#1.9k

[shouyuus]

very 18+, vi-shaped, modern underground fighter!au tw: in which vi uses a vibrating strap d1ldo and also fucks ur throat

popular underground fighter vi! x reader in which vi "soft launches" your relationship with this photo posted on instagram with clear red nail marks down her back and just the caption "post fight ritual 💋" and it's obvious that her knuckles are still bruised, but someone else made those marks on her back and they're definitely not from any fight she's ever been in.

and it's not like she's a stranger to people thirsting over her posts -- she kinda knows she's hot. or at least, she's been told enough times to know it empirically, but it still stuns her a little when she catches you staring, or when she sees the way your pupils literally dilate in her presence; it's not something that she grew up hearing, always being told that she's too tomboy or that she's not feminine enough, even though her own family never cared, and they've always supported her no matter how she wanted to dress or what she wanted to do.

you, though. she doesn't know how she got so lucky with you.

she might call it a chance meeting, but later on, you'd admit that you'd had your eye on her for weeks, thought she was so, so pretty, even with all her black eyeliner and her choppily cut hair (she does it herself; oh, you could tell? why? what gave it away? the weirdly uneven buzz or the fact that she totally missed a patch at the back of her head?), and you'd put yourself squarely in the line of her sight and hoped (prayed, really) that she'd notice you.

and notice you she did.

wearing that pretty little sundress of yours, leaning up against the bar of her favorite lesbian haunt, the one she goes to nine times outta ten after her fights, the adrenaline's still high, eating through her veins, the tattoo of her pulse pressing against her ribcage.

she'd pushed off the far wall and caged you in against the dark wood of the bar, turning her charm up to eleven and hoping against hope that she wasn't just imagining things when she saw your gaze run up and down the length of her body (she wasn't).

"hey pretty. thought you might wanna take a closer look."

you'd grinned then, caught someplace between bashful and triumphant.

"but... it's so dark and so... loud," you say, letting your hand linger on her shoulder even as you put up the very convincing front of uncertainty, the blatant tease of your words the only thing cueing her off that you were picking up what she was putting down.

"yeah? then... wanna go somewhere quiet where you can... take a better look in peace?"

vi's apartment, despite all the winnings from her fights, was a modest place, a small studio in the heart of the city, though the floor the ceiling windows are really what caught your eye that first time she brought you over.

that, and the giant mirror that covered the length of an entire wall opposite the windows.

"so i can check my form," vi says when you ask, running a tall glass under the tap water, holding it out to you afterwards.

and she'd be lying if she said she hadn't been expecting a hookup. and honestly, so had you. but somehow, the pair of you had just ended up curled on the couch, sitting face to face, sharing stories and laughing. the next you looked up, the pink of dawn was teasing across the far skyline and vi was frowning at the dying phone in her hand, her eyebrows hitched.

"holy shit... it's 6am."

you bury your face in the cushions of the couch, your hands still wrapped around a half-empty cup of spiked apple cider (a bottle of martinelli's at the back of her fridge, along with a half-empty thing of grey goose she'd found, tugging the cap out with her teeth), feeling the tiredness drag at your eyelids.

"oops... sorry," you grin sheepishly at her, "usually, when i keep people up all night, it's not like this."

vi laughs at your tired little innuendo, but her eyes soften when she catches you watching her. and for some stupid, unfathomable reason, she feels her cheeks heating up.

"yeah peaches. i figured. but... i don't mind being kept up like this."

your brows furrow even as a grin threatens your lips as she nudges you with her hand. you shift back, making room for her as she sits down in front of you, close enough for you to feel the heat rolling off her skin.

beyond the windows, a brilliant sunrise is peering out over the city, and the sharp, shard-drawn light of it pierces vi's studio as she reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, her thumb and forefinger trailing the line of your cheek till she's coaxing your chin up towards her.

"peaches?" you ask, your breath a bit short.

"yeah," her eyes flicker towards the tiny little stud earrings you'd put in, truly miniscule peach-emojis that you'd picked to match the shade of your dress. and you laugh, the tiredness making the air around you both effervescent.

and that was the first of many nights you'd proceed to spend at vi's, though eventually, she does drag you forward to kiss you, her lips insistent against yours, with you pulling back to gasp -- "took you long enough --" against her only for her to sink her teeth into the bared skin of your neck, letting her fingers curl around the delicate pulse-point nestled there as she says --

"they say good things come to those who wait."

neither of you can truly pinpoint the moment where this... thing became something more. something that neither of you had the words or will to deny any longer.

it might've come up the first time vi pressed three fingers into your sopping cunt, her eyes fixed on the way your expression goes slack, how your hips kicked up at every curl of her expert fingers. or perhaps the first time you'd pushed her back and kissed a line down her front, lavished her body with your lips, teasing and nipping at her tits before making your slow, arduous way down to her clenching cunt, licking up the wet slit before latching your mouth around her clit and sucking hard enough for her eyes to roll out of her eye-sockets.

or maybe the first time she'd pulled out her bright pink strap, the base equipped with a vibrating function and an opposing dildo that hooked into vi's pussy as she rucked her hips into yours, fucking into you so hard that tears had creased in your lashes after she was done with you.

"fuck peaches -- you just look so good cumming on my cock, don't you?"

and that's all it takes these days, a smirk, a slap on the ass, and her voice saying peaches for you to feel your body clench over nothing, for your stomach to curl with heat, even if she's just coming over to press a kiss to your cheek or murmur against your skin, asking how your day went, though sometimes, you'd get shy and your voice would get a bit too quiet.

"c'mon, speak up, doll. and look at me when i'm talking to you, yeah?"

her fingers squeezing your jaw, just tight enough to make you gasp.

and no one questions it; bc why would they? her coach is ecstatic -- not like vi's ever been an unfocused fighter, but these days, she's in such tip-top form that he's not got much feedback for her after her long training sessions.

"whoever she is," vander says, grinning even as vi flushes and sighs (she knows it's useless to lie, vander's known her for way, way too long), "she's good for you."

he presses a hand to her shoulder, shaking her slightly, "and my advice? when you find a girl like that -- you grab on with both hands and you don't let go."

so that's what she does, and what she's still doing now. it's been months -- almost a full year since you've made it all "official", though neither of you have posted much about it online (her fans have been speculating for a while though, specially the hardcore ones, the ones who have been with her long enough to know her, to spot how she scans the crowd before and after every right, how her smile's just a bit different these days, how there seems to be one particular girl she's always winking at, always hidden in the shadows but she's always swiveling around the first thing after a fight, win or lose).

"f-fuck -- that's a good girl --" vi groans, her hips jerking against yours as she fucks you through your third orgasm of the night (she'd wone her fight that night -- as she does most nights -- and you'd come over to celebrate), your nails biting into the skin of her back, dragging down the expansive tattoo there.

she feels the burn in her own thighs, her arms flexing, the veins popping blue as she drags you down the length of the bed by your hips, fucking into you, her eyes trained on the sticky white ring at the base of her pink strap, the sight in and of itself enough to send her over the edge.

"c'mere -- open your mouth, peaches," she says, guiding you towards her even as she pulls out of you, a thick string of cum slicking off the head of her strap as she inches up the bed to position herself over your chest and shoulders.

you let your jaw fall slack, moaning thick as she presses the tip of her strap to your tongue. you blink up at her, lashes fluttering as she sinks her fingers into your hair, hissing out a long breath as you swallow around her length.

"sweet fuck that's hot..."

she pulls you over her cock in shallow thrusts, her breath growing quick as she watches the way you eagerly clean your own cum off of her with your tongue, the completely fucked out, blissed out look in your eyes as you look up at her, so utterly besotted and at her mercy.

her feels the coils twist in her gut seconds before she shoves you down over her, the combined sound of your gagging and the pinpoint vibrations of the dildo sending her right over the edge.

"shit, shit -- shit oh -- fuck... mm..."

her fingers fist in your hair as she jerks around the dildo end of the strap, tugging out of your mouth with a lazy, lopsided smile.

"such a good girl for me, hm?" she says, tugging you up for an open-mouthed kiss. you mewl against her lips, so soft, absolutely melting into her arms as she shifts the both of you into the center of the bed.

it's not till she goes to shower later, with you sound asleep in her mussed up blankets, that she sees the marks -- red and raised on her back, scratched over her tattoo. a soft smile lifts her lips as she stares at her own reflection in the mirror, her neck twisting over her shoulder to get a good look.

and before she knows it, she's grabbing her phone and turning around to snap a pic, with the full intent of keeping it just to show you in the morning but... well, she thinks as she stares down at the photo with a dopey sort of grin, her heart thudding dangerously close to her mouth.

maybe the best gift she could give you on your one-year anniversary is this -- telling the world that she's yours.

[ennn]

Recontextualisng the Ballad and Road with the Con and the Hex

I know some folks are upset or disappointed that the Witches' Road here was revealed as the product of Agatha's long con and Billy's Hex magic – that this seems to devalue or invalidate what was being explored about covenhood and sisterhood, or maybe "made it all about a guy".

Here's how I've processed it:

The heart of a good con is a story that rings true

The first version of the Witches' Ballad that Nicky performs for others already has a certain darkness to it. Because even though it was born from their love, the song was used to con and kill witches.

After Nicky's death, Agatha further expands the Ballad for her new deadly long con, adding more flourishes to it, including the mention of "death's hand in mine". It's dark, enticing, powerful, magical. Very much on brand for Agatha Harkness.

What's interesting are the changes between this version and the Sacred Chant version we got in Episode 2. And it's these more recent changes that seem to trip up Agatha with the coven.

For example, the version Agatha used across many years (the one overlaid with her killing witches) does not contain the lines mentioning:

"wake thy power earthly and divine"

"a coven true / two"

" fire, water, earth, and air" – Agatha's earlier version does contain spirit however

I think this speaks to how the Ballad and legend of the Road have gotten away from Agatha. At the heart of the con is a story, and this story has out in the world for centuries.

And it's not like Agatha would have stopped it: For the con to work, the story has to spread. The more witches who know about the Road and the Ballad, the more witches Agatha can target.

But people tend to change the stories they come in contact with, making it their own.

Consider that the story under the long con didn't even come from Agatha: a random witch interpreted the Ballad as a way to get to the Witches' Road, and the Road as an actual place. The con worked because Agatha saw what people wanted, a Road to what they want.

People infuse stories with their own dreams and desires, interpret and transform them to fit with their own lens. That there are apparently multiple versions of the Ballad in the show (more than we see as they mention Lorna's version being the most popular) speaks to this, I think.

The Sacred Chant version of the Ballad is probably a relatively recent attempt by Agatha to update the song she uses given the more modern interpretations of it. She knew about Lorna's version and how popular it is, so I wouldn't be surprised if she pulled elements from that.

So Nicky and Agatha created the Ballad, and Agatha developed it as as a killer con, but over the centuries, I'd say that the Witches' Road has become something bigger than two people.

This lore and ballad has become part of this world's witchy history and culture, reflecting the community's hopes and dreams, beliefs and fears: First with its promise of glory and reward – because that's Agatha's hook – and then thanks to artists like Lorna, with the promise of love that never dies, love that cannot be turned.

So what if the Road doesn't really exist? There are stories that are true that never happened. That doesn't make them less true or important.

It was probably... not helpful that we only get Agatha in full asshole mode addressing this reveal. Her dismissing the song as not meaning anything might be the biggest outright lie she’s ever told, given that the song began with Nicky.

