#has it been long enough for our sins to be forgotten?

[rebekahgaveup]

Maybe now that Taylor is single again she'll be bored enough to come back on Tumblr

[pearlessance]

Our Little Secret [part two]

[PART ONE]

Summary - Joel Miller has commited an act of sin with the girl next door and seeks out penance.

Pairing - dbf!Joel Miller/Reader

Warnings - explicit sexual content MDNI, angst, infidelity (not against reader or Joel), heavy on the breeding kink towards the end, jealousy, oral sex, unprotected sex

[crossposted on AO3]

Joel’s fears return with the sun and are amplified tenfold when he wakes up alone. 

You must have come to your senses, he thinks. Must have finally seen him for the terrible man he truly is and escaped while you still could. Like fleeing from a predator's clutches; because that’s what he was, wasn’t it? A predator? A man who exploits young girls for his own benefit, who takes advantage of them in an act of personal desire. His stomach turns. 

Except that isn’t the whole truth. It isn’t the plural form of girls, it’s just one. Just you. You, who he wants to nurture, to protect, to take care of in the way a man is supposed to take care of a woman. You, who entices him with short skirts and soft touches and tempting words about keeping you all to himself. They must have been words said in the afterglow of sex, Joel tells himself. They didn’t mean anything. Right? Endorphins were high because all of that long laid, pent up sexual tension finally came to fruition. But it was over now, and Joel was alone. Again. 

The abrupt shattering of glass slashes through his bleak thoughts. He wrenches himself out of bed, takes the stairs two at a time, and stops in the kitchen. 

You’re still here, and Joel can breathe a little easier, but there’s glass at your bare feet, and that’s a problem. “Don’t move,” he says. He turns to grab the broom, but out of the corner of his eye he sees movement and repeats a little harsher this time, “Don’t. Move.”

“I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed,” you say, your lips pushed out into the cutest little pout. 

He sweeps the glass away from you, careful to get every last piece, and dumps the shards into the trash can. It’s only then, when he knows for certain the risk of harm has well and truly passed and he’s the only threat to you left in the room, that Joel can appreciate the sight before him. There’s a heaping plate full of pancakes on the counter, a mug of steaming coffee, and the orange juice carton, unopened, is sitting beside two forks. The pancake on the top of the stack has chocolate chips in it. 

Maybe its because he never thought you’d actually do it, or maybe it’s because of the grim mood he’d just been in, but Joel finds himself feeling appreciative for more than just breakfast. It reminds him of that morning all those years ago, when you’d been in his kitchen wearing his flannel. He wonders if you still have it, if you still wear it, if you still put it on and think of him late at night. You’re wearing something new this time. It’s just an old, faded t-shirt Joel had forgotten about at the back of his closet, one he hadn’t worn in years. It swallows you up. It’s long enough to cover all of your most intimate parts, and yet somehow you still make it look sexy and erotic and slutty.

He knows it's wrong. He knows its a terrible, awful idea…but it’s the next morning and you’re still here and Joel just cant’t help himself. He smiles softly at you. “It’s okay,” he promises. He closes the distance between you, crowding you against the counter. He puts his hands on your hips and you look up at him with parted lips. “I won’t make it back upstairs anyway. I’m too hungry.”

You put your hands on his bare chest, delicate, red painted nails scratching softly against his skin. “Is that right?”

Joel nods, and decides to soak up the moment. Your hair is tangled around your shoulders, and you smell like him, and your makeup is smeared around your eyes, and he thinks you’re beautiful. He never wants to forget the way you look right now, in his clothes, in his kitchen, in his hands. He can’t help himself from leaning his head against your shoulder and kissing the juncture of your collar bone. He can’t help himself from tasting you, from using his teeth, from leaving a bruise to make certain he’s in your head for a few more days. He wants the sound of your breathy moan embedded in his fucking brain, wants it stamped in his skin. “Yes,” he answers, lifting you up with his big arms around your waist and setting you on the counter. “I’m starving, actually.”

Starved is such a perfect term for it, he thinks. Because Joel lowers himself to his knees before you, and his mouth waters like he hasn’t eaten in days. He massages the supple flesh of your thighs, presses his mouth to the inside, and leaves marks there, too. He has suffered for so, so long without you. And if you come to your senses, he wants you to think of him every time you look in a mirror. 

He wants you to think of him and the way he makes you feel, wants you to think of the way your legs part for him on instinct, like your body knows him. If you come to your senses, Joel wants you to remember for the rest of your fucking life how it feels to have his tongue inside of you, to have your clit between his lips, to have your hands in his hair. 

He wants you to remember what it’s like to grind your pretty pussy on his face, what it’s like to have his fingers inside of you, what it’s like to shake and tremble at his touch and whine when he pulls away moments before you cum. He wants you to remember the lingering taste of yourself in his mouth when he kisses you, wants you to remember how fucking perfect it feels when he pulls his cock out of his sweatpants and buries it deep inside you. You like it when he pushes in so far there’s no telling where you end and he begins, Joel knows. You make the prettiest sounds, and your hands grip his shoulders a little tighter. You’re so needy for him it’s unreal, so reactive, so perfect. He wants you to remember what it feels like when he kisses you with all the love he has left in him, hoping you can hear the words in his movements. He wants you to remember what it feels like to cum on his cock and leave a mess on the counter.

Joel wants you to remember what it’s like to be so desperate for him you call out for God.

