#deep-damasked

[bardicbeetle]

vee the vampire snips - make it a mirror

“Please.”

The angel squeezes his eyes shut. If he just ignores the words—

“You offer me this and say I cannot be yours, if you would just let me in—”

Retreat. Somewhere into the depths of his own mind. His blood runs a trail from his throat to the floor. It aches. But the silence, the silence is worth whatever momentary discomfort he has to endure.

Or it would be worth it.

Were there any to be found.

The angel could end this.

Has always had the power to do so.

Any number of words could do it.

But there is guilt, and an unwillingness to give up what is familiar.

But where is the voice he is retreating from? Find something that makes sense for the last words he recalls hearing.

“You don’t want to be mine,” how often does he even speak anymore? When was the last time he strung more than a sentence or two together? Gave anything more than a destination, a reprimand, a goodbye. “you don’t want what that entails.”

These aren’t the right words.

“I do.”

Does he really?

Does he understand what he’s asking for?

Unlikely.

Could show him—fingers twitch—nails sharp—make it a mirror, make it the same. The ever present option to make him afraid again. To send him screaming. To order his mouth shut and have it be broken by the all consuming twist of flesh and bone.

The angel doesn’t want that.

Not really.

Decades of being side by side have shifted this creature in his eyes. The angel cares about him. Loves him maybe. But not the way he is wanted to. The creature is his, but that isn’t by his own doing. Hen chooses to be here, again and again. Chooses company that rarely speaks to him. Company that does not so much offer its throat as demand to be taken. Though thankfully some of the overt deference has been lost over the years, echoes remain. Direct requests are seldom denied. At least he looks the angel in the eyes now. At least he isn’t afraid to talk back.

Sometimes the angel welcomes his company, not that it changes his behavior much. He has long since stopped trying to be someone, anyone, anything resembling a person. There is a comfort in the disconnection, in cutting off so fully who was there before, and all the pain that person carried. He can’t always keep up the illusion. It is especially hard when Hen is so insistent on drawing lines between them that would humanize them both.

It is easier to pretend he is nothing when on a hunt.

When staring into flame.

And in the case of Hen’s presence—when his heart is drained to silence.

A pity silence can’t kill emotion.

The angel does still feel.

Little though he wants to.

~*~

@flyingbananasaur / @abalonetea / @meatandboneasmr / @captain-kraken / @revenantlore / @albatris / @excessive-vampires / @booptasticbadonkadonk / @indecentpause @afoolandathief / @dyrewrites / @mr-orion /

[perlelune]

no body, no crime | Coriolanus Snow | iv.

Your childhood friend returns from his exile in district 12, but he's not the sweet, quiet boy you once knew anymore.

Warnings: NON-CON, Plinth!Reader, Gaslighting, Drugging, Murder, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Loss of Virginity, Somnophilia

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

The warmth of the sun caresses  your eyelids as they quake open. You groan, stirring under the sheets. But instantly, you freeze. Pain cascades through your body. A soreness starting at the apex of your thighs and radiating through your limbs has you struggling to move.

Still, you do it, pushing past the weird feeling embedded in your flesh. 

Your brows collide as you attempt to remember. 

Where are you? How did you get here?

The damask walls are unfamiliar and the gigantic bed even more so. You comb through your memories but nothing surfaces, a violent headache assailing your senses whenever you think too hard. You squint at light pouring through the half-drawn velvet curtains. You peel off the heavy blanket, gaze traveling downward. Ice spreads through your veins. 

You’re shocked to find yourself stark naked, skin speckled with darkening bruises. Even worse, a tiny crimson spot stains the white sheet covering the mattress. You shudder. 

Your breaths start to quicken. Quivering, you grip the sheet, twisting it between your fingers as disbelief rocks through your core. The blood on it seems to enlarge, painting your whole vision red.

As you inspect the room, noticing the state of the rumpled bedding and your clothes lying in a heap near the bed, denial clashes with the blatant truth. 

It can’t be. Yet all the evidence is staring right at you. 

You start to hyperventilate. 

The door cracks open and your head jerks to the side. Coriolanus’ towering frame fills the doorway. There’s a silver tray in his hands and the smell of coffee and fresh toast rise from it.

You take in his tousled blonde locks and his half-unbuttoned blouse. He looks more disheveled than you’ve ever seen him. A gentle smile hovers on his lips. But, as he registers your distressed state, it vanishes. He rushes to you, placing the tray on the mahogany nightstand near the bed.

Face growing hot, you tug the blanket so it conceals your nakedness.

“Hey, take it easy, princess,” he whispers, brows knitting as his hands reach your cheeks to cup them.

Chest rising and falling at a fast pace, you stutter, “C-Coryo, what happened last night?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Concern sparkles in his cobalt orbs, pellucid as crystal in the morning light.

He caresses your face and gingerly says, “It was…a bit of a wild night.”

You scowl at his response. It’s not what you’re asking and he knows it. 

You lick your lips, gathering the tiny embers of courage sizzling within you.

You don’t want to ask what you’re about to ask. Hell, you might not even want to know. But you have to. You have to because there’s a pit of discomfort and confusion within you and it’s swelling by the second.

You take a deep breath and inquire, “Why am I naked? Why…Why is there blood on the sheets?”

His frown accentuates.

“Princess…”

You nudge his hands away from your face as your patience dissolves.

“Tell me,” you emphasize.

His jaw ticks at your reaction. He then releases a deep sigh.

“You drank a bit too much. We both did.”

A sinking feeling blooms in your stomach. Your eyes grow saucer-wide as the words are snatched from your tongue.

You’re statue-still as Coriolanus’ fingertips wander over your arm, stroking up and down lightly. 

“You were having so much fun, genuine fun.” His voice softens. “It was the first time in a long time I saw you smiling this much.” He pauses, holding your gaze. “And I suppose…there were budding feelings and we got carried away.” Your jaw drops. “You told me you needed me. And I had quite a few drinks myself.” He chuckles but it’s bereft of humor. “I wasn’t thinking straight. I don’t remember all of it either, just you begging for me and screaming my name.”

Warmth gathers in your cheeks. 

“God. You and I, we…”

Coriolanus nods. “Yes.”

Tears well up in your eyes. Coriolanus wipes each of them, uttering tenderly, “I know you didn’t want it to happen that way, but at least it was with me, right?”

You’re at a loss for words. Sure, it’s better for it to be Coryo than a stranger…at least in some way. But as naive and old-fashioned as it is, you wanted to save yourself for your first love, for your future husband. You looked forward to your first experience being one of absolute love and trust…one you actually could cherish and, most crucially, remember. 

Now it’s forever ruined. 

Your heart plummets.

“I need to go home. I need to-” Clutching the sheet against your bare form, you try to climb off the bed. 

Coriolanus seizes your shoulders, easily cinching you to your spot.

You glower at him, puzzled and frustrated. 

Still holding your shoulders, he explains, “Like this, princess? Are you sure that this is a good idea?” His soft inflection drips concern. He bends closer to you. “Your parents, William…What would they think?”

This gives you pause.

You lower your head, pondering his words.

Dread mounts within you as you realize how right he is. You could spin falsehoods to your parents until you’re blue in the face but they’ll know something is off the second they lay their eyes on you. Especially your mom.

One look at you and she’ll guess exactly what occurred. Or some of it at least.

It’s been like this since you were brought into their home as a little girl.

