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owlespresso · 10 months

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lavender haze. vere. tags: fem!reader, alcohol, vere being himself, not 18+

The Haze is a domed Eden, straddled comfortably on the border between Hightown and the Amaryllis District, coddled between stained glass lanterns and columns of stark ivory, sat in the midst of a sprawling patch of multi-tiered gardens. Lavender curtains of wisteria layer this verdant paradise into its different sections. The stone gardens and artfully arranged hedge sculptures and various water features each a sight to be seen on their own.

You enter from the east. To your left, a triangular cut of land rises between two merging brooks. Perched upon that jutting ledge is a gazebo surrounded by pale roses and fresh foxglove, vines strewn along strips of lattice fence, affixed to the gazebo’s bottom half. As picturesque a place to meet as any, but Vere has commanded your company indoors.

Up ahead looms the Haze, a series of seven, octagonal towers of varying heights. Each one is domed, stonework lovingly etched and painted, shaped into candy-colored spirals. Hooded windows of stained glass prod out in even rows. Buttresses and arches link the towers, alongside skywalks which hover stories above ground height. It’s a mess of a building, a decadent spectacle which intrigues and befuddles the eye. Bricks and ceramics layer the towers in different patterns, a stain of vibrant color against Eridia’s greys and whites. It’s still smaller than the Senobium, built so that it remains comfortably tucked into the spire’s grand shadow most of the day. On purpose, you would assume.

A group of guards, clad in tight black and red uniforms roam the premises, prowling along the various plazas in duos and trios. Two of them eye you as you approach, as discerning as the towering doors they stand watch over.

“Hold it,” the one to the left snaps as you ascend the final step. Your brow wrinkles. They don’t turn away patrons, Vere had told you. That’s the receptionist’s job. “You stink of the road. And you don’t look like you can afford the flat fee. Scram.”

Your face rumples into a sour frown.

“I was invited.” you inform them flatly. And you most certainly do not smell—not after an hour with Leander’s fancy soaps. “And the man who invited me doesn’t like to wait.”

That seems to give them pause. The Haze’s clients are all come from places of great wealth and power—from some of the Senobium’s finest sages to the old nobility of Eiridia’s founding clans. Holding up any one of their guests could hold dire consequences for those responsible.

“If I’m late, I’m going to have to tell him why. And I would hate for anything to happen to two find guards just trying to do their jobs.” you press, resting your hands on your hips, cocking your head to the side. Your lips remain twisted into an impatient frown, boot tapping staccato against the white marble. The difficult guard’s face contorts with righteous offense, cheeks flushing pink. The leather of his glove squeaks as his fist tightens ‘round the staff of his steel polearm.

“As if any of our clients would want the company of some filthy little street urchin,” he snaps, voice rolling down the ivory steps and into the gardens below.

“Keep your voice down, goddamn you!” the other guard hisses quietly, brown eyes blown wide. “Or Vernal’ll have both our heads—”

At his coworker’s prompting, the ornery guard seems to settle down temper kept at bay by the threat of this “Vernal’s” wrath. Regardless, he still looks at you with obvious contempt, clearly unmoved by your vague threats.

“We aren’t letting you in,” he repeats. “I don’t care who you say invited you—not unless you have an actual, physical invitation or the madam’s personal seal on your person. Now, scram. Before we have to—”

“What seems to be the problem, here?” a familiar voice drawls from behind the guards. The doors haven’t been opened. Vere seems to slide from the shadow cast over the building’s entrance, heels clicking against the pale marble. His head tilts as he drags his prying gaze over the scene, lingering on you for a mere moment before turning to the guard so insistent on denying you entry. Both of the sentries have whirled to face him, both suddenly wrought with tension. Their spines have gone ramrod stiff, shoulders squared as he prowls forward.