Remember Agatha lies. The Road is not just a con and the song actually means everything, especially to her.

And it is significant that it is the Lorna Wu version of the Ballad – the version Billy is shown listening to – that the Hex Road is built around. It is this version that brings the Ballad back to a place of undying love and family and hope, promising "I'll see you at the end".

We probably wouldn't have gotten the Road we did get if it wasn't for Lorna Wu’s selfless love and sacrifice for her daughter. Because that’s the version Billy connected with. Not the ones Agatha used for her long con.

What's real is what you make of it

So Jac Schaeffer has mentioned that this twist was inspired by The Usual Suspects movie. Not just how the reveal was done – with Agatha framed as the mastermind figure who knew all along (camera wink) and Billy piecing the revelation together from clues with growing horror – but more importantly, how it didn’t detract from how the viewer felt about the characters and what they went through:

When you learn it was all a made-up story, it doesn’t undermine your experience of the movie. You still care about Gabriel Byrne’s character, you still care about Edie, and you care that Fenster died.

Does the Witches' Road being a creation of Billy's chaos magic, led by his subconscious invalidate what the coven went through, what these women and this boy did together?

I don't think it does. Because the experience this coven had was real. Their emotions, decisions, triumphs, lessons learnt, the moments of connection they had with each other — all of it was real to them.

Schaeffer wrote for the Black Widow movie and I'm reminded of the scene where Yelena rejects the idea that her family wasn't real because it was rooted in them being deep undercover:

That wasn't real – who cares. Don't say that. Please don't say that, it was real. It was real to me.

With the exception of Agatha (and Rio at least by Episode 8) who were aware that the Road was a hex, there was no filter on what the coven took away from the Road.

After all, chaos magic bends reality and creates.

Consider Jen at the end of this journey. She may never know the Road was conjured by Billy and rooted in a con of Agatha's but she did have her arc and incredible growth – to the point where she was committed to saving Agatha as part of her coven in the earth trial.

Jen got her power back and embraces being a witch again, as a sister in the craft, because of their shared experience on the Road.

For Lilia, her divination magic didn't care where the Road came from or what conjured it. Outside the hex, she still had the vision to place a sigil on Billy, and later the vision of her coven – the coven she needed – and their destiny together.

Lilia's beautiful journey, her remembering herself and her power, is still intact.

For Alice, she still discovered the truth about her mother's quest to keep her safe from her curse. And with the help of her coven, Alice did lift her curse. She did let go of her anger and found new peace in with a coven.

All of that is still real and still happened.

Agatha is more complicated because she knew from the start that the Road was a Hex. But this is also a deeply hurt love-starved person who also allowed herself to believe for a brief period that Billy might be Nicky despite all evidence to the contrary, until Rio made it clear otherwise.

Did Agatha genuinely find herself caring about this coven by the end of Episode 4? I think she did. I think the fear of losing Billy that episode was genuine too, as was her regret and remorse for killing Alice, because she did feel the loss of that coven relationship that had just started to form.

Agatha's knowledge of the Hex further explains why she lashes out at Billy after Alice's death, aside from his moralising. The spirit trial was a product of his subconscious after all. It was just set up for tragedy because of how the Hex worked (more on that below).

Ultimately, the bonds these witches did make with each other, them coming together as a coven even for a limited time, did matter I think. Jennifer, Alice, and Lilia had their arcs.

Agatha's is more of a mess – and that's a whole other discussion to go into – but I'd say that she's made progress on her arc. With Jen healing Billy, Alice stepping up to protect her, the earth trial moving her towards acknowledging the indiscriminate nature of death. She did see and feel what a coven could be for her, and she does remember them, and what could have been.

The magic of the Road

I think part of the magic of the Road was how it seemed to have purpose in bringing a coven together. How "the Road changes for the coven". Well uh it still did... just with different mechanics behind the curtain.

As a reference point: Why did Wanda create her Hex? To get a reality where she could have a happy family. Why did Billy create the Road? He immediately needed somewhere to escape the Salem Seven, but ultimately he wanted a way to find Tommy.

Note that it's not like Billy made up a version of Tommy just waiting at the Road. His Hex doesn't have a solution or answer, his Hex manifests a Road to find a way forward.

It helps to contextualise the Road as not only the product of out-of-control magic, this Road is also a manifestation of:

a genuine love and curiosity for witchcraft, including its culture and history (let's not forget Billy is a witch who doesn't have a coven)

a need for family and community

a desire to help others find personal growth or what they are looking for (Billy is a good kid that's been raised by a loving family)

Most importantly, as a telepath Billy isn't creating the Road only for himself or using only his own thoughts: with his mind-reading his subconscious is pulling from the coven members around him.

That's why the trials are designed for the coven members, with the spirit trial being so weird because Billy has trouble reading Agatha's mind. And what does Billy learn at the start of Episode 5 with the Salem Seven reappearing? Agatha killed her own coven and doesn't seem remorseful about it at all.

Safe to say Billy's subconscious did not like that.

I hear Schaeffer has confirmed this thinking in a recent interview with House of R, saying there were deleted lines in Episode 9 with Agatha explaining that the trials were informed by Billy's subconscious mind-reading. Agatha was not a fan of how Billy's subconscious wanted personal growth and team-bonding.

So while we were joking about the Road forcing these witches to get therapy, it actually closer to what was happening than we realised. It just wasn't driven by some mysterious cosmic force or divine entity, but by a kid subconsciously who meant well.

There's perhaps something to be said about how there isn't a magical Road already existing out there for Witches to find themselves.

Unlike sorcerers in the MCU who pull magic from the universe or other dimensions, the magic of witches comes from within.

[oldjewelryfeed]

C1980 Estate 18K Gold Link Bracelet w/ Handmade Hand Enameled Scarab Charms 6.75"

[patchworkcuddlebug]

notes

DONT SUBMIT THIS. this is just where im gonna write down observations and hypothosises hypotheses about the artifact this isnt a formal report. keep this pages seperate from anything you submit to the class

i found it at a non-magical thrift shop. its a single ribbon that was in the toy section, but its too big for a stuffed animal, and it was on a shelf too high for kids to reach anyway. its a simple red colour and you can tell from the wear/bends in the fabric that its meant to be worn in a bow

its SO cursed. i could sense it as soon as i was through the door. something doesnt get that powerful accidentally, unless a witch older than the professors have been using it for over a century. i think it was intentionally enchanted and left for some human sucker

ill read up on class protocol and start experimenting tomorrow

day 1

i scheduled some time in a mannequin room. i double checked everything, the falsified humanity in the mannequin, lack of external contamination, everything seemed fine. after 3 hours of the bow on its wrist, and then its hair, i cant find any registerable enhancements or curses.

my current hypothesis is that there isnt any effect on the wearer. its a false positive enchantement, where all of its energy is going towards appearing powerful instead of actually doing anything

which is a relief cuz according to protocol i can wear it now ehehehe. i was really hoping its be benign because its a really cute ribbon? i was kinda distracted by the magic part but its really nice! it has a fun retro vibe, i love how the colour is just a little faded too. should i wear more ponytails?

day 2

started out by just wearing it on my wrist. i know it probably doesnt make too much of a difference as long as im wearing it at all, but i dunno if it really is cursed i at least dont want it to start by my brain

i dont think there were any effects? maybe its cuz i kept fiddling with it all day so it may have interrupted the connection? most cursed artifacts need a physical connection and if this is an accessory it could be designed for long-term contact. so i guess as long as i take it off every once in a while ill be fine? im still sticking with the false positive hypothesis, just being precautious

i guess i could just talk about my day in case there are symptoms in retrospect? i cant really think of anything negative though. i did a great job focusing in class and i feel like i was really productive. i made some good progress on my term paper and i took really solid notes

i guess i kinda zoned out between classes? it wasnt when i was talking with friends or anything just doing menial stuff like walking around. i wasnt daydreaming or anything it was just like my brain kinda shut off and my body moved on its own. i dont think thats a thing, im probably just on edge and noticing a habit for the first time. nothing to worry about

Day 3

alright. i wore it in my hair today. so far so good?

i experienced the following things that may be symptoms: minor stiffness in the muscles, a greater inclination to formality, and a strange feeling in the wrist (specifically the same one i wore the ribbon on yesterday). the feeling is hard to pin down, its a strange floaty stiffness underneath the skin. it isn't unpleasant, but the asymmetry isnt welcome.

i feel like this is definitely an effect of my wearing it closer to my head, like i suspected the other day. i dont think its enough to warrent taking it off yet. its a very nice ribbon.

Day 4.

I am turning into a doll.

I shouldn't have kept wearing it. I should've taken yesterday as a warning. Now I feel that emptiness spreading and it's spreading way too fast. There's also the... physical transformation.

My left wrist is starting to... it's hard to explain. I can feel the changes happening. There's still skin over my wrist joint but it feels like it's not natural. It's still literally human skin, but it feels as if there's a glove that's growing thinner by the hour. I think before the day is over it'll waste away completely as it slowly corrupts the rest of my hand.

The mental transformation is much more worrying. In the grand scheme of things my behaviour is mostly unchanged. I'm just more... aware of it now. Typically, I naturally slouch, and I've been made more self-aware of this habit to the extent that I need to manually initiate it rather than falling into it unconsciously. It's the same with whenever I notice my attention drifting during lectures, or notice that I'm walking too loosely, or speaking too casually. It may just be that heightened awareness is an aspect of dollhood, or... it's more noticable because it's out of place for a doll to act in such a way. Regardless, I do not feel forced to defy this inclinations yet.

I don't want to write the same way I did before. Looking at how I did before feels... wrong. Inappropriate. i can try and force something more casual but i have to force it, it feels like trying to speak a second language youve only. Excuse me. That you've only just started learning. I want to go back and fix that but I feel like it would undermine my point. It just doesn't feel right, there's something viscerally discomforting about doing that.

I'm very hesitant to reach out about this. Beyond a fear of social repercussion inherent to admitting that a witch is becoming a doll, I'm worried that there will be a serious academic punishment attached to being this callous with a cursed artifact. I'll need to find a student I can trust to reverse this.

Day Five.

Things are getting dire. This I can feel the changes getting harder to resist.

Physically, the transformation has already converted my entire left arm. My wrist, elbow, and most of its my left hand have been changed into a hollow plastic, only movable with exposed joints. This one exp I expected it to feel more harrowing, for the creeping conversion to feel more tangibly uncomfortable, but so far it is... pleasant. Being emptied out always seemed so unwelcome when the older witches described it, but it feels nice to not have the constant pulsing of blood or the strain of muscles. This one likes the noise it makes when it taps agains

I. Me. I do. Me me human person witch.

This is what I mean. It feels like I have to be vigilant to talk like a person, and a single moment's broken concentration is all it takes to give in and become complacent to dollhood.

I need to intentionally break my posture to slouch. This one c I cannot stop my footsteps from being dainty and gentle. During lectures when the professor asks for input from the class, it takes deliberate effort to avoid participation, because good dolls always do as they are told.

I didn't write that. I swear to the stars I didn't write that. It was thinking about what to write next and that thought just... naturally injected itself. Perhaps this one needs to. Perhaps I need to resort to desperate measures and remove the bow. But I... really don't want to. It makes this one look so pretty, like a good doll.

No, no, I'm not a good doll, I don't WANT to be a good doll. I feel like I'm going insane. My humanity is draining by the second and soon there's be nothing left but empty pliability and polite docility. That is a bad thing. I am not excited for that. This one needs to put more effort into finding a witch to break this curse. It wishes it could skip its lectures, but good dolls do as they're t

I. Am. Going to bed.

Day Six.