Nothing ever gets past Demetria Plinth’s keen eye.

Then who knows what they might ask you to do to preserve your honor and dignity? 

The thought makes your insides twist in knots.

You tossed away your virtue out of wedlock, you betrayed William, you besmirched your family name. You’re a disgrace.

There aren’t a million options in cases such as yours, and it’s a scenario you’d like to avoid. 

It guts you to imagine not only ruining your life, but Coriolanus’ as well. All because of one stupid drunken mistake. 

Besides, while it might be foolish and presumptuous in your current predicament, you still want to marry William. He’s the man of your dreams. You suppose it’s just a matter of whether or not he’ll even want you now.

Folding your knees, you tuck them against your chest and wrap your arms around your ankles. Tears stream down your face as you quaver, “I don’t know what to do.”

Silence hangs in the air as you weep, Coriolanus rubbing your shoulder in quiet support.

After a while, he suggests, “You could come to my place.”

Your head snaps up.

“What?”

His thumb presses along your collarbone.

“Just for a few days. It’ll give you time to rest, get yourself together.”

“No, Coryo, I can’t ask you…” You shake your head, guilt clawing at your heart. “I’m horrible and I should-”

“You’re far from horrible,” he interrupts, placing his long fingers on the side of your face. “But you need a little time, right?”

You give a shaky nod, despising yourself. You’re a coward. Instead of facing your actions and their consequences, you’re running away, hiding. 

“Just let me handle everything, princess.” His knuckles sweep over your cheek, collecting more fresh tears. “I’ll take care of it and it’ll be like none of it ever happened.”

“W-Where are we right now?” you ask, trying to distract yourself from the storm of anguish raging inside you.

“Oh, this is one of the many spare rooms of the Dovecote estate,” he replies casually, though you discern a hint of something. Disdain, perhaps? 

“Clemensia…”

“I talked to her,” he reassures. “Don’t worry, she won’t tell a soul.”

You can’t imagine Clemensia doing anything to help you but you suppose, for Coryo, she would.

“She also made sure to quell any rumors before they can start.”

Your forehead creases. “Rumors?”

He gives your hair absent strokes as he sighs. “People know how close we are, princess.” Your heart skips a beat. He angles your chin upward, his gaze confident. “Don’t you worry, okay? I’ll take care of you. All you need to do is trust me.”

You acquiesce and it elicits a broad, tight-lipped smile from him.

He rises from the bed.

“How about you grab a bite?” he offers, bending to graze his lips over your forehead. “The car will be here in less than an hour.”

A car, already? Part of you is astounded by his swiftness but your distress overtakes everything else. You should count your blessings that no one else knows about last night.

You take perfunctory bites of the toast on the tray and sip a few gulps of the tepid coffee.

Once more, you try to remember. You wince when another throbbing headache hits you. 

All you can see are Coriolanus’ bright blue eyes and his smile. Nothing else emerges. 

So, you give it a rest. Maybe in time, everything will come back to you. 

For now, you just need to trust your friend. 

You shroud yourself in silence the entire drive to Coriolanus’ home. He keeps smiling at you from the seat near yours and you return it meekly. While you know it’s not his fault, you find it nearly impossible to meet his gaze, an uncomfortable feeling pitting in your stomach whenever you do. Anxiety bounces in your gut when the Corso comes into view. 

You haven’t been here very often, though your dad often spoke of moving here, where most of Panem’s elite resides. The thought of leaving your childhood home doesn’t thrill you but you’re keenly aware of what the Corso represents in Strabo’s eyes. The sign that the Plinth family made it. And to add this kind of feather in his cap, your father would move you and your mother to a smaller place in a heartbeat. You know he is only waiting for the paperwork to be signed.

It’s something you’ve tried to forget as of late. And now you’re cruelly reminded of it.

The car comes to a stop in front of an antique apartment building. Your eyes wander above the window. Piles of rubble still sit amidst the place, a reminder of the Dark Days perhaps.

Coriolanus opens your door and offers you his hand. You accept it and stagger out of the car.

He removes his coat and throws it on your shoulders, swaddling your shivering frame. You’re thankful. You’re still wearing the same red dress from the night before and it hardly shields you from the cold. 

You can’t help but soak in every detail as you and Coryo take the elevator to the penthouse. You sometimes wondered how the wealthiest in Panem lived. Your parent’s house is nice but this is different. Every inch of the building from floor to ceiling screams luxury.

As soon as you’ve crossed the doorstep of the penthouse, slender arms wrap you in a warm hug.

Tigris’ eyes glimmer as they rest on you.

“Coryo said you’re going to stay with us for a while,” she chimes. “How wonderful.”

“Only for a day or two,” you correct.

She squeezes your hands. “Then we’ll have to make the best of it.”

An old woman appears from an adjacent room. She strolls to you, a small smile etched on her lips. Uttering no word, she presses a white rose between your hands. You examine it. It looks exactly like the ones Coriolanus sometimes wears on his breast pocket. 

“Is this your grandma?” you whisper as the old woman wanders off, humming a tune you vaguely recognize as Panem’s anthem.

Tigris’ lips curl skywards. “Yes, but we call her grandma’am.” She giggles. “It’s much more distinguished.” Sadness glistens in her amber gaze. “She isn’t…all the way here these days, but she still tends to her roses.”

Coriolanus wedges himself between the two of you.

“She’s tired, Tigris. You have to let her rest,” he informs.

“Of course. We’ll catch up tomorrow. Promise?”

You give a weary smile. “Promise.”

“I’m so very glad you’re here,” she says, hugging you again before taking her leave.

Coriolanus guides you through the apartment, his hand curled around the small of your back.

“I’ll show you to your room.”

He takes you to an opulent room with a massive bed in the middle. 

“I had a bath drawn for you,” he announces.

Your eyes round as you note the copper clawfoot tub sitting near the bed. Stunned, you approach it. Your fingers drag along the edge of the tub.

Flower petals float atop the steaming water. 

“I’ll leave you to it, princess.” He drops a quick peck on your forehead before disappearing.

You lock the door as soon as he leaves and peel the crimson dress off your body. You’ve half a mind to destroy it once you return home. Your mother would probably be appalled at that considering its price…but you can’t see yourself wearing it ever again.

The water’s burning hot when you plop inside the tub. You welcome it.

You bring your knees to your chest as you stare at the rose petals. You wish your worries could melt away in the water the way dirt and grime can.

But no such luck. So you’re left contemplating the tiny ripples form above the surface as you swallow yet another surge of tears threatening to spill.

A soft high-pitched voice draws you back to consciousness. Groggily, you sit up in the bed.

Tigris’ beaming face greets you.

“Are you okay? You slept past dinner. Coryo said not to disturb you.”

You look around.

Stars pepper the night sky outside the stained glass windows. You can’t believe you took such a long nap. You vaguely remember burying yourself between the sheets after your bath. You didn’t want to think, or even be awake. You wished for oblivion. So you let sleep ensnare you as soon as your head hit the pillows.

Your features scrunch. Your memory’s still foggy, but the headaches have abated at least.

“The maid can warm you a plate if you like,” Tigris offers.

You shake your head. You have no appetite.

“I just hate that I overslept.”

Sympathy dawns on the young woman’s face.

“Your body must have needed it. Coryo said you guys partied pretty hard last night?”

Your heart wrenches. But you try not to let anything show on your face, giving a placid nod.

