to have you contorted beneath him, trying not to burn out from your third.

Hummingbird heart going wild in your chest, you lift your head up to engage deeper into that kiss. Sliding and mashing tongues together as your genitals do the same in a much more lubricant setting. Sevens, you feel like a swamp down there, drenched enough by bodily sweat all over but rivers soaked on your inner thighs. 

Floyd adjusts your position, slowing down his thrusts, resting your spine on the gazebo and sliding back in missionary. Air breezes underneath the skirt of your dress. He leans up to his full height as he guides your legs around his waist. 

He’s making these hisses with teeth between his grunts. His stomach clenches with each strained effort to keep in his noises. He’s usually so loud?

“Buh-Bite your index finger.”

You don’t even get to move your hands, the right one curled into your chest and the left one limp above your head, before he plows into you like a drill. 

Phap, Phap, Phap, PhapPhapPhapPhapPhapPhap —!!!

Your legs literally shake like they’re trying to come off, rattling bones going crazy. Eyes saucer wide, you go noiseless, mouth open in an O. It’s a telltale that you’re going to start grunting like a pig, moans spilling out an involuntary volume as your orgasm hits the top and crests downward.

He falls into you in a millisecond, chest to chest, orgasm starting to arrive at the top, one white droplet leaking out before the flood, and kisses you as hard as he can. 

It’s more like jamming his lips against your teeth and cracking his skull against your skull, but it is over-washed by the warmth of him spilling into you, deep and fast. Before you can start, Floyd bites your lips together quite unceremoniously and breathes hard through his nostrils. Euphoria hits you both, his cum squirting and your hole milking. Still, the both of you are silent beyond heavy, thunderous breaths.

His hips do phantom thrusts, weak ones that are lingering sensations, as you flutter around him like a suckling mouth. Fuuuck. You feel like buoyant jelly, limp and warm, both of your hips rolling lazily and slower into each other with passing moments.

“Did you hear that?”

“I think it came from this direction.”

“It better not have. We have to set up the chairs in the gazebo for the tea party.”

Whatever ease those three orgasms did, those voices undo them in an instance. Your head snaps towards Floyd, who pulled back on his elbows to rest his face in the lifted cleavage from your bodice. You feel his smile against the top of your breasts instead of seeing it, watching his rise and fall with each volcanic punch of your oxygen-deprived lungs.

To be his is a daily struggle.

[alby-rei]

When I first got into twst, I didn't think I would love rook ;;

[alby-rei]

[alby-rei]

No groovy art for eternity float Rook? Fine ill do it myself

[alby-rei]

[alby-rei]

Book 7 pomfiore arc art dump :p

I know the scarabia arc already came out but shh…

[alby-rei]

Floyd Leech: You Make Me So Happy

Please note that this is a repost from my previous blog (that no longer exists!)

This was originally posted March 6th, 2024 ♡

Enjoy! ☘︎

It was never boring, being with Floyd. He was unpredictable, spontaneous, brightening up your life in ways you never knew possible. Each day brought something new, depending on his mood. The mornings where he refused to let you leave, whining and squeezing you tight, preventing you from getting out of bed. If you managed to escape his hold, he’d find you, complaining as he wraps his arms around you.

You could be in the kitchen making breakfast when Floyd comes in, sleepy and annoyed. He’d approach you, complaining how you were gone as he holds you from behind, practically laying on you. As you cooked he would attempt to drag you back to bed, telling you it was too early and that you could have breakfast later. He would change his tune once you were done, the smell hitting him as he realized how hungry he was.

The days where he didn’t want to work, dismissing the idea and saying he didn’t feel like it. You would have to bribe him to get him to go, giving him a sweet kiss and promising him more when his shift ended. He would happily agree, wanting a few more kisses before taking off. Though, that’s not to say he would work his whole shift, startling you as he bursts back through the door an hour or two later. He had different excuses each time, like work being too boring or having missed you.