“Just another tourist, sir,” the guard says, barely keeping the shake out of his voice. “And she was just about to leave—”

“Really? That’s a shame, considering I invited her here,” Vere says, flat and frankly unamused. The color drains from the guard’s face, and any satisfaction you could feel in the moment is cooled by the frigid, heavy feeling that settles over the vicinity. The lingering humidity so typical to Eridia’s climate has been sucked from the air, the cold hanging heavy like morning fog. “I hoped the madam’s esteemed employees wouldn’t be dimwitted enough to lie to me. I’ll have to have a chat with her about the gutter trash she decides to hire.” he croons, oozing condescension and disappointment.

“My apologies, sir,” the man bows his head. You can practically hear the restrained outrage in his voice. It won’t be enough to satisfy Vere, you know immediately. He should be groveling on his hands and knees for forgiveness if he hopes to keep his life.

“How dare you even speak to me,” Vere begins coldly, cutting him off without hesitation, “After harassing my esteemed guest. You were hoping to shake her down for some extra coin, weren’t you? I’ve heard rumors about the guards here, but I didn’t think you would actually be this stupid. Consider yourself fired—” Vere snaps, fangs bared and eyes alight with visible animosity. The otherworldly pink glints, catching the sun’s last rays. Behind you, you’re sure the gardens look resplendent, dyed in that warm, golden light.

The guard looks up at that, eyes wide and wild, unsuppressed panic written across his pale visage. “B-but sir, I had no way of knowing—”

A clawed hand shoots out, fingers fixed in a crushing grip around the man’s windpipe. Nothing about Vere’s lithe build belies the unearthly strength he levies, a forceful reminder of what he so unabashedly is—of what you’ll attempt to unleash over the following weeks or months.

The guard squirms and chokes. His hands fly to Vere’s wrist, legs feebly kicking. His struggles are rewarded by an even more crushing grip. As his bones creak and his trachea crumples, you can't help the morbid curiosity that you observe with—the strange sense of awe that comes with Vere attacking your antagonizer with such little hesitation—

The remaining guard stays frozen in place, helpless but to watch in silence as his coworker’s air is stripped from his lungs.

—Surely, Vere isn’t doing this for your sake, for some feeble, twisted notion of chivalry. He’s probably just annoyed at being spoken back to, by someone he views as so incredibly beneath him. Yet still—

Vere inspects his free hand, looking over his perfect manicure with placid interest. A faint wrinkle to his brow is all that potentially belies his agitation. The guard is getting purple in the face.

—And where do you fall, on the totem pole? Will he do the same to you if you get into a disagreement? Based on the interactions you’ve had thus far, you don’t think so. You hope not. You are in possession of something he desperately wants. And you like to think you’re clever enough to avoid the beast’s bite. You have to be. To fail is to sup on nightshade and the noxious shadows which compose him, to impale yourself on the razor ivory and sable of his maw.

A resounding splash sounds from behind you. Something’s been tossed into one of the streams close to the very base of the stairs. When you look at Vere, the stubborn guard is no longer there. There’s a small, red splatter on Vere’s cheek. His long, pink tongue slithers out from between plush, painted lips to lick it up. The remaining guard stands still as stone at his post, unreadable gaze fixed straight ahead.

“I would have just brought you with me had I known the employees were so eager to shake down unsuspecting customers.” Vere says with a put-out sigh, before turning to the remaining guard.

“Tell me,” Vere leers into the poor man’s personal space, sharp teeth flashing. “How many times has he tried that on other people? How many times have you just stood there and watched?” His voice dipped from sanguine sweet into a low, gravely snarl—a noise no mortal would be able to make. The guard, much to his credit, does not stammer or wither away or begin to beg for his life.

“This is the first time we’ve been posted together—” he begins, but Vere steps away with another, dismissive scoff.

“Booooring,” he says. He glances at you, motioning you forward. “Stop gawping and come on. We’ve already wasted enough time.”

Not eager to test his already dwindled patience, you hastily bounce up the steps. Perhaps, if you were younger and braver and stupider, you would have been embarrassed at how readily you scrambled after him.