“Besides, you don’t have anywhere to be, do you?” she inquires.

Your stomach sinks. You were supposed to meet with William today, but you can’t imagine seeing him in your current state. 

“No, I don’t,” you lie.

Your gaze meanders about the room. Surprise ripples through you at the wooden trunk you detect in a corner of the room by the wardrobe.

“What’s this?”

“Oh, Coryo had your things brought over,” Tigris replies casually.

You gasp. “But I won’t be staying long. He shouldn’t have gone through the trouble.”

“He said he wants you to be as comfortable as possible.”

A deep, familiar voice echoes in the room. “She’s right. After all, our home is your home, princess.”

Your eyes find Coriolanus'. His tall frame fills the door. He looks like his usual self now, his blond locks neatly slicked back and his outfit impeccable.

Guilt creeps inside you following his statement.

“I should warn my parents,” you muse aloud as you rise from the bed. 

Coriolanus shares a look with his cousin.

“Tigris, can you give us a moment?”

She nods before heading for the door.

You try to do the same, panic swelling inside you, but Coriolanus blocks your way as he stands before the door. He towers over you with ease, hands clasped at his back as he leans against the doorjamb. 

You give him a puzzled look.

“I already sent them a letter,” he reveals.

“Oh,” you mumble.

“I just told them you’re with us and you’re fine.” He smiles. “It’s the least I could do.”

“The least?” you scoff. “You’ve already done so much for me, Coryo.”

“Like I said, I don’t want you to worry about a thing.”

He licks his lips, scrutinizing you a while before continuing, “You’re not just a guest. You’re family. You can stay for as long as necessary.”

This makes tears spring to your eyes. You dip your head but his digits sneak below your chin, tilting it upward so your gazes meet.

“What’s wrong?”

Your voice comes out a watery croak.

“You shouldn’t be so nice to me,” you sob, tears skipping down your face freely now.

You erected a fence around your emotions and now the dam is shattering.

He slants his head. “Why not?”

You don’t reply, a flood of tears blurring your vision. You grow overwhelmed, unable to utter a word as strangled sobs spill from your throat.

Coriolanus’ arms coil around your frame. He cradles the back of your head, tucking it against his chest.

His dulcet timbre breezes over the top of your head.

“It’s okay, princess. You’re safe. You’re always safe with me,” he whispers, letting your tears drench his blouse.

[leomitchellart]

'Magister Illyrio murmured a command, and four burly slaves hurried forward, bearing between them a great cedar chest bound in bronze. When she opened it, she found piles of the finest velvets and damasks the Free Cities could produce . . . and resting on top, nestled in the soft cloth, three huge eggs. Dany gasped. They were the most beautiful things she had ever seen, each different than the others, patterned in such rich colors that at first she thought they were crusted with jewels, and so large it took both of her hands to hold one. She lifted it delicately, expecting that it would be made of some fine porcelain or delicate enamel, or even blown glass, but it was much heavier than that, as if it were all of solid stone. The surface of the shell was covered with tiny scales, and as she turned the egg between her fingers, they shimmered like polished metal in the light of the setting sun. One egg was a deep green, with burnished bronze flecks that came and went depending on how Dany turned it. Another was pale cream streaked with gold. The last was black, as black as a midnight sea, yet alive with scarlet ripples and swirls.  "What are they?" she asked, her voice hushed and full of wonder. "Dragon's eggs, from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai," said Magister Illyrio. "The eons have turned them to stone, yet still they burn bright with beauty." 

A Game of Thrones, Chapter 11, Daenerys II

[goodomensafterdark]

Writers Guild Cock Fight

Art by woaini_ogelskerdig

Summary:

Crowley wants Aziraphale, but does Aziraphale want Crowley?

Moreover, Crowley has the hots for Aziraphale, hasn't ever had the hots before, and isn't even sure what "hots" are supposed to feel like. He can't even cuss properly because every sex-related cuss word just reminds him how fucking (see?) confused he is.

But there's help on the horizon -- in the form of one Greek demigod they just happened to rescue off the side of a mountain. Not that our ineffable idiots have the sense to ask for help. But they're getting it anyway.

Written by startledplatypus, find them on Reddit and AO3!

Word count: 16,049 words

Trigger/Content Warnings: Explicit; dubcon; sex pollen; anal sex; oral sex; masturbation; mild exhibitionism; naga sex; snake sex: Ancient Greece religion and lore

Excerpt:

Crawly woke up on a low couch covered in deep navy velvet studded with tiny gold stars. A matching neckroll pillow nuzzled his head. The air was warm but pleasant, scented with cinnamon and cassia and… myrrh.

F---

“OH, my God,” he heard from across the… room? Well, it was more cylindrical than that, with fluted columns around its circumference and a ceiling lurking somewhere above. Night-dark curtains of tassel-edged heavy damask hung between each pair of columns, masking whatever lay beyond. Tiny lanterns floated here and there, strobing saturated, shifting colors across what little he could see of the lush, carpeted floor.

The Greeks did not have carpet any more than they had soap.

“OH, my GOD,” he heard again. This time it sounded less surprised and more mortified. And more familiar.

It sounded like Aziraphale when he’d realized one of his “rare statuettes” was a dildo.

Crawly groaned. Quietly. This was not going well. He thought about calling out to the angel, but changed his mind when he looked down.

He was starkers. Even his sunglasses were gone. And he was very… male.

Something made a muffled sound from not nearly far enough away. Then there was a thump, a quavery curse which might have been that awful “f” word, and a rather desperate groan. And a cream-colored neckroll pillow with pale blue stitchwork came sailing toward the demon’s head.

Crawly, too busy considering the ramifications of this situation, failed to duck. The pillow flumphed into his face and fell onto the couch-bed. It was, of course, tartan.

Shit.

A feminine alto laugh echoed around the chamber. And something ssssed.

“What the FUCK,” a very Aziraphale voice shrilled… and all the lanterns flared, revealing a too-tall woman standing on a low, round, central marble platform with a long, sinuous snake coiling up her linen-draped legs, over her cloth-covered shoulders, and down her bare arms. Its great head lifted, amber eyes lazily opening.

“Ohhhh,” it said. “Guessssts.”

Read more on AO3!

Special thanks to!!!

For beta-reading: DoonaRose, harlotupdog, ckocek, Paperclip_Ninja, and blackjeans93

For snek-jucation: blackjeans93

For ao3 formatting help: cheeseplants, GaiasEyes, mrscakeishere, and polychrome

For ART!: woaini_ogelskerdig

[doggvtz]

lachrymose

part I | part II

pairing: hannibal lecter x gn reader

pronouns: they/them

desc: meeting your new psychiatrist , hannibal lecter

trigger warnings: mentions of attempted sewerslide, mentions of self-destructive behavior/alcoholism/SH

w.c: 1,056

your boot tapped hurriedly against the tile, thumbnail between your teeth as you observed the area you waited in. the walls hung paintings, and the sofa you sat on was made of leather, damask pillows sitting diagonally on either side. on the far left, there was a leather chair and a wooden dresser, old books stacked atop the polished wood. at first, the aura the room produced made you think "old money", but now that you got a good look of your surroundings, you knew the doctor you were about to see had dignity, taste. expensive taste, from the looks of it.

the door opened, and out came a man, standing six feet tall donning a full black suit and maroon button up. you were right about his aura; there in the doorway, he stood tall, dignified, confident.

the corners of his lips pulled up in a small smile, and he moved to the side, arm motioning from you to the room. "come in."

you cleared your throat and stood from your seat, taking careful steps inside. his office bore shelves full of books, few paintings hanging on each wall. in the center was his desk, minimal and organized. in front were two brown leather chairs, about six feet apart from each other. like the waiting room and himself, it was tasteful.

he appeared in front of you. you nearly jumped from his sudden presence. "have a seat." he said, motioning for one of the leather seats. you did, and so did he.