Azul would call you once he realized Floyd had left, asking if you knew where he was. He would hear him in the background, demanding he come back to the lounge. Floyd would tell him no, saying he didn’t wanna work, adamant about his decision. Azul would sigh in frustration, knowing there was no point in trying to convince him, apologizing to you before hanging up the phone. Floyd would then ask about the kisses you promised him earlier, looking at you expectantly.

Or the nights when you would surprise him, stopping by the lounge while he was working. The way his eyes would light up when he noticed you, shouting the nickname he gave you in delight. He would disregard what he was doing, ignoring the cries of protest from the customers he was serving as he headed your way. He was so happy to see you, his mood skyrocketing as he pulled you in for a hug. Jade would watch you both fondly, telling Floyd he would serve you and mentioning he had people waiting, gesturing towards the tray he abandoned at your entrance. He would grumble, reluctantly letting you go as he listened to Jade, heading back to work. Jade would lead you to a table, taking your order before leaving to get your drink.

You watched Floyd as he worked, your eyes meeting throughout the night. He would put his hand out whenever he passed your table, holding a piece of your hair or poking your cheek, unable to resist the urge to touch you. You would even find yourself with a dessert you hadn’t ordered, Jade giving you a wink and holding a finger to his mouth as he nodded towards Floyd, silently letting you know it was from him. You would stay until closing, waiting for him to clock out before heading home together.

One thing people didn’t realize was how perceptive he was, able to read any change in your mood and unafraid to point it out. He would go quiet, staring at you for a moment before asking what was wrong, noticing you were upset about something. He wouldn’t accept any excuse you gave him, wanting to know exactly what it was that upset you, wondering if he needed to squeeze someone. If it was comfort you needed he would be happy to provide it, holding you in his arms gently. Moments like these were rare, but more common than some may think, soft and quiet and intimate. He knew you just as well as you knew him, complimenting each other despite any differences you had. No one else could compare to him in your eyes.

You were dressed in nice clothes, fancier than what you’d normally wear, on your way to the lounge. You were invited to a big event Azul was having, celebrating the anniversary of the Mostro Lounge opening. The lounge was fully decorated, part of the dining room cleared to create a makeshift dance floor, a band playing in the corner. Azul was dressed in his nicest suit, mingling with the crowd as Jade and Floyd carried trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres, offering them to guests. Jade noticed you first, getting Floyd’s attention and gesturing towards your direction. He did a double take upon seeing you, smile growing as he gave you a once over, loving how you looked.

He made his way over to you, giving you compliments as he continued staring at your outfit, saying you should wear it more often. He noticed others were staring too, giving them a look as he emphasizes that you should wear it more often for him, moving to stand closer to you. As much as he wanted to hold you he couldn’t, his hands full at the moment. You noticed he was starting to get upset, moving to lean against him so his mood wouldn’t worsen. He seemed satisfied with that, your sides pressed against each other’s as you stood there. You took a drink from the tray he was carrying, talking with him as you looked around the room, watching the crowd. You looked towards the dance floor, surprised to see how empty it was.

He noticed where you were looking right as the band switched songs, playing something more jazzy and fast paced now. It seemed to be a song he was familiar with, his eyes lighting up in recognition as he quickly handed the trays he was holding to an employee passing by, spilling some of the drinks in his haste. He turned to you, saying “C'mon, let’s dance!”, grabbing your hand and dragging you onto the dance floor with him. He wasn’t doing any dance in particular, instead feeling the music and moving his body with the beat. You laughed as he pulled you around, his enthusiasm contagious as he would spin you and dip you throughout the song. In the middle of your dance you stared into his eyes, sounding a bit out of breath as you told him, “You make me so happy, Floyd” in between laughs.

His face lights up at your words, unable to resist wrapping his arms around you, squeezing you close. He would be leaning down holding you, your faces touching as he nuzzles your cheek, laughing.