This one's friends have finally noticed. This one accidentally called one of them "miss" when answering a question, and then the entire secret quickly unravelled. This one needed to use a sweater to hide the transformation reaching its shoulders, and there's a distinctly inhuman texture to this one's face, so it was easy for them to unravel once I gave them reason to be suspicious.

They offered to be the ones to conduct the search for the cure, on the only condition that this one take care of some menial chores to help free time in their schedules. This one feels... a little conflicted. On one hand, it is excited to be closer to its humanity! It cannot wait to feel blood spill through its body, and escape that terrifying feeling of having its brain shut off so it feels nothing but a fluttering emptiness.

This one. Just said "Awawa". Out loud.

It does not want this to progress further. Yes, it feels... very nice to be a doll. But that enjoyment has to be the work of the curse. This one needs to return to its study, it cannot afford to fall behind in the academic arms race. Being a human means having expectations to fulfill, something dolls are too simple and too docile to understand.

This one. Did it. Again.

This is a vacation. Nothing more. It will indulge in its urges to be obedient when doing chores for its friends and then return to developing its magic talent to the greatest degree the curse will allow.

Day Five Hundred and Twelve.

This one was rather surprised to find its notes from before it became. They were tucked away in its closet, with other sentimental items such as certain childhood keepsakes and its government identification. This one figured it would be fun to return to journaling as a hobby.

As can likely be surmised, this one remains a doll. The search for a cure was fruitless and fizzled out naturally due to a lack of investment, both from this one and from Miss. Speaking of, Miss is one of its friends from university, although the word "friend" feels like a shallow means of explaining a doll's relationship with its witch. Its other friends still keep contact and meet up for tea, which this one greatly enjoys catering for.

It feels very silly looking back at this one's humanity, especially given the apprehension it felt towards becoming. In retrospect, the situation being forced upon this one was likely the only way it would have become without years of soul-searching introspection, so it is very thankful to have happened upon such a gift so long ago. Perhaps part of its enchantment was to find the right host?

Part of this one misses that ribbon. It was such a nice colour... but this one feels confident in the decision to return it to the same thrift store it was once found in. It feels excited for the next lucky doll to feel the same joys that this one did. The exhilaration of feeling your body become lighter and more rigid, the stillness slowly overtaking your mind with greater and greater intensity, and of course the pleasure of following one's purpose. Awawawa...

It is late, and good dolls need rest. This one is excited to spend tomorrow night writing about all the joys of serving Miss.

[kittttycakes]

I'll take Dreamling with #8 in secrecy because i'm curious of where that could go 👀

Please enjoy this vaguely heist-y AU!

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” Hob said with a smile, aiming for charming and casual and only succeeding on one count. He leaned against the bar next to Dream, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket, if only for something to do with his hands. Something about the other man made him nervous, threw his decades of professional experience out the nearest window so that it lay, writhing, on the sidewalk, far from him.

Dream, as stunning as ever in a sleek black-on-black suit, took a drink of his wine before setting the near full glass down. He thought he saw the hint of a smile, hiding at the edges of his lips. “Have we met before?” he asked instead, that all too familiar, somnolent voice too close to Hob’s ear to be strictly polite.

If that was the game he wanted to play, Hob could go along with him. “Only in my dreams,” he replied with a wink. That earned him something that might have been a laugh, if Dream had let it develop. As it was, Hob recognized an amused huff of air when he heard one, especially when it came from Dream.

He startled slightly when Dream took his elbow, steering him away from the open bar and back towards the floor of the exhibit hall. It had taken more than a few strings pulled for Hob’s name to be added to the guest list; the museum had increased security since the last time he had set foot in it, and it had taken rather more of Johanna’s skills than it had before, but she had pulled it off: Hob’s name appeared on the guest list as one of the highest tier donors of the year. It was only natural that he should be invited. In three hours, all records of his chosen pseudonym for the evening would disappear. He would never have existed. For the moment, however—

Dream was pulling him through the hall, walking at a pace that would not arouse any kind of suspicion: two men, having a friendly walk through the exhibit, the light refracting through an inconceivable amount of gemstones and gold, platinum, and silver. He took a sharp turn, taking Hob with him, disappearing behind a column and then down a corridor that Hob had mentally designated as a possible exit route if his first four choices failed.

It was only when they were out of earshot of anyone else, and decidedly out of range of any cameras, firmly hidden in a dead spot that Johanna had specifically noted for him, that Dream spoke to him again.

“I’m afraid you and I are after the same target,” he said in that same steady, even tone. “I would advise you to pick a new one.”

Hob nearly laughed. As if it were that simple. He had a buyer lined up for specific pieces, which Dream undoubtedly knew. He was in the same position, although Hob could never be sure of just how much their particular circumstances overlapped.

“And what target would that be?” he asked lightly, watching Dream’s face in the dim light of the service hallway.

“I do not care what else you spirit away, but that ruby is mine.”

He hadn’t thought he’d been that obvious, and he nearly said as much before thinking better of it.

“Ask me for anything else and it’s yours, love, but that’s the one thing I cannot do,” Hob replied, not without genuine regret. His job was regrettably lonely, his only real point of contact Johanna, and whoever pulled her strings was a complete mystery to him. Being a contract for hire specialist had its advantages and disadvantages, and the solitary nature of the work was both at once. It was a miracle that he had ever even met Dream, let alone run into him on more than one occasion. It should not have happened at all, and yet they kept colliding, showing up where the other least expected it. He didn’t even know if Dream was, like himself, working for someone else, or if this was all for his own gain. He could picture him, surrounded by beautiful things like a dragon in its hoard.

When Dream did not respond, Hob continued, recklessly, “This is it for me. I’m out of the game after this, getting too old for it. Can’t botch the last run, can I?”

“You’re retiring?” Dream asked, amusement coloring his voice.

“Something like that. Need to lay low for awhile, might go on holiday. I’d invite you to join me, but—”

“Men like you do not simply give up, Hob Gadling,” Dream said, and Hob froze. He had never, not once, told the other man his actual name, not even during the very memorable weekend they had spent in a penthouse suite in Paris after having independently taken more than €1 million worth of art from a well established and taste making gallery. A relatively low take for both of them, but it had been rather fun. Johanna didn’t even know his name, and certainly not his nickname.

“Seems a little unfair that you have my name and I don’t have yours.” He had little doubt that Dream was an alias, and had never minded that he didn’t know what he might be called otherwise, until that very moment.

Dream smiled slightly. “Perhaps I might give it to you in exchange for your assurance that you will not attempt to take what is mine.”

“It isn’t quite yours yet, though, is it? Really, Dream, I would love to, but the buyer that’s lined up for it is rather keen on it and nothing else, if you take my meaning.”

“I am afraid your buyer must prepare to be disappointed.”

“We’ll see,” Hob said lightly, smoothing one hand down the front of Dream’s lapel. “Lovely seeing you again. I’m sure we’ll do this again soon?”

“Sooner than you might imagine.” As quickly as he had led Hob away, Dream disappeared, slipping further down the hall into the less lit shadows. He thought briefly of going after him before dismissing it; he had his own concerns, and the clock was starting very soon.

-

Hob did not see Dream when he stepped quietly out into the now empty exhibit hall. He had a finite window in which the entire camera system would be run on a loop: Johanna had promised him three minutes, and he was confident he could manage it in two and a half. She had assured him that the alarm system would be temporarily disabled during this window, but Hob never took such things for granted. He had mapped out no less than seven potential exit routes, should he be interrupted, and had timed each to ensure he knew which would be fastest.

His secondary targets could wait. Best to start with the biggest and work his way down. The ruby sat in its own case, nestled in a bed of black velvet. It was uncut, the dull color of dried blood, and as large as his fist. When he carefully picked it up, it flashed with a hidden fire: it could be stunning, in the hands of the right jeweler, crafted to exquisite perfection. Hob dropped it in one of many silk lined pockets, and moved on.

He had added two paired sapphires and a pigeon egg sized opal to his take when he saw the first hint of movement out of the corner of his eye. Hob turned, alert, only to see Dream, still dressed in his suit from the gala, leaning against the empty display case and watching him intently.

His voice echoed in the empty hall. “You’re certain I cannot convince you to part with that ruby?”

Hob had one minute and forty-five seconds left. “I’m sure you’re very convincing, love. But I’m afraid not.”

“A pity,” Dream said, standing up. “I would very much have liked to try. And I don’t imagine I’ll see you again?”

One minute and thirty-two seconds. Hob smiled, a little sadly. He would have rather liked to see him again. “I don’t imagine you will.”

“In that case,” Dream began, crossing the little space between them with a speed and grace that Hob should have expected, but somehow never did.

One minute and twenty-seven seconds. This was somehow both the most exposed and the most private place that they had ever kissed. Hob could mentally catalogue them all: pressed against the wall on a darkened side street in Madrid, laying back against the ridiculous sheets of the king size bed in the Paris penthouse, in the back room of a club in Monte Carlo—this was different. It felt different; it felt like the most important thing in the world, a moment just for the two of them, in secret, in the middle of the museum floor.

Hob had lost count of the time by the time Dream’s mouth left his. For a moment, that had been all that mattered. He would be sad to see him go.

Abruptly, three very important things happened in quick succession: there was a faint shuffling, the sound of feet in non-slip shoes walking down a tiled hallway and the distant thud of a door swinging closed on its own; Dream nearly disappeared, passing through the room like a shadow in a direction that Hob had never considered and idly wondered how exactly he planned to leave by it; and a soft red light began flashing in the case nearest to him as the system armed itself once again. It was past time to go.

Hob was, he could admit, very, very good at his job. He exited the museum entirely without incident, making it back to the flat he was currently using as his home base without being seen or followed. After ensuring that the rooms were still secure, he at last allowed himself to relax, only slightly. He sat at the table, and began to empty his pockets. The opal had survived in perfect condition; he had been concerned that it could be damaged, as relatively soft as it was, but it caught the low light of the flat in its smooth surface, perfectly whole. The sapphires, unsurprisingly, were also intact; he knew he would see them dangling from the earlobes of some minor princess or billionaire’s wife within a month, but couldn’t bring himself to care.

He had deliberately left the ruby for last; everything else, even missing the yellow diamond he was meant to have taken, was infinitesimally small compared to it. He withdrew it, and nearly laughed.

In his palm sat a paperweight of the approximate size and shape of the ruby, along with a small, folded piece of paper. He hadn’t even noticed Dream’s hand move, hadn’t felt a thing as he had, clearly, made the exchange. He set the paperweight down, and unfolded the note.

Hob had not been expecting an apology. What he received was a command: Burn after reading. What followed, in sharp, spidery handwriting, was an address in, of all places, Wales. The note was signed with a capital M. It wasn’t quite a name, but it would do.

He stood, leaving the gemstones on the table. He had so much to do: a bag to pack, travel plans to make, a note to burn. Hob had wanted to go on holiday. He was certain Wales would be lovely.

Send me a kiss prompt!

[danandphilplay]

[theamazingmr-j]

i hope you nerds are all ready for domestic mafia carcar bc i was hit with an inspiration beam and stayed up very late writing

[starswornoaths]

In Light of Day

Follow-up for In Shade of Moonlight I had thought lost to the ether years ago (although if you want to read this whole scene from start to finish, Something Like Home is the start of the evening referenced in the fic, followed by First Steps and then In Shade of Moonlight but god. I haven't gone back to edit them please lower your expectations they're old.) Once I found it, I couldn't stop picking at it until I eventually had to just post it already. Hopefully I'll get more of what I've already written posted at some point.