"you're doctor hannibal lecter?" you asked, eyes scanning the room.

"yes." he answered simply. you could feel his eyes on you. he cleared his throat. "let's go over why you're here, shall we." it wasn't a question; it was a statement. you nodded.

"your doctor recommended you to me. would you like to say why?" he inquired. you looked at him, his eyes glued to the file in his lap.

"he says i need a support system." you told him.

"yes, i see that." he stated, looking up at you. "why does he say you need one."

you clicked your tongue, eyes flicking to the file. "is this necessary, doctor lecter."

"yes." he answered. "it is important that we go over the facts."

"you already have the facts. there, in your lap."

he nodded. "i want you to confirm them."

you cleared your throat. "he says i need one because..." you paused, tongue going dry. "because..." you closed your eyes, fingers lacing together. your boot tapped against the floor, and you wished then that it wasn't so hard to say. you'd gone over it in your head multiple times. "i tried to kill myself."

hannibal nodded. "it says here that you have a history of self-destructive behavior. alcoholism, drug use, self harm..." he looked up at you. "would you like to go over why?"

you shook your head, taking a deep breath. you peeled your eyes open, trying your best to look up at him.

"do you have a hard time with eye contact, y/n?" he asked.

"i have a hard time with any contact, honestly." you laughed, throat dry. your eyes meet the tiled floor. "it's hard for me to... be vulnerable like that."

hannibal nodded. his eyes were glued on you. you could feel them, a scratching feeling on your brain.

"tell me about yourself."

"there isn't much to tell."

"i disagree."

you looked up at him. "there isn't. everything about me is in that file of yours."

"everything about your disorder and medical history. nothing about you." he corrected. "what do you enjoy doing in your spare time?"

you shrugged. "i..." you sighed through your nose, looking at your hands. "i used to paint."

"used to?"

"i stopped when my mental health went downhill." you clicked your tongue. "i had no motivation. no muse, either."

"what was your muse?" you looked up at hannibal. then back down.

"she..." your voice shook. the noise of your doctor's pen was loud in your ears. your eyes shut tightly, tears burning them. "...was my mother."

hannibal's writing stilled. he looked up from his journal, eyes laying over you. "what was so special about your mother that made you want to immortalize her?"

you sighed, tongue in cheek. "when i was a child, i'd have bad meltdowns. maybe it was the noise, or textures... i wouldn't let anyone touch me... but, my mom..." you smiled gently. "...she'd get me my favorite stuffed animal, sit a few inches away from me, until i felt safe enough to crawl to her and let her hold me. and when i did, she'd hold me, and she'd hum a melody. sometimes, i'd ask her to sing, and she would." you looked up at him. "it was the medicine to my meltdowns, and was the only thing she could do to get me to go to sleep."

you looked back down at your hands. "that's the only good memory i have with her."

hannibal's eyes were still glued to you. "what makes that the only good memory?"

"because... every other memory i have with her... include her drinking, or yelling, or beating."

"beating who?" he asked. you looked up at him, and you finally let tears roll down your cheeks.

"me."

hannibal set his journal and the file aside. he watched as you cried, until you could barely think, and you found it hard to breathe. he got up, taking short strides until he stood in front of you. kneeling down, he reached for his handkerchief, pulling it from his suit jacket pocket and pressing its silk against your cheek.

you looked up at him through your lashes, watching as he dried your tears. his eyes meet yours, and the corners of his lips tug upwards subtly.

your eyes don't leave him as he stood and made way for his seat. it was quiet as he folded the fabric and slid it back into place in his suit jacket.

"you are my sunshine."

hannibal looked at you. "is that the song she sang to you?"

you nodded. "it was." you looked at the paintings hung up on the walls.

"why did you try to take your life, y/n?" he inquired. you looked back at him. giving him a sad smile, you answered,

"i wanted to join her."

———

a/n: i hope you enjoyed !! send me any requests/commissions you might have !!

[victorianpining]

Innocuous Events that Invoke The Deep Magic (BBC Sherlock)

[threadtalk]

Let's talk about color combinations. This, here, is one of the most lovely jewel tone combinations. Right smack in the middle of the 1880s, this dress is a delight of copper damask against deep, Navy blue satin. So much silk, and such shimmering contrast.

As is so common in this period, we see the (somewhat toned down) bustle, buttons to high heavens, and tailoring that is reminiscent of menswear (probably my favorite element of this outfit).

Also, the back of this dress! Those pleats give me the vapors. From LACMA.

[marzipanandminutiae]

It started off quite normally- deceptively so, as such things tend to.

"What, none at all?" Edith blinked over her glasses, the movement of her pen slowing but not stilling on the page.

"Surely you've met people with no middle names before. It can't be that unusual, even in America."

"Yes, but Thomas has two." Now the scratching finally stopped. A smile creased the skin around her eyes as she glanced at her husband. "Thomas Chetwynde Firenze Sharpe. I was quite surprised to hear the minister say that, I can tell you!"

Thomas rounded on her, albeit with more playfulness than real heat. "Curse it, I told you never to repeat it aloud!" Crossing the mezzanine with long strides, he took hold of her shoulders and mimed shaking her (an effect thoroughly spoiled by her poorly stifled laughter).

Their mutual wife rolled her eyes and resumed rubbing polish into the rich mahogany of the sofa's carved back. "Thomas has two because he was the heir and could do no wrong," she said wryly. "I have none because I was a nuisance and could do no right."

"I must have vengeance," Thomas interjected. Despite the lingering smile, a hint of concern had crept into his eyes, and he raced on, "I can keep silent no longer- Lucille, my love, the M in our own dear Edith M. Cushing Sharpe's name stands for...Melusine!" On the last word, an ill-considered dramatic flourish made him stumble a bit, and set Edith giggling all over again.

At that, Lucille finally looked up from her task with mild interest. "Was that the late Mrs. Cushing's notion? I can hardly imagine your father as a scholar of medieval literature."

"Don't talk about my father," Edith replied, automatically and without any ire. "But yes, it was Mama's idea. She'd had such a hard labor, and they picked my first name together, so it seemed right to give her the choice. I suppose I can't blame her."

Lucille hummed assent. "She cared. That's good."

And if pressed, in the weeks and months that followed, any of them would have said that was where it started. For in the next moment, after a moment of that deep-in-thought expression that creased Edith's brow so often, she said in carefully teasing tones, "Perhaps we ought to think of a middle name for you."

"Edith-"

"You deserve one! But it must be something that suits. What about...Macaria?"

Thomas blinked at her quizzically, but the object of her game merely sighed and adjusted the placement of a damask cushion.

"The blessed death- I suppose I should be flattered, but I question your assessment of the facts."

"Ligeia?"

"You may leave that drunkard Poe out of this."

"I'm going to keep trying," Edith said serenely, removing her spectacles and capping her inkwell as she prepared to descend the staircase.