“Sorry for the trouble,” you apologize, because he’s still in a shitty mood and your blood is not hot enough to make you forget the ease with which he can dispatch a man.

“And what, my little morsel, are you apologizing for?” Vere’s eyes crinkle with teasing mirth, the tip of a fang prodding his lower lip. How many have stared down that maw just before being swallowed whole? Countless, surely. “You don’t have to grovel—but feel free to. It’s almost cute.” All wrath and rancor is left forgotten as he turns on his heel. The sheer fabric of his sleeves sways with the motion, glistening underneath the sun’s dying rays. Like a hound commanded, you are at his heels, head lowered. You can’t even look at the remaining guard, but Vere has no such trouble.

“Keep up the good work,” he says, a sneer in his voice. Will the man have to haul his coworker from the water with his own two hands? Or do they have people for that?

“Are you going to get in trouble?” you inquire, stepping through the threshold.

“Me? Get in trouble? Perish the thought,” “No one’s going to miss a single guard—not even the madame. Especially not one that acts like that. All of his coworkers probably hated him, anyway. We did them a favor.” he rattles on. He leads you past the entry point, to the second floor. You spare a glance down the rounded corridor. An overpowering flowery scent blows in your direction, making your nose crinkle. Translucent, pearly curtains, more like veils, flutter from rounded doorways. There are sounds, too, giggles and breathy moans, which makes your ears burn hot, despite already knowing this venue’s many, many purposes.

“Hurry up,” Vere scolds over his shoulder, and you don’t need to be told twice, hastening your strides. “Like I was saying—no one cares if a random guard or two goes missing. That’s why they all wear the same thing.”

“The sages who come here to get their dicks wet are the only reason this place hasn’t been demolished yet. They could commit murder in broad daylight and management wouldn’t say a word.” He rattles on, deeply sardonic. The kind of bitterness that could only come from someone with long-lived experience. There’s a graveyard’s worth of skeletons in the Senobium’s closet. You wonder how many he is responsible for.

“A murder in broad daylight.” you repeat dryly.

“Broad daylight. Not sunset,” Vere points out helpfully. “The Senobium can do whatever they want, wherever they want, to whoever they want. This place isn’t any different from the rest of the city, even if the window dressing is nice. And as an esteemed asset to the Senobium, their authority naturally extends to me… And even if it didn’t, what could they possibly do?”

The conversation moves. Vere leads you up flight after flight of stairs, until you stop bothering to keep track. You’ve already leaped into the lion’s mouth. There’s no point in counting your steps or turns. Did he have to climb down all this way just to meet you at the doors? Suddenly, you find his ire more comprehensible. Your legs feel leaden by the time he leads you from the stairs, through an arched doorway. A current of air, thick with magic, ripples over you as you pass. A warding spell, you realize a moment later. Only select people can enter this chamber.

The chamber itself is massive, a circular room with a glass skylight, the soft shine of the stars flooding the room. The moon’s pale face peers down through the glass, shining off the marble floors. A circular bed sits on a platform up against the wall. The rest of the furniture is just as fine, all carved wood and black velvet. A bottle of… something sits atop an elm table at the room's center. It’s rounded with a suspiciously tall neck. Vere snatches it up, pours it into two crystalline glasses which sit next to said bottle. It’s a pearlescent, amethyst fluid. Curls of white and silver churn amongst the pale purple, the liquid covered in a glittery sheen.

“Here,” he holds out a glass. The fraction of a second you spend hesitating makes him roll his eyes and scoff. “What reason would I have to poison my new and incredibly useful little friend? Don’t be stupid.”

You take the glass begrudgingly, because you’ve seen what his displeasure looks like. The body crumpled in the fountain sticks at the forefront of your memory. It could have been you. It still could be. He knocks back the whole glass, swallowing its glittery contents in one, smooth go. You watch the rhythmic bob of his throat, the elegant line of his neck pulsing with each swallow.

“Happy now?” he drawls, frosted with forced sugar, like he’s talking a child into taking their medicine. The condescension is grating, but you fend the feeling off. You’ll earn more flies with honey than with vinegar.