Post 3.3, pre-3.4, it's the morning after the festivities. While there is no hangover to be found in Borel Manor, yearning that spilled over in the moonlight is now examined and re-examined in the light of day. Duty and Devotion are inextricably tied, yet where one can so often subsume the other, other times either may be consumed.

Word count: 4,400

~*~

Serella was relieved to find the sun was rising to greet her the second time she opened her eyes that morning. As mind and body reconnected, she found herself bundled into blankets beside another warm body and comfortably in bed rather than flung to the floor in her sleep. She took in the sight of a barely-familiar room and the faint creak of howling winds pressing an old house, and she knew with immediate and delightful certainty that the previous night hadn’t been a dream.

More pleasant still was the weight of Aymeric’s arm slung over the curve of her hip.

Truly, it was always the small mercies that kept Serella aloft.

With great care so as to avoid waking him, she negotiated the slide of his arm to drape across her back, that she might turn to watch him sleep. There was no force strong enough to stop her from smiling as she took in the sight.

Bereft of the waking world’s worries to weigh on him, his features were slack with rest and smudged into the pillow without care. Once removed from the mantle of his station and free of the pinch in his brow, he almost looked like a different person entirely. In a kinder world, he might know this feeling even when awake—but then, so would she.

Her hand itched with the want to run her fingers through his silken curls, strewn wildly all over and haloed in the morning light. He looked so utterly endearing to her in that moment, with an almost boyish pout pushed into his full lips by the pillow he burrowed into.

Serella felt her heart squeeze. Two things occurred to her in that moment, one right after the next: that she had never seen Aymeric so utterly unburdened and unreachable to the rest of the world, and she wanted to do all in her power to make more moments like these, if only to hoard for herself like a dragon.

Assuming such a thing would even be welcome.

If last night had been a fairy tale, this morning was the stumble out of the fairy’s circle. The moment where everything became real again, and the world was sustainably imperfect.

Still asleep, Aymeric shifted such that his other hand knocked into hers in the scant space between them. Even in dreams, the touch was enough to curl his lips in an unguarded smile he half smothered into his pillow, fingers flexing for a fleeting, blind search of her.

But time was liable to take notice of Serella if she further entangled them. If not time, then certainly duty or any number of things that would rip her from this peace. Rather than risk it, she gathered the pillow beneath her in a white-knuckled fist. As she watched the gilded fingers of dawn blindly fumble for the shape of them through the parted curtain, she prayed the city—the realm—would forget them a little while longer.

In this liminal space between what she had dared to want and what was real, scars from flesh to marrow and deeper still threatened her with their phantom pains. Muscles in need of stretching burned, and the chill in the air threatened to make every joint ache the second she left the blankets. Bones creaked in protest after being still for so long in sleep when she tried to address those aches that howled first. For several long moments, her body was caught in its own space between thrumming soreness from stillness and lancing ache from movement, waiting for the worst of both to ease.

And from below the monotonous agony, a long-standing anxiety welled up from the pit of her rib cage to form a roiling bubble of intrusive thoughts that pressed at her throat. The what-ifs began to whisper in her ears again. Despite her best efforts, what had been muffled to a distant buzz in the previous eve’s heady rush was given crystalline clarity in light of day.

For her heart was but a muscle, and it ached like all the rest.

Such worry always came on the heels of vulnerability. Of course it did; fear was an old and familiar stalagmite that had gradually emerged from the pit in her stomach through years of buried feeling being left to itself. Crystallized and jagged monument of unaddressed pain that it was, its sharpest and highest facets had long since lodged themselves in the spaces between her ribs. To dislodge even a piece of it, something inside of her would surely have to break. The morning light bounced off its raw facets in her mind’s eye, sending her vision swimming with spots until she realized its true source was the thinning of her own breath.

To persevere in silence would be to welcome the press of a blade to her heart, trusting that it would not be run through—and oh, how Serella had bled in the past.

It wasn’t as though the fear was unfounded, even knowing Aymeric to be a good man; blunt though the instrument be, duty could well be what he might wield to beat all they were back to the shadows. Worse—it could well be his expectation that she was of like mind.

Surely not—surely not. And yet…

If Serella had been wrong to let herself be vulnerable, to want—if she had guessed wrong again—

Scratching at the door ripped her from her spiral so suddenly that she nearly jumped. No doubt it was Duchess, whom she heard rumbling from the depths of the manor last night.

A more insistent scratch came as if in answer. Serella strongly suspected such a temperamental old thing would start to yowl if her demands weren’t answered in a timely fashion.

She knew the type.

Peering back at Aymeric, who seemed yet unperturbed by the sound, she found even the thought of waking him to border on criminal—and he doubtless would once Duchess kicked up enough of a fuss.

The lady of the house needed feeding, and Serella was already up. No sense in robbing him of what little extra sleep he could find, after all. Not when her anxieties were so chatty this morn as to already rob her of it.

Decision made, she eased herself from the loose tangle of limbs and tucked the covers around him as he continued to doze. When he pawed at the empty space left by her absence, she compensated him with her pillow. Once freed of darling and duvet both, she slid from the bed entirely with immense care and only minimal popping sounds from her joints as she ambled over toward the door.

Sure enough, Serella was met with the lady of the house peering up at her once she’d eased the door open. More fur than feline, she sat at the doorway like a prim little tumbleweed with indignant green eyes, all dense fur patterned with beautiful mottled browns and brushed to its utmost fluffiness.

“Good morning.” She greeted, slipping out into the hall and twisting the doorknob to soften its closing behind her. “Breakfast?”

Mrr, Duchess rumbled in assent. Serella felt it in the floorboards.

“Well go on, then,” she said with a gesture to the hall, “I know you know where it is.”

With a thump of her tail and a wheezy huff, the acting Viscountess trotted off down the stairs. Her house guest followed gamely, hopeful that she behaved as most cats would and make a dash for her food at the promise of being served.

Blessedly, Duchess was no different: with a startling amount of speed for her apparent age, she made a beeline down the stairs and around the bend to a specific cabinet in the kitchen just beside the pantry. Once sat primly before the little door, she began to paw at a worn patch of scratches at its bottom corner and look up expectantly with the widest, roundest eyes that she could and the softest trill she had managed thus far.

Oh, this was manipulation if ever she’d seen it, doubtless perfected over eight lifetimes’ worth of practice on family and guests. Must have the same teacher as her owner, Serella mused to herself.

After a brief scan to find her feeding bowl—full but for the emptied center of the dish, of course—Serella was soon scooping an appropriate amount of food for the lady.

“Your breakfast, madam!” She said, presenting the bowl in a with a flourish.

Duchess sniffed up at her, nearly thankful, before promptly burying her face in the kibble and paying her guest no further mind.

“You yet possess your hand.” Aymeric’s amused voice drifted in from behind her.

Startled, Serella spun to face him with eyes wide and hands held up to her heart as if she had been caught doing something wrong. It was effortless to find her ease when she saw him leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed and a sleepy smile on his face.

“Of all your accomplishments, that may well be among the most impressive,” he teased with a chuckle, “not even I have managed unscathed every time.”

“I’ll count that as a personal victory, then.” She said, at a loss as to what else to say.

Though she wore a set of his pajamas, she might as well have not changed from her gown last night for how reverently he looked at her. Even at barely seven bells in the morning and doubtless with a bird’s nest in her hair he still looked at her as though she were spun from starlight and woven in his dreams.

Her gaze shied from his, all at once overwrought with raw and tender ache.

“I’d hoped to avoid waking you,” she explained as if she were trying to get out of trouble.

Which was silly, she knew. She’d only fed his cat.

“Seems my stealth could do with a bit of work, though,” she added with a lame gesture between them.

She wasn’t even sure it was meant to be a joke, but he offered her a huff of laughter all the same.

“In truth, your absence woke me more than you leaving,” he admitted, his smile turning bashful when his gaze demurred as he added, “though the decoy was almost as charming as hearing you through the door.”

His ears flushed a faint pink when he glanced back at her and explained, “I reached for you—and when you were not there, it alarmed me.”

Not entirely unreasonable—she had flung herself off the bed in the middle of the night. He’s gracious enough not to mention it.

“I would have otherwise been tempted to lounge with you all day,” she mumbled, and felt near feverish for how hot her face burned at the admittance, “if I thought we could get away with it, at least.”

It seemed to please Aymeric greatly, however; as his smile grew wide enough for his eyes to crinkle at the corners as he looked at her in full again. As if that helped him decide something, he pushed off the doorway and moved closer with steps merry yet unhurried.

Serella still startled when he stopped within arm’s reach. He could have already made contact with her, yet he hesitated, as if wondering what she would do.

Nothing. She did nothing, save for white knuckle the counter behind her with the want to.

She wasn’t surprised at her struggle with letting that last wall between them fall, not after a year or so of skirting around one another. Not with her thoughts swarming her head like an agitated hive. Understanding it did not ease her lamentations. Did not quiet the buzzing.

“That may yet be arranged,” he murmured, unaware of her struggle.

His hand drifted to skim the thin shirt sleeve she wore with his knuckles, his expression almost shy. At no point on its dutiful march down her sleeve did his hand make contact with her. She felt the comet’s trail of his warmth all the same.

It wasn’t until the tip of his finger hooked on the cuff of her sleeve in a vague pantomime of holding her hand that she realized she had let go of the counter behind her. Startled, she looked up at him with a thin gasp to find him already peering at her through his lashes.

Holding her gaze steadily, he asked, “...If it should please you?”

It’s too early to be this sweet, she huffed at him in her mind.

She shivered despite the warmth of his knuckles against hers when his hand drifted those few ilms lower. Under his attention, her heart felt both deeply tender and fit to burst.

“It would.” Serella said softly, though refrained from giving in to the temptation to unmake the scant distance between them entirely.

Last night had been…perfect. Beyond perfect. Sharing their hearts, even an onze, even for a moment, had been more than she had ever dared hope for. In the light of day, where the dream was over and yet they still remained, she could hardly contain the affection she’d withheld for so long. Just the effort of it made her skin burn.

And yet…

That sharp, anticipatory pain in her heart where the blade could well find its purchase seized her bodily in that moment. The fault lines where it would break from such piercing groaned in warning.

Aymeric seemed to sense her hesitation, as he dropped her sleeve and moved a few ilms away. The hollow space where she had meant to lace their fingers together howled yet she could not force herself to move before at least this fear could be exorcised. She had no more room to bury it, and it would not help her exhume the rest.

“I,” she tried to croak though the words tangled in a lump in her throat.

Swallowing it, she tried again, “I don’t…I don’t know what you hope for us to be.”

At that, Aymeric stilled with a short yet shuddered intake of breath. Even his aether seemed to recoil in response but what startled Serella most was that for all the emotions that rippled along the surface of his heart, surprise was not among them.

The tangle of feelings radiating off of him was familiar—too familiar; not for the first time, she had nearly missed it for how similarly his struggle had mirrored her own. That tense anticipation for pain, the pre-emptive flinch before impact, she could feel every twitch that spoke of routine. The morbid vindication of ah, and there it is, to greet disaster after awaiting it for so long.

Expectant rather than dreading. Because this had happened to him before, she remembered.