“Awww, I make *Nickname* happy? You make me happy too! So happy, I never wanna let you go~ Hee hee” ♡

Thank You! ♡

[alby-rei]

Malleus is great at Spelldrive. Fantastic even! So when he invited you, his Baby Sibling to watch one of his matches against Savanaclaw…

He was not expecting you to be rooting for the other team.

“KICK HIS ASS KINGSCHOLAR!” You shout from the benches, decked out in… Savanaclaw dorm merch??? Where did you get that?????

Leona glanced over at you and rolled his eyes, but there was no annoyance in it. In fact, he looked smug as hell over the fact you kept cheering for him instead of the lizard.

Malleus was ready to wipe his smirk clean off his face. Maybe if he showed off a bit, you would cheer for him.

Oh how wrong he was.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! RUGGIE GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS!”

Ruggie wasn’t even insulted, he only laughed at the entertainment you were presenting him and the team. The whole Savanaclaw Spelldrive team were also finding amusement in the whole ordeal too. But there was an issue…

Malleus was becoming more aggressive with his moves.

Every goal he made, every maneuver he made was with purpose. That purpose?

To get your approval.

Leona would usually be getting annoyed or angry by the fact that his team was about to be beat by Malleus. But instead he also found amusement over the fact that he would get all butt hurt over his Dear Baby Sibling supporting a different team.

And he found an opening.

Just when Malleus was distracted by trying to impress you, Leona skillfully gets the disc in the goal.

“YAAAASSSSS!” You fist bump the air, screaming at the top of your lungs.

This went on for two hours.

Once the match ended (it was a tie) Leona flew over to you on his broom. He raised a brow as he looked at the poor outfit you picked out to support his Dorm. “I fully support this, but I am curious… why suddenly cheer for our team? You just upset your Dear Big Brother.”

You cross your arms and let out a huff. “Horton needs to be taken down a few pegs.” Leona gives you a look. “… also he pissed me off.”

“Elaborate.”

“He ate the pint of ice cream I was saving for myself!”

You could hear Ruggie wheezing in the background from overhearing that. Leona’s shoulder shake a bit and he tries to contain his own laughter.

Meanwhile just across the field, Malleus was currently pressing his forehead against the Spelldrive goalie. Lilia snickers as he watches the young fae try to find an answer on why his own dear baby sibling would root for the other team!

Malleus was sulking like this for the next 30 minutes. You had to go down and get him.

“You didn’t support me…”

“Are you really going to continue being butt hurt over this?” You cross your arms as you stared at him.

Malleus just pouts as he finally lifts his head away from the goalie post. He looks over at you, his pout clearly written all over his face. You couldn’t help but snort.

“You laugh at my pain?”

“Hey, you did this. If you hadn’t eaten my ice cream I wouldn’t be supporting Leona and his team.”

Malleus pauses as he looks down at you. “You supported someone else because I upset you?”

You shrugged, “Call it me being petty.”

Malleus couldn’t help but let out a chuckle as he ruffles your hair. You let out a groan from the action.

“I promise to never do such a thing again to upset you.”

“You better! I spent so much just for that small pint! If it was Grim, I maybe would have forgiven him. But you! You know better!”

“I’ll buy you a new one. I’ll buy you as many pints of ice cream as you like.”

The Spelldrive game today ended in a tie, but Malleus felt like the winner knowing that his Dear Baby Sibling wasn’t upset with him.

Two weeks later, Malleus and his dorm went against Heartslabyul…

You were decked out in Heartslabyul merch, and Malleus had to figure out what he did this time to upset you.

[alby-rei]

Free to use. Please credit (see rules). Please reblog if used/saved. If you like what I do, maybe buy me a coffee.