"And I'm going to keep wondering why I married you." But the astute observer might have caught a hint of a smile on Lucille's rouged lips.

In time, the game would become well-worn and familiar- a name here or there, thrown out seemingly at random over supper or tending the kitchen garden or even lying sleepily in bed as weak dawn light crept through the attic window. Its roles were finite: of course, Edith acted as mischief itself, and of course, Lucille played the beleaguered victim.

But the latter party never cried halt to it, not in earnest, and the former never stopped.

Because sometimes, even thirty-seven years too late, you need someone to care.

(with credit to @gaslightgallows for Thomas' middle names)

[bardicbeetle]

Larkspur!!!! Got any fun story rambles to share?

Katie!!!!

I am in a bit of a writing rut right now, this year has been all kinds of fucked so I'm ricocheting back and forth between write constantly to cope and write not at all because the brain hurts.

That being said I've been running a TTRPG for my partner and some friends which spawned Vee and Damask so I've been working primarily on his story when I am writing (when I'm not working on my wizard101 fic but I tend to keep that contained to my fandom/personal blog)

ANYWAYS I've been chewing on Vee lately, both in text and metaphorically. I've been trying to figure out how to deal with his names over the course of the story, because technically he doesn't start going by "Vee" until Cassidy begins using it for him in 2006 or so. But he's. At least five centuries older than that. So.

I'm currently in the space of "Okay so you were Callisto from Birth to Whenever you Died, late 20s? early 30s? and there's that whole issue where you forgot your name on account of the horrible trauma. And then the whole church starts calling you Adam and treating you like the rebirth of a fucking biblical figure and that sucks. But some people keep calling you Callisto even though you're pretty sure whoever that was died when you should have. The Thing That Killed you Called You Angel, and you use That For A While, which Eventually Becomes Angelface when you start your little night club--" and so on and so on forever.

And I know I'm framing the whole thing around Cassidy managing to get little bits and pieces of Vee's history explained by him and sometimes others, which I could either take as an excuse to use whatever name the person speaking uses for him--OR i can try and timeline it out.

The issue with the timelining is that there is a big ol' stretch of time where Vee Just Has No Name, and that makes writing any kind of 3rd person ANYTHING really difficult for me. To the point that I am almost considering switching to 2nd person for that little bit, which feels weird in the grand scheme of things, but I really enjoyed writing in 2nd person during NaNo and it's how I write the majority of my tabletop planning so it's comfortable to write in at this point, even where Vee is concerned as he's also an NPC.

YEAH

so

that's.

what i'm rotating in my brain right now.

<3

[gentlyepigrams]

1880s. Deep red silk satin wedding dress with damask panels along collar, bodice, front, shoulders, cuffs, and in skirt. Glazed cotton lines both pieces. Bodice has button closure and skirt has built-in bustle and rouching across front.⁣ (the Maryland Center for History and Culture)

[starsandink13]

The White Crow Game Chapter 2

You woke up with a sudden start and your eyes flashed open. You sucked up a deep breath as you jolted upwards. Your shoulders heaved as the faint memories of what transpired looped in your head. Underneath your fingers, you felt a soft velvet upholstery.

"W-what?" You squinted your eyes and looked around.

Although it was dark, you could clearly tell that you were no longer in your workplace's restroom, but rather an old parlor room. The furniture was expensive and antique, dating back to at around the early 1900s or late 1800s. Even in the dark, you could see how rich the colors of the furniture was. You ran your finger against the velvet once more, feeling an intricate damask pattern.

"Glad to see that you've finally woken up, (Y/N)," a voice said from behind you.

You whipped your head around to see an extremely tall man turning on the tassel light next to his chair. He wore a red and gold coat with a black top hat that casted half of his face in shadows. Pinned to his hat and white shirt were black broaches with a golden moon and eye in them. He held an unearthly and eldritch beauty to him, with ghostly white hair that framed his pale face, sharp features, and red eyes with gold rings in them. His lips were pulled into a slight smile as he reclined further into his seat.

"Where am I?" You asked, unable to keep the dread creeping into your voice.

"An estate of mine that's on the border between realms," he answered calmly, took off his hat, and brushed back a lock of hair that revealed a pointed ear.

"W-what the--"

"What am I?" The stranger cut you off and crossed one of his legs over the other. "I believe that you humans call my kind the good-folk, the fair-folk, the fae, or most commonly: fairies."

Before you could ask, he spoke again: "And you're wondering why you're here, am I right?"

You numbly nodded your head, your mind racing with countless questions as you tried to process what was going on.

"Well to put it simply: I am here to collect your debt."

"D-debt?"

"You wished for your life to improve, grades to rise, a higher pay, better living quarters, and the internship of your dreams," he waved his hand. "I overheard you and granted that wish, so now it's time to collect that debt."

"Wait!" You stammered. "But I didn't make any sort of deal with you or anything! This is hardly fair!"

"Sorry dear, but you should have been more careful with your wishing. However, I am far more fair and generous compared to other members of my kind. I didn't suddenly make your life much worse than it was, steal your firstborn, or strike you with a terrible ailment the next week. "

"How can I repay you then? Money? A yearly sacrifice? A--"

"You'll have to come with me back to the fae realm."

"What? Why for?"

"What do you think it might be for?" The fairy's eyes glittered with amusement. "Think about all of the old stories that humans have told for centuries about us; long before you imagined us as tiny, glittery, winged people that frolicked in flowers and played silly little pranks."

"A- a servant?"

"Good guess, but that's not it."

Your stomach dropped at what he meant. Swallowing back the lump in your throat, you barely managed to stammer out: "The reason you're doing this-- why you want to take me away...is to get a bride, right?"

"Correct."

Your heart dropped and you leaned away from the fairy. The thought of being taken away to a land far from your home, married to that monster and left at its mercy with no hope of escape made your stomach turn and churn. Sweat rolled down your forehead and you gripped your knees as you breathed heavily and tears started to form in your eyes.

There's got to be a way out of here! Think, damn it, think!

"If we're done here, then I'll prepare a coach and start wedding--"

"Wait." You spoke up.

"What is it?"

"Your kind likes to play games and bets, right?"

"Yes they do-- however, I am an exception to the rule," he said. "But for you, I am willing to hear where you're going with this."

You licked your lips and took a deep breath. Your heart drummed against your chest as blood pounded in your ears and gripped your knees. His dual-colored eyes twinkled with amusement as he tapped his long fingers against the arm of his chair. 

"If I can escape this mansion of yours, you'll have to let me go," you chewed the inside of your mouth. "If I lose or I give up..."

"You'll have to come with me," he finished with a small smile.

You nodded your head, trying to keep yourself from vomiting the bile in the back of your throat. The fairy noticed your consternation and grinned wider, his teeth glinted like white daggers in the dim light.

"And why should I agree to this little game of yours when I can just spirit you away right now?" He leaned in.

"You pride yourself on being more generous and just compared to other fairies, so wouldn't it be fair to give me a chance to earn my freedom?"

"I suppose so," he mused and drummed his index finger harder against the chair's arm. After several seconds, he sighed and gently straightened up the front of his coat.

"I accept to play your game. But before we do that, I want to establish a few rules."

"What are they?" You felt your stomach clamping with fear.

"First off, under no circumstance are you to get help from any of the other residents in the mansion, nor are you to help them so that they may try to return the favor to you. You are to complete this game by yourself, understood?"

"I-I think so..."