In the few seconds it had taken her to make the connection, he had thinned his breathing, as if to make himself as scarce and unobtrusive as he could in this moment. Already, his body language began to shape itself in the familiar form of an apology, starting with the inward flinch of his shoulders.

Even blind, she would feel the way his aether roiled and his stomach dropped out from under him. Sensitive to it all as her Blessing had made her, it was impossible not to know the waves of his emotions as they crashed into her.

In a grim way, it was reassuring: he was just as much of a nervous mess as she.

Suddenly desperate to soothe it out of both of them, she took his hand and chose to be brave.

Body and soul, that surprised Aymeric. He could not catch his expression ere it crossed his face.

“I want to be with you.” she said—and though the words felt strange, like tasting an old secret on her tongue, she relished in the relief at saying them.

The breath left him as though he were struck, even as he beamed at her. As if given permission to breathe again, his chest rose with the slow, relieved inhale that left him in a sigh so deep as to sag his posture.

“Serendipity itself,” he said on the tapered end of his exhale, more air than words.

His hand was gentle when it brought hers to his lips. His warmth splashed across her knuckles in soft breaths as he kissed them once, twice, thrice in reverence.

“I want much the same—it feels at least a lifetime that I have yearned,” he admitted against her skin, peering at her through fanned lashes and a deep flush.

Relief and happiness crushed her heart from all sides at his words, enough that for a moment the swarm in her head scattered in dissaray. How could such an otherwise even toned and collected man have such infectious joy? The nerve of him. The unmitigated gall.

Turning her hand within his hold she instead curled it to cup his cheek. When he leaned into the touch and eclipsed her hand with his own, his lips sought her palm as though they were made solely to kiss it.

Her thumb traced the angle of his cheekbone as she struggled to find the words to say to help him understand. His thumb idly mirrored her movements, blindly pacing the length of a scar on her thumb he had come across as if in a trance as his lashes fluttered.

Seconds passed in the sort of sunlit slowness that moved like honey on a spoon, but Aymeric was eventually stirred to shift within her hold and face her fully. All syrup-slowness, his lashes lifted to let him regard her at length.

“You have concerns,” he said at last, his eyes still searching hers.

“Only one.” Serella answered, relieved and horrified all at once for his perceptive nature.

“I imagine you will find more in time, yet if there is only the one for now, then I would hear it.” he said, and let her hand slip from under his when she pulled it away. “I would help you find your ease.”

Words swam in her head, only forming coherent sentences at certain angles through the muck of her fears.

“I don’t…need any grand gestures. Nothing…announced.” Serella fumbled to explain, the words clumsy and anxious. “And I don’t want any of that—gods, it makes me anxious just to think of—“

“You are not one for ceremony.” Aymeric agreed, smiling.

Serella nodded. Wetting her lips, she tried to persevere, saying, “And—and I know there will be times where professionalism is more important. For both of us, really. I would want that distinction regardless, lest we be accused of corrupting one another’s stations.”

It was his turn to nod. “I agree,” he said.

“But that—” she cut herself off with a wince, bracing for the fall with a deep, steady inhale as she said in a rush, “that doesn’t mean I would be content to be hidden.”

“…Hidden?” Aymeric asked, and it was obvious he was taken aback for the way he almost physically jumped at the thought.

“I only mean—“ Realizing she was wording it poorly, she flustered. “I—I’m not really making myself clear, am I?”

“You are—I am merely struggling to see.” He reassured her.

With a tilt of his head, he asked, “Help me understand? How—why in the name of the Fury would I hide you?”

“It’s just…we’ve fought so hard for so long to reveal the Holy See’s secrets—both small and large.” she began slowly.

“A victory that has cost us much.” he agreed in a soft murmur.

“And…I don’t know if your station allows you to have room for me—but—”

Wetting her lips, she finally sighed and said, “for how hard we fought for the truth of the Theocracy, I would not want us to be the Republic’s first secret.”

Realization dawned on his face for the briefest moments before melting away into relief.

“Ah,” he sighed, gently, before asking, “is that what it was?”

When Serella looked at him again, his smile was impossibly soft.

“Aye,” she said, posture slumping over as the last of a sigh left her, “that’s it. My one concern.”

“Certainly a valid one, but permit me put it to rest.” Aymeric said, reaching for her again.

The first brush of his fingers on her face was enough for the tension in her shoulders to snap with such a force she almost felt lightheaded. Her head fell into his palm like the architecture of him was made to hold her.

He waited until she met his gaze before speaking again.

“There is naught preventing me from being with you, so long as we both wish for it.” Aymeric said, his hand soft as it stroked the apple of her cheek. “Nor would I ever wish to hide—I do not even think I could. Not after,” he flushed clear to the tips of his ears as he finished the sentence in an almost mumble, “not after so long pretending. I could not go back.”

She flushed in kind and resisted the urge to hide her face in his hand. Or his chest. Or the countertop. How many times would she be made to damn his earnest nature before noon? Before the sennight was over? Before the world ended?

May it happen enough that I lose count, Serella prayed.

“Well, then,” she said around a hum, “consider my concern addressed.”

“Good.”

He smiled, though the relief that rippled through him felt tentative to Serella.

“Do you have concerns?” she asked with a tilt of her head and an arch of her brow. “Since we’re clearing things up now—which, by the way, an important start to things, I should think.”

“...Only—only one for myself as well,” he said slowly, all the ease that had found him leaving in fits and starts.

As if wandering, his hand drifted to her hair and began to twirl a lock of it loosely around his finger. His gaze focused on his fidgeting.

He only did that when he was uncomfortable with what he was going to say next, she noted to herself; it was the only time he would ever look away from the person he was speaking with.

“I had not thought to address it—I presumed it was taken as given, but—“

“Better to say it,” Serella said. “Whatever it may be.”

“You have the right of it.” Aymeric agreed, even as he seemed almost reluctant. Still, his tone was even, almost detached, as he explained, “I would never want you to enter a courtship with me bearing—“

“Relationship.” she said.

When he looked at her in surprise, she added, “If you feel the need to court me to make up for lost time, I certainly won’t object, but I’d argue the past year or so has been exactly that. More or less.”

“…Relationship, then.” He said, and for all his trepidation, that seemed to please him greatly. “With perhaps some courtly romance for lost time.”

Though the troubled expression hadn’t fully left his face, even the thought of their bond had let joy rally in the corners of his lips. The melancholy almost immediately regained its dominance as he slowly continued, “I would not want you to agree to such a relationship bearing any misconceptions as to my…dedication.”

“...I don’t follow.” Serella admitted with a shake of her head.

“Pray do not misunderstand,” he pleaded, and she felt his anxiety in her throat. “I would never do aught without consent—“

“I know,” she reassured him. “I trust you.”

“That does not mean, however,” he spoke like it tortured him to do so as he said, “that I could always prioritize you over aught else. If at all, really.”

“Hmm?” She arched a brow—not offended, but still not entirely sure what he meant.

He must have taken her confusion as offense, because he spoke with just a tinge of desperation, as if frantic to articulate, “For however deep my feelings for you might run—so long as I hold even one office—” he winced before continuing, “—never mind two, I cannot hold you above my duties to Ishgard.”

As she thought. She resisted the urge to laugh, knowing how upset he was and how that would look. He had little and less to worry about in that regard—or at least, just as much to worry about as she did, which all evened out in the wash so far as she was concerned.

“Even were I not an officer of the Maelstrom,” she began, searching for the words, “as the Warrior of Light, I have to ask you much the same: can you feel comfortable, knowing I must put not only the needs of Limsa Lominsa but also the realm over you? That I most often must answer to a title before I can answer to my name?”

Aymeric blinked owlishly at her, and then she did laugh at his incredulous expression; clearly he had been so caught up in his own fears he had not perceived aught beyond them.

The sweet fool, she thought with infinite fondness.

“I can,” he said, almost excitedly.

“Then promise me,” she said, moving to lay a hand over his heart. “That you’ll never prioritize me over Ishgard and Her interests.”

“I swear it,” he said.

With a huff of relieved laughter he kissed her forehead.

His eyes were alight with relief and crinkled at the corners with his smile when he spoke again, “promise me in kind that you will never place me above the realm.”

“I would never,” she said—and spoke true.

As if her words dispelled his every trepidation, he smiled in that way that felt like the first rays of sunshine after endless rain.

“Any other concerns?” She asked, her grin returning in the wake of her relief. “Any at all?”

“None,” he responded, at last crossing those last few ilms of distance and curling his arms around her. She met him readily, hands smoothing away the singular cowlick in his hair. “None whatsoever.”

“So it’s us, then?” she asked, both for clarity and because she would never tire of hearing it. “For as long as we want?”

“Please,” he breathed, barely getting the word out before Serella discovered her new favorite feeling: his laughter, humming gently against her lips.

[messrsrarchives]

wish i had a reason for ostog not being updated in over a month but really i'm just a sleepy kinda guy and i love a good nap

[riconas]

@myghemicalghostmance @media-noche

happy to announce the hotel room only had one bed.

sequel to this ficlet

It’s late when they get to the hotel. The only rule Papa tells them to abide by, albeit with very tired eyes and the air of a man who has seen too much for his time, is “don’t break anything.” Everybody looks very pointedly at Dewdrop as he says so. Aeon wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. 

He’s assigned a room with Rain, but knowing his packmates, on-paper roommates never really stay as they are. The moment keycards are distributed, he sees them swapping hands. He trails behind Rain all the way to the lift, while Dew and Aurora race to press the button first. 

“Swap with me,” Swiss says to him in an aside, holding his keycard between his index and middle finger. “I’m with Dew.” 

Aeon looks up at him gratefully. “You don’t mind rooming with Rain?” 

“I’d love to room with Rain,” Swiss purrs. “Rainy, come here.” 

Rain turns around. “What do you want?”

Swiss curls a hand around the back of his neck, pulls him closer, and puts his mouth right next to Rain’s ear to whisper something. Rain’s eyes go wide as he lets Swiss push him into a corner of the lift. Aeon strains his ears to listen, but he only catches tonight, can’t walk, and everyone knows. 

The tips of Rain’s ears go a deep maroon. Swiss smiles, and gives his neck an affectionate squeeze. 

“Here,” Swiss says cheerfully, placing his card in Aeon’s hand and nimbly plucking Aeon’s away. “Thanks, darling. I owe you one.”

The room is at the very end of the corridor, right before the suite Papa thankfully isn’t staying in. Aeon’s hands shake far too much when he taps his card. He wipes his palms on his jeans again, before pushing the door open and shouldering his way through with his duffel bag. 

Dew’s waiting for him already, splayed out on the queen-sized bed, shoes and leather jacket haphazardly strewn aside. He perks up upon hearing the door open. “Aeon? Hey! Leave your stuff. Check this out—this bed is so soft, come here.” 

Aeon kicks his shoes off, drapes his jacket over the back of a chair, and plods over to where Dew’s making snow angels on the bedspread. They showered at the venue, so they’re somewhat clean, and he can’t resist—he plonks down beside Dew, marvelling at the downiness of the duvet, rolling onto his side to grin stupidly at Dew’s pretty face. 

Papa is spoiling them. 

“Thanks for coming,” Dew says sweetly, his palm pressed to Aeon’s cheek. “I hope you haven’t forgotten. Swiss took a lot of convincing, you know.” 

Aeon rolls his eyes. Swiss is only next door, probably about to pound Rain into tomorrow and the day after. “Really? He seemed pretty happy to swap. For Rain, I mean. So he could be with Rain. Not because he didn’t want to room with you. Or anything.”