[alby-rei]

Soooo my ducklings, I am beginning to work through my drafts so that hopefully I’ll be opening my requests again ^^ It’s gonna take me a while, and I’m so so sorry that it’s taken me so long >2< I can’t thank you enough for sticking by me during my hiatus and slower upload schedule - You are awesome <3

- JJ x

~~~~~~~~~~

Leonardo Da Vinci:

Leonardo will need a little time to get used to the constant affection but, he’ll learn to love it as much as MC does. 

He’ll be firm with his boundary of needing some space and time to himself but whenever he can, he’ll make sure to be with his girlfriend and make sure she knows exactly how he feels about her.

Leo is an excellent cuddler: He’s big and warm and his hugs always make his lover feel protected and safe. His embrace is especially welcome on cold winter days where snow coats the gardens with a blanket of frost, and always a little tighter on days where you’re feeling especially tired or grumpy.

Leonardo is a sleepy, sleepy man but that makes him an amazing cuddler. When he feels MC’s presence enter the room, he’ll simply open his arms where he lays in bed - not even blinking an eye open - and usher her against his broad, warm chest. 

Arthur Conan Doyle:

He absolutely adores the attention, honestly he cannot get enough of his darling little bird and he cannot bring himself to say no to a good cuddle whenever MC needs it.

Arthur is a very hands-on lover so to have that energy reciprocated by MC? That’s paradise to him.

Arthur is a very fidgety cuddler, he’ll need to change positions a lot, his hands will wander both innocently and not-so innocently from time to time.

Morning cuddles are a must with Arthur. He normally goes to bed far after MC does so, he’ll always relish lazy mornings in with her, carding his deft fingers through their messy hair and nuzzling his face comfortably into the crook of his beloved’s neck.

William Shakespeare:

Will finds the idea of being with someone 24/7 a little daunting - its not that he doesn’t want to spend time with his girlfriend whenever he has the chance, not at all, he just needs space to himself sometimes. 

However, he is extremely grateful to her for making him so feel loved and secure; he never had to ask how she feels about him because she always makes it clear that she is absolutely smitten with him.

Shakespeare is an anxious cuddler. When you first snuggle up to each other, he’ll be a little stiff and awkward but once he’s warmed up, his main objective is to just be as close as possible.

Puck will often join the cuddles too! 

[alby-rei]

Happy Birthday, Leonardo 🩷🩷🩷

Time to showcase my itabag and handmade fan!

With mini Leonardo 😆😆😆

[alby-rei]

i hope you stay the way you are

twst second years and their favorite part of your body ft. riddle rosehearts, ruggie bucchi, azul ashengrotto, jade leech, floyd leech, jamil viper

notes: fluff, gn reader, little suggestive in jade and jamil's, floyd being floyd, title from the cutest song ever <3

༄ riddle rosehearts: brain

✣ ridiculous as it might seem, riddle is being honest when he confesses this to you. that’s not to say he only values your intellect but rather he’s heavily interested in your mindset and approach to various situations. he always looks forward to the moment you two can sit in peace, talking about everything and nothing at the same time. he loves to ask you a variety of hypothetical questions and ponder what the answers mean, what they say about you as a person. he’d never admit it, but the residents of heartslabyul have seen him on more than one occasion brainstorming topics to discuss just because he loves to see your viewpoint on things. maybe it’s odd to some, but the sheer amount that he invests into your opinions is an act of love itself.

༄ ruggie bucchi: stomach

✣ unconventional to the average person for sure. when it comes to ruggie, he values keeping you well-fed and satisfied since it was a luxury going to bed full when he was a child. he also has a penchant for plopping his head down on your tummy for a quick mid-day nap before rushing out to run more errands. his ears twitch and tickle your skin which makes you unable to hold back a few giggles in response, making him smile without realizing it. something unusual he also likes to do is grab a sharpie when the two of you are in bed and draw all sorts of nonsense on your stomach as if it’s his own personal canvas. you have pictures of every “ruggie original work” and you both get a kick out of the half-coherent drawing he does when he’s on the verge of passing out.

༄ azul ashengrotto: voice