Yet, you have to wonder, how would he eat you if he grew bored, or decided this arrangement isn’t worth the trouble? Would he swallow you whole, or sever you into smaller cuts, morsels to dip in honey and savor over time? What are you in your most consumable form?

You tilt your head back and drink deep of the draught. Thicker than water, not as viscous as you feared, or cloying like syrup. Sweet in a way that somehow makes your eyes water. It coats and clings to your tongue. You blink the tears out of your eyes. Vere laughs. You’re glad he finds it funny.

“Delicious,” you deadpan, licking furiously at the roof of your mouth in hopes of scrubbing the taste. You’re quietly glad for something else to focus on, because you feel hopelessly out of place amongst the soft silks

When you turn to look at him, he’s lounged atop the elevated mattress, sheer silk parting to give you an unobstructed view of his stomach and chest—all lithe muscle framed by the silvery chains which drape from his collar. You take care not to let your gaze wander, no matter how tempting. The long lines of his legs are just in your periphery, one bent and folded atop a thick, bunched thigh. His chin is propped in the palm of his hand, roguish smirk curled onto fittingly fox-like features. He’s looking at you, eyes two pinpricks of luminescent pink. Unnatural in their vividity, their glow.

You look down at your feet, at the floor, at the table. Anywhere but into those prying eyes. “What?”

“You look so lost, poor thing.” Vere coos. “Come,” you take a single step towards him. “Oh! But be a dear and bring another glass with you.

And so you do. Unfaltering and unquestioning. Hopefully, if you’re compliant enough, you can finally get some answers to your burning queries. It all ends with you flat on your back, staring up at the ceiling. He’s still on his side, only a few centimeters away. It doesn’t bother you as much as you thought it would.

“Why did you call me here?” you stare up at the myriad stars, an endless trail of them emblazoned across the dark, dark sky. If there ever was proof of a god, it’s hanging right above your heads.

“Do you really have to ask? I went through the trouble of inviting you and getting you inside just so we could be alone,” he purrs, an insinuation in his voice. One of his hands splays over your hip, fingers curling possessively into the thick fabric of your trousers. You squint at him, flat and unimpressed, ignoring the gnawing unease which eats at you. It’s been a constant, enduring feeling, crushing at the sides of your wearied brain since you entered this city. Yet, Vere brings it front and center, alongside a heady heat you don’t care to examine too closely. You school your expression into one of near perfect neutrality, ignoring the weight of his hand until he breaks, rolling his eyes as he rolls onto his back. Long waves of russet fan around his head like a lion’s mane, feathery tips of several strands teasing your upper arm.

“Because I wanted to get you drunk and pick your brain.” Vere replies, almost boredly.

“Hm. If you have questions, you can just ask.”

“You play your cards close too close to your chest for me to just up and ask you.” he says dryly. “Remember your first night here? You cowered when I so much as looked you in the eyes. Thought you were going to piss yourself.”

You frown. “Not true. Keep in mind that you stole from, grabbed and threatened me only hours before.”

“Didn’t stop you from following me into a dark alley after,” Vere chimes, the corners of his smile a little tight, a little too smug for your liking.

“Because you were the only honest person in the room. I knew you wouldn’t give me any bullshit.” you reasoned.

“And is that all it takes? You’re a cheap date, darling,” Vere purrs. You open our mouth to once again protest, but he continues. “You have a shitty sense of self-preservation, which means I’ll have to keep a close eye on you. Be good and listen to everything I say from now on, if you want to stay out of trouble.”

The encroaching haze blankets the edge of your good sense and sharp wit, yet another reason as to why you seldom imbibe. Even so, you only had one drink. Whatever he bullied you into drinking was no joke.

“Did you invite me here just to bully me?” you mumbled, on the edge of a complaint. Your foundations are fracturing. You observe the destruction of your carefully crafted countenance as though you are a distant spectator. Your oak spillars splinter, cracks spider-webbing up your brick walls. You’re left to flounder about in the debris, but it’s not as alarming as you assumed it would be. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but you can’t bring yourself to reach that fever pitch of fear.