He’s babbling. He shuts his mouth, embarrassed, but Dew just laughs.

“‘Course he was! It’s ‘cause Rainy doesn’t fight like I do. He just lies there and takes it.” He smiles dreamily, holding out his arms. “Cuddle?”

Aeon slots himself against Dew’s chest and wraps himself around Dew’s twig-like body, octopus style. It’s cold outside, and it was freezing when they’d performed, but Dew’s like a furnace, a life-sized heating pad. He presses himself as close as he can, chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip, nestling his head in the junction of Dew’s neck and shoulder. 

“Kiss me there,” Dew breathes, petting over Aeon’s hair, so Aeon presses his lips to Dew’s blistering pulse, laying a trail of kisses all along the line of his throat. Dew sighs happily, wrapping his legs around Aeon’s hips, tilting his head back to expose more of his lovely skin. “That’s so nice,” he says, as he threads his fingers into Aeon’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. “That’s so nice, keep doing that.” 

Emboldened, Aeon scrapes his teeth over Dew’s collarbone, leaving the tiniest nick in his wake. He isn’t sure if he’s allowed to do that, but Dew doesn’t seem to mind, not with the way he gasps and arches and ruts sharply against Aeon’s crotch. He’s hardening up, cock pressing through his jeans. Aeon’s no better off. 

They go at it like that for a while, grinding and humping and breathing into each other's mouths, until Aeon whines so plaintively Dew stops in his tracks, pressing a finger against Aeon’s lips. Aeon wiggles in protest. 

“Go to my bag,” Dew says softly. “Second pocket. Bottle of lube. And take your clothes off.” 

Aeon scrambles to comply. He hears the delighted chime of Dew’s laughter behind him, the ruffling noises of Dew shucking his t-shirt and pulling down his jeans. He didn’t think to prep himself before tonight, too caught up in Rain to bother getting ready. He wonders if Dew will be gentle, or if he’ll try to outdo Rain, or they’ll have to pay a fine for noise complaints. 

“Better hurry,” Dew calls. “I can hear Swiss and Rain next door. They’re getting pretty noisy already.” He catches the bottle Aeon throws at him, pops the cap, and drizzles a good amount onto his cock. “Come here. I wanna finger you.” 

Dew is vicious, Aeon realises. And stronger than he looks. He bites his knuckles and pulls his knees up to his chest as Dew scissors him open, watching him with a cocky smirk on his face, stripping him bare. It’s considerate, and efficient, but Aeon doesn’t want to wait any longer. 

“Can I touch myself?” he asks shyly. 

“No need to ask,” Dew replies, casual as anything, sliding his fingers out to circle Aeon’s rim before pressing back in with three. “I’m nicer than Rain.” 

Aeon grabs his cock, squeezes the shaft, cups his heavy balls in the palm of his hand. If he really listens, really concentrates, he can just about hear Rain’s heavy breathing through the walls, the muted slap of skin on skin. It spurs him on, gets him worked up. Gets him desperate. 

Dew pushes in without warning, holding his legs up and to the sides, and Aeon yelps in surprise. When he turns his head a little, he can see his feet beside his shoulders, flexed and tensed, toes curling reflexively. He rubs at his own nipples, pressing himself into the mattress as Dew sinks all the way down to the hilt and tucks his face beside Aeon’s to blow a hot puff of air right against the shell of his ear.

“You hear that?” he huffs, knocking Aeon’s hand away, pinching Aeon’s nipple and rolling the bud between his thumb and forefinger. “I think I hear Rain crying. Whining like a little bitch.”

Aeon whines too, scrabbling at Dew’s back. Dew isn’t moving, just keeping Aeon stuffed and still, and he’s heavier than he looks so Aeon can’t really move either. With Dew lying on him like a very uncomfortable weighted blanket, Aeon is helpless, and it’s driving him crazy. He worries Dew might just stay like that forever, might make Aeon cockwarm him until he goes soft. Desperately, he kicks his heels into Dew’s bony ass, and Dew scolds him by knocking a palm into his windpipe. 

Dew is most certainly not nicer than Rain.

“He isn’t crying,” Aeon pants, once he’s stopped coughing. “He’s tougher than that.”

“‘Kay,” Dew says flippantly. Then he’s pulling out and Aeon’s eyes go wide before he pushes in again, all at once, with a slap that makes Aeon flinch. He does it again, squeezing Aeon’s throat for leverage, gripping his hip until it hurts and Aeon has to jerk away. 

Satanas, Dew’s just as nasty as Rain. The cuddles were all a ploy to get him all soft and subservient, to knock his defences down, and he’s so gullible that it actually worked. He reaches to touch Dew’s stomach, tracing lightly over the lean contours of his abs, dragging his fingers up to tug at the rings through Dew’s nipples. He really likes them, likes how they make the buds all puffy if he tugs hard enough. 

(He’s heard there’s a ghoul at the abbey who knows his way around a needle and a taper. One of the older fire ghouls, if he remembers right. He makes a mental note to seek them out when he gets back.)

“Love your hole,” Dew breathes. “So tight. Squeezes my dick real good.” He rubs a palm over Aeon’s lower stomach, feeling for the shape of himself inside, and Aeon stares in wonder. Dew could have used more lube, he thinks, but he finds he doesn’t really mind the burn, doesn’t really mind the smudge of hurt.  

“You like using it?” Aeon asks daringly, squeezing around Dew's dick.

“Fuckin’ love using it,” Dew groans. “Perfect little cunt.”

Aeon closes his eyes. He doesn’t need to think about how hard that word made his dick kick. 

“Harder,” he says, touching Dew’s wrist. “I want it rough. Like Rain did today, in the dressing room.”

Hearing Rain’s name must snap something in Dew. Maybe it’s his competitive streak, or his possessive tendencies, but his voice loses its soft edge after that, turning sharp and ragged, like the edge of a broken rock. 

“Like Rain?” he snarls, grabbing Aeon’s throat and squeezing tight.

“Uh-huh,” Aeon replies, nodding as best he can. 

Dew snaps his hips hard, fucking him with brutal punches that have Aeon’s head spinning. “I’m fucking you and you’re thinking of Rain?” He spits Rain’s name like it’s a dirty word, a bad taste in his mouth. “Why don’t you go next door, then, if you want Rain so bad? Bet he’d love to use your dirty hole. Maybe Swiss will join in, fuck your throat while he’s at it.” 

Aeon wants to tell Dew to keep it down, that he’s being too loud, that the hotel is way too nice for this and they’re going to get funny looks at breakfast tomorrow, but between the cruel jab of Dew’s cock and the growing ache in his gut, he loses the words before they get past his tongue. He presses his face into the pillow and twists his fingers into the sheets, trying not to look too smug, lest Dew discover this is what he wanted all along. 

“You’re better,” he says instead, cock-drunk and stupid. “You make me feel better than he did.”

Dew laughs out loud. “Then you’d better make me cum. Treat me better than you treated Rain, alright? You hear me?”

Aeon hears him, loud and clear. He clenches as hard as he can, revelling in the sting of Dew’s shaft catching on his rim and the stilted gasp Dew lets out. His own cock is hard against his stomach—he’d gotten no relief after Rain used him earlier, and it’s catching up with him now. He spits on his hand and grabs his dick, thumbing underneath the slit, polishing the head with his palm. He’s waited so long. 

Dew shifts, and the change in angle puts his cock right up against Aeon’s prostate, neglected until now. Aeon grits his teeth to stifle his moan, gripping the sheets so hard he fears he may rip them. 

“You’re mine,” Dew snarls, pistoning his hips like a fucking machine, so hard Aeon nearly bounces off the mattress with each thrust. “You don’t think about anyone else when I’m fucking you, you understand?”

“Yes,” Aeon says, his voice cracking.

Dew slaps him. “Yes who?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Aeon gasps. 

Over in the next room, Rain wails. 

[nikist-4-n]

Happy 1.9k <3

[johnnystorms]

avengers twilight!steve, on regrets, memories and tony stark. written post-avengers twilight #002. stevetony.

Steve has a lot of regrets. Tony—not the real one, the best friend he lost on the day he lost everything, but the one he keeps in his head, his mind’s best attempt at a ghost of the person he misses most—says that’s inevitable, living as long as Steve has.

C’mon, Cap, he says, smiling that way his Tony used to: eyes as bright as the future he was always talking about, everything in him shining. Or maybe that���s just how he looked to Steve, young enough back then to not yet have blinked the stars from his eyes. You live long enough, you run the risk of anything outweighing the good memories. His smile fades, not enough to disappear, but to become something smaller, quieter. Tinged with something requiring care. Do me a favour, handsome. Try not to let that happen to you.

Steve doesn’t like disappointing Tony Stark, not even the one dreamed up inside his head, but he thinks it might be too late on that front.

If someone asked for a list of regrets, he’d have to give that wry, hoarse laugh that makes him sound as old as he feels, and say, Nobody has time to listen to all that. If someone had asked Tony, he’d have a breathtakingly clever quip or an outpouring of guilt, depending on his mood, and who had asked. If it had been Steve, maybe both. Matt would have thought about it, long and hard, and disappeared to a confession booth. Peter – Jessica – Logan – Carol – all of them, he thinks, would have their own laundry list of hauntings, justified or otherwise.

That’s the name of the game, he thinks. You have to take the wins for what they are, but it doesn’t make the losses any lighter to bear. Steve’s posture isn’t what it used to be, even with the Defenders’ replicated super soldier serum in his veins, but his shoulders were shaking under the crushing weight of all his mistakes long before his age caught up to his body.

Janet isn’t here anymore to ask, but he doesn’t know what she’d say. It’s not that he thinks she has no regrets—even outside of the hero business, that’s a tall order for anyone—so much as that’s not how he remembers her. When he thinks of Janet van Dyne, he thinks of her deft fingers readjusting the lapel of the suit she designed and Tony cajoled him into; he thinks of her tinkling laugh almost being swallowed up by Thor’s booming one, the two of them bent double at the disgruntled expression Clint was shooting their way one golden night back when the world knew what heroes were meant to be; and he thinks of her clever, smiling mouth, and the way nobody could ever resist smiling right back. Steve had been no exception.

He misses it so fiercely it burns. Jan’s smile and Thor’s relentless steadiness and even Peter’s terrible jokes as he chased the Human Torch around the city. Carol’s quick fists and Jessica’s quick thinking and Natasha’s quick draw, and the time the three of them had a punch-up contest with the Thing that ended in an exasperated Tony footing the bill to the city and Johnny cackling as Sue dressed down Ben for his part in it. Luke’s laughter as he slung his arm over Danny’s shoulder and Jessica Jones taking photos of the two of them and Logan and Bobbi in the corner, trading tales of Hawkeye’s Greatest Hits: Indecent Exposure edition.

And Tony—always, always Tony. The press of him against Steve’s side, a reassuring line of heat, like, hey, you’re not alone anymore. You’re not cold anymore. You have a team. You have me. His tired eyes and easy smile and razor-sharp wit, even half-dead on his feet. The late nights where Steve coaxed him out of his lab with a hot drink and the promise of conversation, the early mornings where Steve would wear a worried frown and say, you should really sleep more, Tony, and Tony would grin at him and say, and give up these early mornings where you bring me coffee and those big blue eyes of yours? Never, and Steve would sigh, but there would be something fond tugging at the corner of his lips, and Tony would look all pleased with himself, animated in a way no caffeine fix could ever cause, and Steve would want—

Steve swallows.