"It's a yes or a no, my dear. What is it that you don't understand?"

"The other residents. What do you mean by that?"

"They are...what remains of those that thought they could cheat their way out of their deals with me," he answered. "They've been here for so long, that for most of them the only thing that remains is their desire to swindle you for their own gain: which can mean disastrous results for you. Does this make sense?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then on to rule two: the game doesn't start until you exit through those double doors there that leads into the main hall." He pointed to the golden doors a few yards away from you.

"Understood." 

"Now onto the third and final rule: the only way you can exit and win this game is by going out of the mansion's front doors. So do not cheat by breaking a window and crawling out of it. The only thing you're going to accomplish is breaking a perfectly good window and annoying me."

"I understand."

"Excellent. Now that we have that established, you can feel free to relax for as long as you'd like in here or ask me any questions in the meantime," the right corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.

"W-what's your name?" You licked your teeth.

"Since my true name is impossible to pronounce with the human tongue, you may call me whatever you'd like," he said. "However, do not call me what you would be insulting or belittling, or as your generation would call 'smartass' names."

"How about Corvin?"

"That's an acceptable name." He nodded his head. "Anything else you'd like to ask?"

"How bad are the other fairies?" You asked.

"Much, much worse than I am." He responded and leaned in, half of his face was covered in heavy shadows. "The old stories you've heard about us using half and metaphorical truths to manipulate, making crops wither overnight, stealing away children and replacing them with ours are very true. But those are just barely scratching the surface of what kind of mischief we do regularly. Any other questions you have for me, my dear?"

"Is this what you actually look like?" You scratched your hand, "Or is this just a form you're taking?"

"The general shape of this form is what I truly look like, just with a few...more humanlike attributes than I actually have." The fairy responded with a light laugh.

"I have one more question."

"What is it?"

"If I win, will I be back to where I started?"

"You mean going back to the life you had before I blessed you?" Corvin said. "No. Especially during my observations I've noticed how hard you worked in your personal ambitions once everything improved. If that's all of the questions you wanted answered, then now would be a good time to finally start our game."

Hesitantly, you got out of your chair and slowly walked towards the double doors. You looked over your shoulder to see Corvin grinning at you.

"Go on. You're just delaying the inevitable by standing there, unless you want to surrender already," his eyes shining with amusement.

With a shaking sigh, you opened the double doors and took your first step outside. With a phantom strike of an unseen grandfather clock, the game has officially begun.

[skyjanquest]

#miwweek DAY 1 - Favorite Song/Lyrics. 🌹

This prompt was definitely the HARDEST ONE to choose.

I love all their songs and I tried my hardest to pick my favorites.

I was in between Black Damask and Eternally yours, but I chose to dedicate this day to Eternally Yours for the lyrics and video clip because they're so deep and special. 🌹

Check out my sister @arkquackie cuz they're also making amazing drawings for this miw appreciation week XD

[alaynasansa]

‘ She knew how to dress ’

Sansa already looked her best. She had brushed out her long auburn hair until it shone, and picked her nicest blue silks

Sansa I — A Game of Thrones

Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling

Sansa II — A Game of Thrones

Sansa had put on a lovely pale green damask gown and a look of remorse

Sansa III — A Game of Thrones

She chose a simple dress of dark grey wool, plainly cut but richly embroidered around the collar and sleeves. Her fingers felt thick and clumsy as she struggled with the silver fastenings without the benefit of servants

Sansa IV — A Game of Thrones

She was dressed in mourning, as a sign of respect for the dead king, but she had taken special care to make herself beautiful. Her gown was the ivory silk that the queen had given her, the one Arya had ruined, but she'd had them dye it black and you couldn't see the stain at all. She had fretted over her jewelry for hours and finally decided upon the elegant simplicity of a plain silver chain

Sansa V — A Game of Thrones

When the time came to dress, she chose the green silk gown that she had worn to the tourney. She recalled how gallant Joff had been to her that night at the feast. Perhaps it would make him remember as well, and treat her more gently

Sansa VI — A Game of Thrones

Knowing that Joffrey would require her to attend the tourney in his honor, Sansa had taken special care with her face and clothes. She wore a gown of pale purple silk and a moonstone hairnet that had been a gift from Joffrey. The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms

Sansa I — A Clash of Kings

Sansa threw a plain grey cloak over her shoulders and picked up the knife she used to cut her meat. If it is some trap, better that I die than let them hurt me more, she told herself. She hid the blade under her cloak

Sansa II — A Clash of Kings

I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he's always liked me in this gown, this color. She smoothed the cloth down

Sansa III — A Clash of Kings

Dress warmly, Ser Dontos had told her, and dress dark. She had no blacks, so she chose a dress of thick brown wool. The bodice was decorated with freshwater pearls, though. The cloak will cover them. The cloak was a deep green, with a large hood. She slipped the dress over her head, and donned the cloak, though she left the hood down for the moment. There were shoes as well, simple and sturdy, with flat heels and square toes

Sansa V — A Storm of Swords

The dress she picked was lambswool, dark brown and simply cut, with leaves and vines embroidered around the bodice, sleeves, and hem in golden thread. It was modest and becoming, though scarce richer than something a serving girl might wear. Petyr had given her all of Lady Lysa's jewels as well, and she tried on several necklaces, but they all seemed ostentatious. In the end she chose a simple velvet ribbon in autumn gold

Alayne I — A Feast for Crows

Down below, Alayne must dress modestly, as befit a girl of modest birth. It makes no matter, she told herself. I dared not wear the best clothes even here.

Gretchel had stripped the bed and laid out the rest of her clothing. Alayne was already wearing woolen hose beneath her skirts, over a double layer of smallclothes. Now she donned a lambswool overtunic and a hooded fur cloak, fastening it with an enameled mockingbird that had been a gift from Petyr. There was a scarf as well, and a pair of leather gloves lined with fur to match her riding boots. When she'd donned it all, she felt as fat and furry as a bear cub. I will be glad of it on the mountain, she had to remind herself

Alayne II — A Feast for Crows

Sansa Month 2023 : day nine — wardrobe

[gravehags]