“Oh,. please. I haven’t even started bullying you yet,” Vere clicks his tongue, chiding.

“Well. You’ve already tried to shake me down with my own roomkey. That’s kind of like… stealing my lunch money… I should have tattled to Leander.”

“Ew, no. That slime doesn’t deserve any more excuses to talk to me,” Vere reaches over to his nightstand and gulps down another dose of amethyst bliss, arching his back and raising his arms above his head in one, serpentine stretch. “We have to move you out of that shithole as soon as possible. I don’t trust that freak.”

“Me neither,” you muse, realizing it aloud, in that very moment. “Who gives out free food and board to someone they just met like that? He said I didn’t owe him anything, but—”

“He could take that back at any time. And what could you do about it?” Vere finishes for you, looking at you with an unreadable expression, pink eyes calm and flat. “Tell him ‘no’? On his turf? Full of his drooling goons? They practically run that part of the city. He could find you no matter where you hide or who you pretend to be.” Vere murmurs. You tilt your head to look at him. You glance down at his lips and swallow. That gets him to smile, smug and mischievous. No more of that monotone dread, that sense of being evaluated, the feeling of being sized up like a meal.

“Why are you helping me?” Vere asks after a long moment of silence. You blink at him. “I was surprised when you decided to take me up on my offer.”

“You said you can get rid of my curse,” you regard him carefully, ruminating over each word. Or maybe it’s the substance. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, thoughts slow and sticky like summer haze.

“Bullshit. You wanted nothing to do with me even after I made that offer, and I have no doubt that slobbering beast Leander made you a similar one. Did he promise?” Vere’s voice dips into something sugary sweet and mocking, a mean edge to his smile now. “Did he hold your hand, look right into your eyes when he said it? Was he on his knees? That’s one of his favorite places to be. Really, it’s the only place he’s of any use.” Vere pries and rattles on. The small space between you feels cold, all of the sudden. Still, you are not sobered. “Why not cozy up to him? Or that fucking doctor, because I just know he offered.” His tail comes to lay over your thigh. You look at it through hardly open eyes.

Something seizes the underside of your jaw. It takes you a moment to realize that it’s Vere’s hand. His nails bite into your cheek as he forces your attention upwards, into the dark maw of his gaze. Your hands, which have flown to his wrist on sheer instinct, freeze.

“I don’t know,” you begin, words falling out of your mouth in a current, previous caution utterly forgotten in the face of animal fear. “You’re dangerous—but you’re honest—and I don’t know why you were locked up or what’ll happen when you get free, but I also don’t really care.”

“You don’t care?” Vere inquires, lips curling into another smile. He looks relentlessly amused. “What if I told you… that I plan to eat every man, woman and child I see after I get out? I’ve been hungry for that kind of flesh since before you ever dreamed of coming to Eridia. Eating off the same menu for centuries will do that to you. And they won’t stand a prayer, you know. Do you really not care?”

“I probably should, but I think… I realized I can’t worry about everyone, especially people I don’t know. I’m not Leander. I’m not delusional enough to think I can save everyone.” Your pulse rings slow in your ears. It’s grounding, somehow.

Vere releases you, the tight warmth of his hand gone with him. If you were sober, perhaps you would be mortified at how much you miss it.

“You can’t play nanny to every poor sod that comes crawling up to you on the street.” Vere observes airily. “I suppose that’s a start.”

“Gee,” you say.

“Oh, please. Don’t pout,” he tuts, tapping you on the nose. He’s closer now, pressed right up against your side. “Human morality is the first hurdle to realizing our goals.” he drawls, lifting himself over you as he continues. His knees dip into the mattress on either side of your hips, eyes go bright through the lavender haze which permeates the room. “You’ve mounted it with flying colors. Now, do I need to throw in a little extra something to get you to stop moping? I wouldn’t do this for just anyone, but you’ve been such a good—”

He rattles on, voice falling to the wayside as his plump lips run absentmindedly along your jaw. Your world becomes that single, molten point of contact. Your head tilts to the side, eyelids dipping low as he whispers his filth into your skin. Little pinpricks of pleasure wind straight down your spine, throbbing pleasure building between your thighs.