You’re drifting, baby. It’s Jan’s voice, that classic combination of fond amusement and concern that Clint used to perk up at being addressed with and Tony used to call the van Dyne special, all those years ago. God, Steve misses them all. He aches with wanting. You’re drifting. Bring it back home, Steve. Start with the most important bit. Let’s take it from the top.

There isn’t a team to report to anymore. It is not a new fact, a new thought, but every time, it hits him like a concrete block to the ribs.

There isn’t a team to report to anymore, but Steve Rogers breathes in, and thinks about it anyway. Take it from the top. The most important things.

How the tables turn, Tony says. He’s the only one Steve keeps. All his other ghosts flit in and out of his head, coming and going like the tides, but Tony is the forever haunting. The only one his mind holds onto on a permanent basis. D’you remember, oh, all the way back near the start -- one time you asked me if it got exhausting, thinking so much.

Steve remembers. Steve has never forgotten anything Tony Stark gave him, be it physical or a vow or just the smallest memory that wasn’t intended as a secret but became one in Steve’s desperate hands. The world has taken so much from him, from all of them, ever since H-day. He can’t talk about Tony, because what if the world takes that from him too?

How the tables turn, Tony says again, soft in that way most people didn’t believe Tony Stark could be. Steve knew, though. Steve’s always known. You look exhausted, Steve. Don’t let it be so big. Just -- right now, right at this moment. What’s the call, Cap?

That was what Tony had said that day, Steve remembers. The world was on fire, and about to become a whole lot colder, and they didn’t know that, didn’t know anything about what was to come, just that this was it, this was the moment, this was the do or die, and Tony had stood at his shoulder, the armour a familiar comfort against Steve’s side, and asked, What’s the call, Cap?

An itemised list of all of Steve Rogers’ regrets would take too long, and a ranked list of all time would be impossible to decide upon when Steve has such a long memory and even longer history.

So, in its stead, Steve thinks, he’ll give Tony the right now.

STEVE ROGERS’ TOP THREE REGRETS RIGHT AT THIS VERY MOMENT, 0142HRS, DEC 31 20XX, COUNTING DOWN:

3. Rosa. He’d deserved the slap. He’d deserved a lot of things, really. He’d had good years with Rosa; years of her no-nonsense love, of her careful hands, of the way she looked at him in the quiet of the night with all the warmth their little home could hold, like she still saw something worth believing in him. Maybe she did. He thinks she probably did. His wife was a lot of things, most of them good, but above all else, she was never a liar.

He’s sorry he blew up her life. He’s sorrier about that than the fact he blew up their life together, but that’s always the way it goes with him, isn’t it? There’s nothing he’s felt he had to keep more than the shield. It’s not that they matter less to him—God help him, but it’s not about the love. There’s never been a lack of love—but to his bones, to his core, he’s always been the guy who wants to stand up and help. If the fight needs to be had, he’s going to stand there, fists up, no matter who he is, no matter how old he is. No matter how super he is.

He knew that about himself a long time ago. Maybe if he’d stopped pretending that had changed, Rosa wouldn’t be stuck here now.

2. It’s a little one, in the scheme of things, but it also feels more important than almost anything else at this moment. He wishes he’d touched Matt, that last time they saw each other. Gone are the days where Steve would clasp his friends by the hand, something lost to time and loneliness and gradually brittled bones, but he wishes desperately that he’d clasped his hand to Matt’s shoulder one last time. Just a moment. Just enough for some phantom warmth on his palms, a tangible ghost of Daredevil, not just something dreamed up by his mind in the moments when losing almost everyone he’s ever trusted is insurmountable.

1. He doesn’t know where to begin with this one. H-day. The way it went down. Peter bleeding out in front of him. James Stark growing up without his parents, the best of them both twisted into something Steve can’t look at directly without feeling hopeless, helpless. Clint’s arrow snapped in half, a crater where the Thing should be. His last sight of Reed Richards, stretching further than he’d ever seen before as he reached out desperately towards his wife. Tony’s voice in his ear: what’s the call, Cap?

And that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? His biggest regret. This one, he suspects wouldn’t change even if it was an all-time list. Tony Stark, the vibrant, blaring truth of him. Something Steve misses so desperately that when the world forced him to live without him, he made up a version of him to keep in his head forever.

It’s more similar to #2 than he thought. He has so many regrets, and so many of them are about Tony Stark—about that day, about missing people, about loving people and losing them because of the fight, whether they were lost in the fight or he left them behind to join it—but more than anything, he thinks he misses the feeling of Tony’s hand in his, pulling him in close, arm going around Steve’s shoulder to draw him into a hug.

I’m not half as good at anything as I am when I’m doing it next to you, Tony says, years ago, so far away from this moment that it might as well have been another world, and Steve, old and jaded and lonely and tired and missing the person he loves best so fiercely it aches in his lungs, thinks, You and me both, Tony. You and me both.

You and me. You and me. You and me.

-

(When the dossier falls open in front of him, with a blueprint of a tank and photos of him—photos of Tony, and even Tony in pieces makes Steve ache with something he thought had long been buried—spill out, let’s get it from the world’s smartest man, Tony Stark echoing in his ears—

Steve, for a moment, wants to throw up.

Then his jaw sets.

All right, Tony, he thinks. He doesn’t know if he’s addressing the ghost in his head, or the one in the tank, or some nebulous third thing, a Hail Mary thrown to the universe, some last passage of faith he thought he’d forgotten. What’s the call? You and me. That’s the call. I’m getting you out of there.

I’m bringing you home.)

[malevolententity]

Staring at you with my big eyes

(I know nothing about vtm aside from the suckening but it really interests me and I'd love to hear about about edward and the vampire micro politics)

HELLO!!!!!!! THANK YOU FOR ASKING!!! WELCOME TO VAMPIRE POLITICS 101 EDWARD TWILIGHT IS SO SO FASCINATING TO ME and i have no idea if charlie did any of it on purpose because i dont know if he actually looked that deep into the politics of vtm to plan for any of this.

how do i start this. youre getting an essay. dear lord this is going under a cut. because i gotta explain the normal politics before i can get into why edward politics is so fun for me personally.

everything below comes with a massive banner of context that i have been obsessed with vtm for a literal 13 years. so i have a lot of opinions on how stuff can be explained mechanics and lore wise. that charlie might not agree with and/or might not have been intending the read to be because we are two different storytellers.

SO in world of darkness (the book setting) there are three main political parties. there are the Camarilla which are traditionalists who created the rules of the masquerade and they want kindred society to be united and for there to be a hierarchy. this is the governing body that charlie has implemented and plays around with. then there are Anarchs who obey the general masquerade because they recognize its usefulness but they do not believe in a true hierarchy and bending the knee to The Prince of a city. and then theres the Sabbat who think the masquerade is stupid and think that kindred should live openly and blatantly rule over humans.

charlies camarilla is so interesting from the get go because queens are not a thing. thats a charlie thing. so were already off to a fun micro politics of what the fuck? hey charlie? is The Queen part of the inner circle and the head of the camarilla of the entire world? and you just invented a title? bro? because why would she as just prince of LA be called queen? female princes are still princes. so i work under the assumption that she is part of the main governing body for the entire world camarilla not just LA. because normal princes live in their cities. if she lives in fucking romania in umber castle shes not just a normal prince.

so within the camarilla theres a bunch of jobs but the main ones charlie plays with is primogen, sheriff, and prince. and he does a decent job at explaining them. primogen are voices of their clan. they are the most powerful person in the clan in a given city and serve to represent the needs of the clan within the camarilla. not every clan gets a primogen as it depends on if theres enough camarilla kindred in that clan to warrant needing a primogen. the sheriff is the front facing enforcer of the rules. who is elected by the primogen and prince together. and then the prince is The Prince. they are like a dictator mayor. they are the one who creates and expands the masquerade rules of the city to make sure that mortals do not become aware of vampires. princes are typically not elected; they come about from coups or if the old one wants to abdicate they endorse/instate a new prince.

theres also keepers, harpys, scourges, seneschals, heralds, archons, and justicars. but explaining those does not help with my why edward is fascinating so i can go into those a different time. also because we only have maybe two examples of those within suckening.

SO IN ANARCHS which charlie never brings up to my memory theres a lot less official titles! you have the Barons which function similarly to a prince but they will kill you if you say that; hate princes with a passion. cities depending on their size will have a number of barons who control neighborhoods/sections of the city. they all work together but compete with each other to maintain their footholds in the city and to resist the princes rule. and then the other main one is Proctors who just keep tabs on whos in the territory and doing what. which can function as mini sheriffs. 

so using LA as an example edward rules over the entire city but unless he killed all the anarchs in the city the specific territory of santa monica has a baron who also imposes rules on the kindred of that specific territory.

and then we have the Sabbat who charlie also never brings up. who also have their own chain of command in cities but also the world at large! the most important titles here for this talk are Bishop and Archbishop. a Bishop is going to be akin to a primogen it is a title that is given to a powerful kindred who then leads a large group of sabbat within a section of the city. bishops answer to archbishops. and an Archbishop is akin to a prince. they are the sabbat ruler of an entire city. every sabbat within that city ultimately answers to them.

a big thing with the Sabbat sect as a whole is they do not care about the masquerade. they commit mass masquerade breaches be it mass turning events or just having them run around in the wild doing whatever not caring if kine see a vampire using their powers or feeding.

Edward Twilight is a serial masquerade breacher. like theres no way around it. like yes he is a toreador so he is going to want and demand the attention of everyone. but theres a line. and one of those lines is mass ghouling an entire city and making a large portion of the mortals in your city look like you. that is an insane massive breach that is going to get the inquisition/grimslayers to raid your city because thats not normal. that is a massive red flag that vampires are there. that is a thing that only sabbat would do.

because even with charlies camarilla being his own spin on it and not 100% by the book. i can not bring myself to accept that a genuine camarilla member would pull the shit edward does. like it does not make sense to me. and thats slightly compounded by the fact that camarilla traditionally; even the toreadors; want to stay hidden. they do not like mortals knowing vampires exist they LOATHE cellphones because cellphones put a camera in everyones pocket and is the easiest way to make the entire world aware of your existence and status as a monster. and then your meet your final death when the city gets raided. camarilla toreadors chase fame and beauty but theres still a line ya know.

a sabbat on the other hand? loves a cellphone. doesn't give a shit if the world is aware of them because being known isnt a threat, its the goal. it is the goal to have humans aware that vampires are real and you can be one or to serve one.

so with all that said. i genuinely believe that Edward Twilight is an Archbishop of the Sabbat who has been playing the longcon with the Camarilla. because he is involved in the camarilla, theres no denying that. he has underlings that are clearly real camarilla and work in camarilla terms and conditions. but all of his goals that we know about just scream sabbat to me. he has been vying  for the prince position trying to get that endorsement from shilo to further legitimize himself and his hold on the city, that is a fact. but the amount and types of breaches he commits are the kind no right minded camarilla would commit and he does not have an affliction that drives him to madness. so to me he comes off as a sabbat agent trying to destabilize the cams.