GHOULETTES AS PERFUMES I OWN (or have samples of)

~~~

Cirrus - Coven by Andrea Maack

This is a gorgeous forest fragrance with notes of soil, green grass, oak moss, and whiskey. It smells like wandering too deep in the woods one night and stumbling upon something you were not meant to see.

Notes: soil tincture, green grass, oak moss, whiskey, spicy notes, woody notes

Cumulus - Incense Rose by Tauer Perfumes

This is a gorgeous, heady amber scent with the very slightest hint of floral. Lush and dark like fucking in a church surrounded by myrrh, resins, and roses left as offerings. Sacred filth.

Top notes: Bulgarian rose, clementine, cardamom, bergamot

Middle notes: castoreum, orris root

Base notes: incense, myrrh, resins, Texas cedar, vetiver, labdanum, patchouli

Sunshine - Electric Sky by Tory Burch

This is a bright, ozonic scent reminiscent of standing in an herb garden just as it starts sun showering and the drops and beams of light hit your face. Notes of blue sage, violet, lavender are fresh and green while palo santo gives the scent warmth.

Top notes: blue sage, violet

Middle notes: cactus flower, lavender

Base notes: palo santo, vetiver

Aurora - Black Currant Rose by Heretic Parfums

This is a grown up rose scent, a don’t fuck with me even though I’m 4’11” rose scent. A sexy “call me princess one more time I dare you” scent. Bergamot and geranium enrich damask rose and currant leaves, with just a hint of juicy raspberry.

Top notes: bergamot, grapefruit, geranium

Middle notes: damask rose, currant buds

Base notes: raspberry

Mist - Baie 19 by Le Labo

My new fragrance obsession. This smells like a storm on a forested seashore, the ocean spray mixing with the berries and leaves of the wood as clouds churn above you. Patchouli and juniper berries blend with ozonic notes giving that fresh, almost aquatic scent.

Notes: patchouli, ozonic notes, juniper berries, green leaves, musk, ambroxan

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ 𝓑𝓮𝔂𝓸𝓷𝓭 𝓙𝓾𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽 - 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒱𝐼: 𝒜𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒯𝑜𝓅 ⚜

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ ✧.*★ Thank you again to @evren-sadwrn for the beta read!

TW: masturbation, smut fantasies, mention of drugs

Summary: Vincent finds ways to occupy himself while John sleeps.

Vincent wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway. Too many words circled in his mind, and they were all John’s words. “I don’t know why.” “Back off.” Well, what did he care anyway? Who wanted John, with his brutish bulk of muscle and miserably mournful chocolate eyes? He stared at the darkened silhouette on the armchair, listening to the slow, near-silent song of John’s breathing. It irritated him for being so calming, for making him imagine John’s chest rising and falling against his own, for making him feel so damn safe while being so completely out of reach.

John had left him wanting and gone right to sleep, the bastard. His hand twitched towards his cock but John was right there, and he didn’t trust himself not to moan. It was downright reckless to leave the window unwatched, but Vincent couldn’t help it.

Almost before he knew what he was doing, he was against the bathroom wall, across from the sink, his own flushed face staring back at him from under maple lashes, haloed by a row of bulbs above the mirror. He felt cheap and dirty but powerful at the same time, the way he did with the pretty Paris runway models he fucked sometimes, just for fun, no strings attached. Telling them, “C'est juste notre secret, prince(esse). Ne le dites à personne [It’s just our secret, prince(ess). Don’t tell anyone],” knowing full well that they would, that they’d show off the gold bracelets and diamonds he bought them, that they’d cry to their friends about how he was a playboy and get the next one interested in the dangerous Marquis de Gramont. It never failed.

He looked good, even in replacement clothes from some chain store, and better with the slacks unbuttoned to slide halfway down his hips. John was a fool. He’d like to show him how much of a fool. He shifted his back against the tiled wall, solidifying his grip on himself.

He imagined John seeing him now and begging, reaching out to touch him only to get pushed back by the tip of a blade under the chin, almost cutting the stubble at the base of his jaw. John’s begging only spurred on by the threat, whining even more, for a kiss, for a fuck, caressing the arm that held the blade, the arm that was now flexing in rhythm with strokes that pushed shot after shot of spreading, syrupy heat down through his thighs and up into his abdomen and out the tip in a mercifully slick trickle of precum.

He’d shove John onto the bed (his own bed back home, in his favorite pleasure room, a cloud of silk ruffles and damask), calling him needy and mussing his hair over his face, teasing him for his dishevelment until he was rewarded with that deep growl, so characteristic of John Wick. That low, snarling voice, so pissed off, so…His own throat released an inarticulate whimper of pleasure and he bit his lip, pumping faster.

He’d flip him, and John would let him. He’d let him because he wanted it, wanted it so much he’d be humping into the bedsheets and grabbing them in fistfulls even before Vincent thrusted rudely into him from behind. John would try to bury his face to hide the grunts of desire and Vincent wouldn’t allow it. He’d yank his head back by the hair, twist his neck awkwardly around for a kiss, see John’s eyes shimmering and tearful and pleading and so unbearably tender…

And suddenly the image was slipping out of his control, morphing, melting like wax under the heat that was now starting to white out his vision and ring in his ears. In that realm of unrestrained fantasy near climax, where the purest form of want crystallizes, they were suddenly not one on top of the other, but laying side by side, face to face, kissing tenderly, long and slow. John’s fist closed on the back of his hair, John’s hand wrapped securely around his shaft, taking care of him, John’s arm pressing into his shoulder to roll him onto his back and John’s weight laying over him crushingly just as he had on the couch last night to stop that panic attack. John enveloping him completely. John’s heartbeat pounding through both their aching rib cages into his own chest where its imagined reverberations sunk low into his pelvis and finally undid him completely.

Then Vincent was panting, alone in the silence of the motel bathroom, wiping off his dick. What the hell was that?

He returned to bed, relieved not to have woken John, and laid on top of the blankets, feeling drained of energy but not of racing thoughts. He couldn’t figure John out. He couldn’t figure  himself out. His charm had always seen him through, but it was failing catastrophically at the moment. That was no wonder - he certainly didn’t look his best. And he was off his game, unable to get any kind of read on John’s intentions. Perhaps he just needed to figure out who John wanted him to be. The right words to say, the right buttons to push, some way to get the upper hand. If he could just clear his head, he would think of something…and then maybe this man wouldn’t seem so tantalizing. He’d be conquered and done with, just like everyone else. No strange fantasies of…whatever that was.

It was near midnight when headlights swung dimly across the window. “John! Wake up!”

He jumped up and moved to the curtains instantly. The headlights passed them, stopping on the other side of the parking lot. John watched without speaking for what seemed like whole minutes.

“Bon? [Well?] Who is it?”

“Doesn’t look like it’s related to us. Someone at the door of another motel room. I think it’s a drug deal.”

Vincent’s heart leapt. In a moment, he was standing next to John, peering at a dark blue car on the opposite end of the parking lot. Unbelievable luck.

“What do you think you’re doing? Get away from the window.”

“Right, of course.” He fell back onto the bed but his eyes remained glued to John until he finally stepped back. Another wave of disjointed, artificial light bled through the edges of the curtains, passing over John as the car pulled away.

“They left.” He checked the clock. “I slept a couple hours. Should be fine. Do you want to go to sleep now?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, I can’t.” Would that car come back?

“…Want company?”

“Do what you like, it doesn’t matter to me.”

The light switched on, and then the TV. John flipped through channels, finding nothing. He settled at last on some nature documentary that droned dully on about the behaviors of meerkats.

“Pouah, pas ces ordures. [Ugh, not this garbage.]”

“Très bien, tu choisis quelque chose. [Fine, you pick something.]” He tossed over the remote. “De toute façon, que regardes-tu à la télé? [What do you watch on TV anyway?]”

“Pas la télévision. Film. Opéra. [Not television. Film. Opera.]” he said grandly. “…and Big Brother.”

John chuckled. “Je ne vous considérais pas comme du genre à regarder des émissions de téléréalité. [Didn’t peg you as the type to watch reality shows.]”