The tips of his hair tickle your exposed skin, where your shirt has ridden up to expose a sliver of stomach. Belly-up, you realize idly, close enough for him to dig straight into your soft center.

“Surmounted,” you mumble groggily.

“Pardon?” Vere asks, looking up at you with one eye. His face is half-pressed into the column of your throat. A fang peeks out from between his lips. There’s a pleasant numbness settled at the back of your skull, a silvery sense of weightlessness. Whatever you were worried about before has been washed away by that dreamy lavender, that pearlescent hue which even now veils your vision.

“Before—you said I mounted it. But you, uhm, meant to say. Surmounted.”

Vere reaches out and pinches your cheek. “You have me in your lap and that’s what you’re thinking about?” He settles atop of you, chest-to-chest, one cheek gracefully perched atop his palm. “I don’t know if I should be offended or worried. That brain of yours isn’t smoothing out, is it? Your skull isn’t getting soft?”

“I’m drunk,” you remind him, still coherent enough to try and inch away from his hand, nose wrinkling. You stretch your neck until the muscles creak in protest, smooshing the back of your head into the pillow.

His finger freezes a centimeter above you, and he laughs. “You are, aren't you? Forgot about all that.”

“You’re the one who made me drink,” you grumble.

“Ah, ah, ah, I didn’t make you do anything. I simply offered my honored guest a refreshing beverage, like any half-decent host would,” Vere tuts. “Trying to blame my good manners for your sloppiness? You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m not really cute,” you hum, reaching over to gently toy with his hair.

“Don’t be dense,” Vere coos, pressing his finger against the tip of your nose. Your eyes cross to look at it. He snorts, privy to some sort of irony beyond your current ken. His hair gleams like… rubies under the watery light. It’s soft as it looks, silken and smooth where it washes over the sheets in tides of russet.

He sighs, “I could swallow you whole here and now and you couldn’t do a single thing to stop me.” he says, wistful.

“I know, but I would taste like—like that weird nut stuff the Wick makes.”

“Nut stuff? Now you’ve caught my attention,” he purrs in a way that even drunk, you know spells trouble.

“I don’t mean anything—dirty. Y’know, the stuff they put on the counter. It tastes bad,” you stammer. You blink several times in succession, as though it’ll make your thoughts less syrupy. The world still blurs at the edges of your vision. You’re thinking through a layer of cotton.

“Of course it tastes bad, it’s free,” Vere retorts. “Nothing worth anything comes for free. Not in this shithole.” You hum in consideration. His bushy tail is still behind him, rested off to the side, next to your thigh. You don’t dare touch it, even though you’ve already touched his hair.

He radiates warmth, and you find yourself lulled by it in combination with the downy soft mattress at your back. You make a small sound, nestling closer to the heat, to the craven beast with nary a peep of protest. Perhaps being devoured is a far better fate than you initially thought. Because it’ll at least be warm inside. Warm like the breath which fans over your cheek.

“Got to come here for free,” you mumble in the last throes of consciousness. There’s a pause.

“Well, aren’t you sweet,” he says, voice dripping with fond condescension. He says something else, and something else. Vere, you get the sense, sometimes talks more for himself than he does for others. But you can’t say you mind, because you say so little. And what a wonderful ability, to be able to spin such incredible weaves of conversation out of thin air. Not that you’ll ever tell him as much.

Soft lips press to the space above your brow. In the dark, a small voice whispers. “You’ll pay your dues later.”

---

Run, the fawn within you, weak and knobby-kneed, beseeches. Its cries go unheeded.

#oz write #vere #vere/reader #touchstarved/reader #touchstarved game

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