theres also the factor of viv and vex. traditionally in VTM, clans are predisposed to certain political sects, with special cases made for individual vampires. in lore this is because the different sects will consider entire clans just a walking masquerade breach that they don’t want to deal with. so having them be a part of the sect is rare and special. now every storyteller handles this differently some are rigid by the book and some just do what fits best for the story they want to tell. charlie ran this in v20 and by v20 lore tzimisce are purely sabbat because they are an inherent breach. they are a clan who makes weird meatball creatures and turn themselves into literal flesh monster that barely look human. and in v5 tzimisce as a whole are welcome to anarchs but only individually welcome to camarilla. charlie mixes a bit of v20 and v5 because he read them both and touchstones are a thing so we know he pulled some v5 things. but with the shit viv and vex do i just find it hard to believe theyre genuine cam who respect the masquerade. those are edwards fellow weird little sabbat guys who are helping him destabilize and take over. they made edward sexy. they are the ones performing the procedures to turn ghouls and bloodbonded vampires alike into edward clones. that is the most sabbat ass shit ive ever heard of besides mass turning events and weird meatball snuff films

edward twilight is fascinating to me regardless of if m right. because knowing charlie and his love of bits and “well wouldn’t that be silly” it is likely that edward to him is just a genuine camarilla toreador primogen who climbed the ladder and his version of the camarilla are a little more lax in some regards. or because of the bloodbonding the other primogen and deacon won’t go against edward and his mass breaches.

but for me it is so much more interesting to think of edward as an archbishop who decided to infiltrate the camarilla god knows how long ago to become a prince and then probably climb up even higher into the Inner Circle because literally too many details line up and point at that being a possibility for me to ignore as coincidence.

because we do know that this campaign was supposed to be about the political climb until they all started playing and charlie realized that the boys ended up being more interested in the relationships and personal mysteries than an actual political power struggle against each other campaign. so i KNOW he had to do some amount of research into the camarilla i just dont know how far into the other sects that research went to have him genuinely on purpose make edward a sabbat.

and i cant wait for season 2 to drop eventually so i can learn if i put in waaaay too much thought into all this because i know too much about this system. or if charlie actually did an insane amount of research on vtm politics and i picked up on clues that are genuinely there LOL

i really hope this made sense and you enjoyed it! it’s like 4 pages long and if theres anything in here that needs clarifying i will gladly talk even more or explain other things within vtm because this is my favorite system and i do Not know how to be normal about it :D 

[stabbyfoxandrew]

i've written 3k of vampdrew today and 1.3k of arson neil... i am so powerful and sexy

[eddiesfaerie]

y'all this show the pitt is ruining my life its all i think about.....

[karkatbug]

🦀🕶️🫂

A tight, hot sensation works its way along Dave’s arms and sits at the pads of his fingers, which he taps restlessly against the cool, waxed wood table of their local coffee shop. He continues the motion despite his classmate’s evident irritation, hoping the contact would somehow encourage the feeling to pass through his fingers and onto the table via osmosis. It’s a familiar tension after enduring copious amounts of stress. Assignments, exams, working part-time. His social life, hobbies and habits. College had a knack for narrowing time and forcing life into a bottleneck. If you’re lucky enough to come out the other side alive, you’re left an exhausted shell of yourself, stiffly trying to relax your shoulders and convincing yourself that’s all you need and are totally fine now. Booking a back massage was pussy shit. No way in hell was he ever gonna let some man rub oil on him and get all touchy feely with his nude bod, no the fuck thanks.

Not to mention things were good. He’s quite literally in a better place. There was no reason to be rigid with stress now when he wasn’t going through anything like back then. Sadly logic did little to work out the knots in his shoulders. 

“Mind over matter my ass,” Dave mumbles to himself.

“What’s with you?” Karkat demands. “You’ve been fidgeting all fucking day. All week, actually! Usually I let your human quirks slide but at this point I’m starting to get worried.”

Dave winces at the other’s raised voice.

“I’m fine, dude,” he says quietly, hoping to lead Karkat by example. “Finish your thingy.”

“Our thingy,” Karkat corrects. Dave huffs and glances back down at his laptop screen. A word document is open, and Karkat’s cursor flashes where he stopped typing. “And I’m not writing another word until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong, man.” Dave forces himself back into his quiet facade—fixing his calm along with his posture. They work some more. He grits his teeth when a leg begins to bounce. God how he’d love to crawl out of his skin right now. Instead, he sits up straight, grabs the side of the table and twists one way, repeating the motion as he does the other. His back pops both times. He lets out a satisfied sigh. 

It’s still not enough. 

“That’s the third time you’ve done that,” Karkat notes. His eyes are fiery despite the lack of red. Dave is one of the few who know about his blood color. He knows they’ll kick in a few years from now, and yet sometimes Dave can feel the color on him. Or maybe he’s projecting. It is his favorite, after all. The color. Not the troll.

Karkat pushes the screen of his laptop down as he points an accusatory finger at the restless human sitting across from him. “You’ve also rubbed your neck twenty seven separate occasions in this past hour. You’ve kicked me in the shin twelve times trying to stretch those freakishly long appendages you call legs. I’ve heard your back pop more times than Egbert’s fucking “grandma” and I lived with them for an entire year!”

“Why did you put quotations around grandma?”

“My point is what the fuck is happening to you? Are you about to molt? You’re acting like your frail skin is about to rip open.”

“Your inexplicable obsession with me is duly noted, and flattered as I may be that you watch me like a hawk—sorry, a talonscreecher— you can park those observations back at the Target parking lot you were at just this morning along with that awful thing on your wrist that you bought from there.”

Karkat tugs his long sleeve over his wristwatch with a scowl and flips Dave off.

“I usually exercise,” Dave explains, figuring he was one more digression away from Karkat finally deciding to kick him back for all the times earlier, most of which were definitely intentional points of contact on his end. “And I haven’t been able to for almost two weeks now because of—” he gestures to his laptop, the cafe they’re in and the campus visible outside the window they’re sitting by. “Our muscles get stiff and shit if we don’t move. It’s kind of unbearable for me.”

“Well, go! Go run a lap and come back!”

“What did we say about asking people to fulfill your furry kinks? I know our recently established friendship is cool and all but I’m not moirailling with you, dude. Next thing I know you’re going to ask me to get on my knees and bark—” Dave sucks in his breath and clenches his teeth, fighting the instinct to yelp following the sharp pain in his shin.

“Fuck off, Strider! Suffer in that meatsack for all I care.”

“I jog at ass in the morning or in the middle of the night, there is no in between.”

“Those are our peak cram hours.”

“I know! That's why I haven't been able to go!” Dave exclaims. “I hate feeling watched while I workout.” That’s not incriminating to admit, right? Most people hate the gym for the very same reason. There’s no way Karkat’s tragic-past detector would go off.

“‘Cause of your Bro?”

Dammit.

“No,” Dave utters stubbornly while raising his knee for easier access to rub his throbbing leg. “Can’t a guy be a little self-conscious when asked to run around his school in tight jeans and a baggy hoodie at peak hours? Can’t a troll accept that nothing will fix me right now besides getting on my stomach, spreading my legs and praying some forklift certified fuck accidentally gets in a steamroller and runs me over?”

“Jesus, Dave. If it’s that bad… just let me sit on you!”

Dave’s mind is pulled in so many different directions that for once in his life, he’s at a loss for words. The imagery, one he’ll never admit to having, even if burnt at the stake, takes hold. It’s so vivid in his mind that he closes his laptop with an abrupt snap and shoves it into his backpack.

“I think we’re done here.”

“Humans do it all the time!” Karkat continues. “You lie on the couch and your friend sits on your back, right? John and Jade fucked with me like this all the time but they’d make me do it back. They said it feels good.”

“You have got to remember that those two are outliers when it comes to what is considered ‘normal’ by human standards.”

“Right, because you’re a sensible being and should be considered the standard life form for your race.”

“You’re not convincing me to let you sit on my back, dude.”

“Fine, but where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“Home?” Dave shifts out of the booth and shoulders his backpack. 

“No the fuck you’re not! We’re not even halfway done with this paper!”

“I’ll bullshit something tonight.”

Karkat follows him, protesting the entire time. Dave tries and fails to shake him off. The sticky heat of the summer has yet to take hold of the city. Accustomed as he may be, Dave never looks forward to it, and the dread along with his current bodily aches makes him clench his teeth and curl his fists. He snapped at Karkat once, two years ago, in the summer. He was in a bad mood. Sweat-slicked hair framed his features. The humidity sat heavy in the air and made his clothes cling to the small of his back. He was tired, his brain had reached capacity after back-to-back lectures. The sun drained what little energy he had left, so when Karkat tried to lecture him about his romantic life, embarrassing him in front of their friends, he was genuinely mad. They weren’t close then, but were in each other’s circle. Dave had regretted it instantly. Karkat was a good dude. Sensitive in a way that made Dave cringe, sure, and outright obnoxious at times, but it was from a place of caring. He was fooled at first, with the way the other talked and typed. Karkat Vantas came off aggressive, loud and arrogant, but in actuality was all bark no bite (though his throbbing shin would argue otherwise). When he apologized, Karkat hugged him tight and everything seemed to magically get better after that. 

Dave’s pace slows to a stop once they round the corner, officially off campus and away from the crowds of students. 

“Sorry,” he blurts when the other stumbles to a stop to avoid crashing into him. “For getting all pissy.”

Karkat raises a brow and tilts his head to the side.

Dave uncurls his fists and tries to relax his shoulders. He doesn’t want to be uncool like back then, two years ago. Not to the troll he now knows well. Someone he genuinely likes despite pretending otherwise.

“It’s not anything you said or did.” Why was communicating so hard? And so fucking awkward? Why did he have to explain his feelings instead of relying on the people around him to telepathically understand what was going on in his head?

“Yeah, I know,” Karkat snorts. “You just need to book a fucking massage.”

“Phrasing,” Dave smirks.

“No, Dave. I know what I said.”

Dave flushes at the other’s nonchalance. He hates when Karkat has the drop on him. 

“I hear you can request a happy ending from some plac—mph.”

Dave gets him into a headlock with one arm, the other going over his mouth. There’s a familiarity to the action. “Be glad there’s no table to suplex you over,” Dave threatens. He releases Karkat the moment he detects the other open his mouth to bite him. Yet another familiar action. 

They tussle for a while longer until they’re giggling as they pull away. The distance between them lasts only a brief moment. On a whim, Dave reaches out and pulls Karkat back in, this time for an embrace. Karkat squeezes him tight. It knocks the air out of Dave in the best way possible. Karkat pops his back and nearly lifts him off his tippy toes. God he loved this fucker’s hugs.

“Did that help?” Karkat asks with a small smile, sharp teeth peeking shyly over his lips.

“I’m not sure,” Dave lies, chest tightening at the sight. Shit. “Can you do that again?”

Karkat embraces him with all he’s got. Shit, shit, shit. Dave fights back the groan. He’d never hear the end of it if he made a single sound in front of Karkat. But he can’t lie, this shit felt good. He wraps his arms around Karkat and hugs back. It becomes a competition. They embrace each other until Dave is certain one of them is going to pass out from lack of oxygen.

They release each other with dizzied laughs and crash back into each other, initiating another round. This time Dave reaches around Karkat’s waist, leading the other to lock his arms around Dave’s shoulders. Karkat squeezes the tension right out of those muscles. Dave strengthens his grip until that tight, hot sensation that had wormed its way along his arms and to the pads of his fingers dissipates completely. 

They stumble apart with dopey grins, wordlessly resuming their walk home with nothing to fill the air between them but the sound of passing cars and chirping birds. He should have known. All it took was Karkat hugging him tight. Everything always seemed to magically get better after that.