“Ce n'est pas comme si je le faisais tous les jours. Je suis un homme très occupé. [It’s not as if I do it every day. I’m a very busy man.]”

“Bien sûr. [Of course.]”

He settled on something more dignified though: just a music channel, filling the room with the tail end of a Vivaldi piece. It didn’t do much to alleviate boredom, but at least it was better than silence. It occurred to Vincent that this was an opportunity to figure John out. To test what sort of praise he might enjoy.

“You’ve been through a great deal for me, you know. I have not thanked you properly.” His tone was soft and contrite, a perfect picture of sincerity.

John eyed him suspiciously, but said only, “You’re welcome.”

Always so damn quiet. Vincent tried again. “I will give you this, John: you are a man of genuine prowess.”

“So are you,” he offered matter-of-factly. “You don’t survive within the Table without serious skill.”

A warm bloom of happiness spread over him, more intensely than it should have. He kicked one foot over the edge of the bed, swinging it. “And you’re…nice to me.”

This was the first thing he had said that seemed to touch John at all. He turned to Vincent. “I’m surprised that matters to you. Isn’t everyone falling over themselves to please you at the High Table?”

“Well yes, but…” He was articulating this for the first time. “Niceties are their own currency. People try to ingratiate themselves, to climb the hierarchy. No one does things without knowing why.”

“Sounds like hell.”

“Only if you’re at the bottom.”

“I’d imagine the top is worse. At the bottom, you can’t fall.”

“No. You’re already dead in the ground.” He felt that sick fear take hold within him. “Unseen, unnoticed, uncared for by anyone. One of the nonexistent rabble. Even within the Table, there are those who will live to build a legacy for themselves, and those who will die unrecognized, in misery and failure. Not to mention those who live beneath it.”

“So that’s what it is to you, to not be at the top? To be unseen and uncared for?”

He was suddenly more naked than he had with his pants down in front of the sink. But John was giving him total attention. This…this was it. This was what he wanted. This conversation that felt like pulling off his fingernails one by one. He allowed himself a little mocking exhale but managed not to fully rampage. “That’s not what it is to me, that’s what it is. Once and for all.”

“That hasn’t been my experience. I felt most seen when I was outside the Table entirely. Without hierarchy. But if you disagree…can’t you rule something else? Something that’s not the High Table?”

“Quoi, you want me to run for public office?” Vincent laughed. “Join the local town hall? No, the High Table is everything. More international than any government. It’s the top of the food chain. All my life, I have set my sights on it. As my father did before me.” He leaned back again, staring at the ceiling while Francis Poulenc’s “Mélancholie” flowed past them in glassy, light spinnerets of sound.

“What was he like?”

“A great man. An asshole, and I’m glad he is dead, but a great man. He pushed me to  become what I am today: greater than himself. I take many lessons from him. Do you feel the same about The Director?”

“No.” John said nothing further for a long time. Then, “Pushed you how?”

“Oh he never hit me or anything like that. But you know. He had a reputation to maintain. To bring shame on the family was not an option. …I remember I was late to sit in on an important meeting of his, when I was maybe nine or ten, because I spent too long playing with my new pony. He did not look at me for a week.” Vincent laughed, without knowing why. “He pretended, in front of everyone, that I did not exist. ‘I have no son,’ he said. ‘If I had a son, he would be punctual.’ And you know, that was always a possibility. Disownment.”

“Some great man.” John’s shoulders had gone extraordinarily tense, even for him, and he was gripping the arms of the chair.

“Well, now I am punctual. You’re too soft, John. This world isn’t built to coddle you and hold your hand.”

“Fuck that. I will hold its hand instead then.”

“And get yours chopped off?”

He held up the space where his ring finger should be. “If that’s what it takes.”

“…I’m tired now.”

“Do you want the music turned off?”

“No, I want…” I want you to hold my hand. Fuck. Where did that thought come from? He’d rather ask John to suck him off and get rejected twenty times than say that. “I want the light off.”

Darkness again, in which no one looked at him and he did not exist.

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[aquagirl1978]

IKEMEN PRINCE HEADCANONS - SUITOR DRESSED IN MILITARY UNIFORM (Chevalier, Leon, Sariel)

Chevalier Michel

You had lost track of time as you were finishing shelving books in Chevalier's private library. Knowing what a stickler he was for an orderly library, you were eager to complete your job to the utmost level of perfection and not leave a single book out of order.

Pleased that the stack was quickly diminishing, you allowed your mind to drift to thoughts of your lover.

Chevalier had been out of the palace all day, leaving before you had even awoken. All he had told you the night prior was that he was to be spending the entire day with Clavis conducting a routine inspection of a fort near the border. He told you he'd be back late and to not wait for him.

The last book in your hand, you focused on finding its right place on the shelf. So focused that you didn't hear the door to the library open and footsteps approach.

"What are you still doing here? I told you not to wait up for me."

Your heart sang at the sound of his familiar voice; a delicious thrill ran down your spine as you spun on your heel, only for you to make a fool of yourself and drop the book in your hand.

Chevalier stood, arms crossed, as you tried not to gawk at him.

Gone was his usual stark white cloak; replaced with a navy blue suit topped by an overcoat of the same shade, its collar and lapels trimmed in a gold damask print.

Your eyes roamed his body; it wasn't often his outfits were so form fitting. Biting your lip, your cheeks burned as you clenched your fists, preventing yourself from reaching out and grabbing the golden tie around his neck, and using it to pull him closer to you.

"It's late," you whispered, averting your gaze from the riding crop fastened to his belt. "I should be returning to my room." Ignoring the fallen book on the floor, you quickly stepped around it as you headed towards the door.

Chevalier's arm darted out; his gloved fingers encircled your wrist tightly, preventing you from leaving.

"Where do you think you're going? You're spending the night with me. Hurry and come to my room. Although, you won't get to sleep that easily."

Leon Dompteur

The sun was only just starting to set when Rio escorted you back to your room. You had spent the better part of the day with him and some of the other princes at a tea party.

Disappointed that Leon was unable to join you, you understood that his duties to Rhodolite came first.

You opened the door to your room, thinking you might have just enough time to fix your hair before it would be time for dinner. And that maybe, just maybe, Leon would be there.

"Leon!"

Your heart was beating furiously in your chest. While you were not expecting to find Leon in your room right now, you certainly were not expecting him to look like that.

Bathed in the last of the sun's golden rays, sprawled on your bed like the proud lion he was, Leon propped his elbow on your bed, resting his chin on the palm of his hand.

There was something different about Leon today, though - ah yes, it was the outfit he was wearing. No, not outfit. Uniform. Military uniform.

You stood there, silently soaking in the sight before you - the dark hat perched perfectly on the crown of his head, the pristine white gloves that hid his hands, the red accents on the collar and lapel rich and regal.

"Why don't you try flirting with me? I'm always teaching you how to tempt me."

A bright pink flush flooded your cheeks; it was clear Leon noticed your lack of words since you entered the room.

"Come closer," he invited, his voice deep and husky. "I don't bite. Unless you want me to."

Sariel Noir

You rubbed your eyes in disbelief; you were surely experiencing a fever dream of some sort.

Standing before the mirror in his room was Sariel, putting on his glasses as he did each and every morning.

But why was he dressed like that?

Rather than donning the traditional long robes he wore as a Royal Minister, he was dressed differently. More like he was a member of this military.

"It's not important why I am dressed like this," he stated, as if he were reading your mind.

He picked up the cap that was resting on the dresser and placed it atop his dark hair, completing his look.

He turned around to look at you, a smirk forming on his lips.

"Hehe, how about you try and steal a kiss from me? Just like I always do..."

Not one to turn down such an offer, you rolled out of bed and approached Sariel. Standing on tiptoes, you grabbed his lapels; pulling him closer, you tilted your face up towards his, successfully stealing a kiss from the devil himself.

"Yes, see? You can do it," Sariel whispered before stealing a kiss from you.