✣ maybe a little too on the nose, but he doesn’t plan on stealing something that he benefits from being in your possession. you’re often seen in azul’s office, walking around the lounge by his side, blabbing to him at lunch, to the point where some people assume you’re some sort of shady accomplice like tweels. in reality, azul just always needs to hear you talk. he essentially uses you like youtube video background noise. if you sing for him, even better. it doesn’t matter exactly what you’re talking about just as long as he can hear your voice. he might seem distracted and disinterested, but the moment you trail off and grow quiet he’ll look up at you and ask you to continue. his favorite time of day is when you softly talk him to sleep, because hearing you means his dreams are filled with thoughts and fantasies of you as well.

༄ jade leech: hands

✣ considering this is someone who has his hands covered more often than not, it seems a bit ironic that he’s always found holding and toying with yours. technically jade enjoys every part of your body that’s different to his merform, but he particularly enjoys those cute non-webbed fingers of yours. you’ll be in casual conversation when he picks up your hand and starts poking and bending to his desire. alongside that, he likes putting your fingers in his mouth and pretending like he’s going to chomp them off, amused by the way you stiffen in concern. jade is quite shameless as well, which you unfortunately realize when he asks you out loud to wrap your pretty hands around his neck and squeeze as hard as you can. for scientific purposes, of course. 

༄ floyd leech: legs 

✣ the biggest freak on this side of twisted wonderland, floyd outright says he likes your legs the most because he loves to watch you run away from him while he chases you down. he was a fan of this long before the two of you were dating so you just shudder at the memory while he laughs at how adorable you are. legs are the most novel thing humans have to the merfolk so it’s pretty obvious that’s the subconscious reason behind his fascination. floyd’s favorite game is taking you to a lake or something similar and watching you kick your legs in the water while he lurks beneath the surface. it’s a 50/50 chance between him nuzzling them like a dog or tugging you in with him. he also likes to bite the soft skin of your thighs (he names the bite marks he gives you), or he’ll push your legs into odd positions so he can see how they move. he’ll ignore your complaints that he has legs too and he can look at it himself, because it’s so much more fun to see your expressions when he’s playing with you. 

༄ jamil viper: lips

✣ an entire existence defined by subservience, jamil finds it hard to actively voice his desires. his relationship with kalim is still recovering and he feels as if he has no genuine outlets to express his feelings even though you’ve told him otherwise multiple times. instead, he opts to kiss you in the quiet moments between his hectic lifestyle. secluded corners become your favorite meeting place as his lips touch yours and he can feel the built up resentment leave him from that one action. your lips are what connect him to you in the most intimate way possible, they’re what praise him for his wits or talents, what come to his defense when kalim is being just a bit too unreasonable with his asks. there’s a chance he’ll clam up if you comment on how he seems to grow insatiable the moment you two are alone ; but sometimes when his social etiquette tank has run dry, he clicks his teeth and says “so?” before showing you exactly how needy he can get.

[alby-rei]

Entanglement Octavinelle Dorm Character Song https://youtu.be/BdUXlNT9Fl4?si=Ecs0uxgjwZO74JWx This song??? A masterpiece. On repeat forever. No skips. No peace.

Sway now — your lonely heart spins left, then right, What do those trembling eyes reflect tonight?

Sway now — your flickering heart drifts left, then right, Eyes shut tight, chasing a phantom in the night.

Didn't I tell you? It's all up to you, foolish as you are.

[alby-rei]

I don't know if the rumors about tumblr losing a bunch of staff is true, and if its further true that it means this site could shut down in the near future (no one but tumblr themselves really knows for sure, and they suck ass at communicating anything)

But it's a nice, general reminder to back up your work. Legitimately. This week I am likely going to slowly qork on posting my 'drabble' posts onto ao3 in some fashion.

As a reminder, I'm 'Scummy' under ao3. I also have a bsky under 'scummywrites', and a dead twitter under 'scummy_writes'. For general contact, I do also have discord, and also a small ikemen server.

[alby-rei]

writing is so fun