When the two of you finally get around to eating the breakfast you spent all morning making, the pancakes are cold and the coffee is tepid. Joel wonders why it’s still the best cup he’s ever had.

After breakfast, your cell phone buzzes. It’s a voicemail from campus housing, and Joel realizes you can’t stay here in his kitchen forever. You help him clean up the dishes, and the counter where he made a mess of you, and then you abandon his old, faded t-shirt and pull your dress back on. He helps you find your shoes (and conveniently fails to mention the pink panties still stuck between the couch cushions. Joel is a terrible, sordid man, and stealing a bit of lace is the least of his recent transgressions). You pick up the Evil Dead DVD, and start to leave. 

But just as your fingers touch the handle, the door is swinging open and Sarah is standing in the threshold.

Joel doesn’t know what to do. His heart is stuck in his throat, and he sort of feels like a kid again, being caught by Tommy while sneaking back in through his window. He doesn’t know how to explain, doesn’t know where to begin, is terrified his daughter will begin to see him differently, or— 

“Perfect timing,” you say, and Joel is more confused than he’s ever been in his life. “Here.” You hand the DVD to Sarah, who’s face splits into a grin the moment she reads the title. “I have to head back to campus today, but wanted to give this to you before I go. Figured you’d get more use out of it than I would.”

“Oh, fuck yeah!”

“Language,” Joel chastises. 

You and Sarah both turn your heads to him simultaneously, and shoot him mirrored dismissive looks. Joel knows his only child is older now, growing into a young woman with a colorful vocabulary, but that doesn’t mean he wants to hear it.

Sarah turns to you, cheery demeanor falling away. “I wish you could stay,” she says. “I miss having you around.”

Joel does too, but he keeps his mouth sealed firmly shut. 

When you’re gone, he feels empty. He falls back into his normal routine of work and beer and pool, and you leave town to finish up your school year, and the only time he ever hears about you is when your dad drinks a couple too many and talks about you over the football game on TV. Joel hears about how you finish your junior year of college, still with those straight A's, and he feels the need to express how proud he is of you. Because he really, really is…but it’s your dad’s job to gush about what an extraordinary woman you’ve become. Not Joel’s. So, he keeps his mouth shut about that, too. 

He thinks about the saying distance makes the heart grow fonder, and thinks it’s such bullshit. Because the longer you’re away, the more he realizes how stupid he’s been. How dispicable and sleazy he’s been, how he could have potentially fucked up not only his relationship with his very best friend but with his own daughter, too. You deserve more than what he can offer, Joel knows. You deserve someone to experience being a young adult with, someone who you can relate to, someone who can take care of you for the rest of your life. You deserve someone better than Joel, and even though it hurts to admit, he does it. Distance has made his heart grow smarter.

Sarah graduates, and you stay in town for only two days to attend her graduation party. Your dad offers to host the celebration in his backyard, and Joel reminisces about your graduation party. He remembers how pretty you looked, how happy you were that day. And when you come back to town to celebrate his daughter, he loves that you’re still so bubbly and airy and carefree. He loves that you spend an entire day with Sarah picking out decorations and hanging up streamers and ordering cupcakes and making a poster board filled with Sarah’s favorite pictures.

During the party, you’re leaning your shoulder against the fence, red solo cup in hand, talking to Tommy. You’re wearing a black skirt that’s too short, too tight, and you have a pretty pink blouse tucked into it. When you cross one leg casually over the other, Joel realizes you have a run in your sheer, black tights. How did that get there, he wonders? He wonders too, why you’re giggling like that when Tommy just isn’t that fucking funny. 

Joel crosses the yard and twists off the top of his beer. “You two enjoying yourselves?”

“Yeah! It’s been a great turn out, and she seems happy,” you say, nodding to Sarah on the other side of the yard. She’s talking to a group of girls in her class.

“You did great with her yesterday, you know,” Tommy tells you. “You’d be a great mom. When’s it your turn to have babies?”

“Oh, God,” you say. Joel hears the echo of a very, very different sounding ‘oh, god,’ and takes a hefty sip of beer. “Probably not anytime soon.”

“No? Why not? Finish college first, of course, but after that?”

You only have one year left of school. There’s no rush. Why is his brother so interested in your contribution to procreation, anyway? It’s fucking weird, Joel thinks. 

“Maybe one day. I’d have to find the right man first,” you say. “You know, do it real traditional.”

“Any prospects lined up?”

“Christ, Tommy,” Joel sneers. “Leave the poor girl alone, would you?” He has no room to talk, Joel knows…but he can’t help himself. Not around you, anyway. His self control goes out of the window. 

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “And…no. No prospects.”

Tommy shakes his head in disbelief. “Now I know you’ve got all those big city boys up there waiting on you to give them a little attention. A girl like you?” He sucks in an exaggerated breath. “You’d get scooped up real fast.”

“That’s the problem though, isn’t it,” you say dismally. “They’re all boys. I said I want a man.” 

Joel can’t believe the words he’s hearing. Can’t believe how you could be so obvious, but how Tommy could still manage to look completely oblivious. He’s relieved when Sarah steals you away to introduce you to a friend. 

Joel helps your dad prepare the grill, and they talk about how crazy it is that both of their girls are grown up now. They talk about how old they’re getting, and how fast time flies, but Joel can’t pay attention because he can feel you. Can sense when you steal a glance at him from across the yard, because goosebumps break out across the back of his neck. He watches you disappear into the house, and excuses himself to follow you. 

He shouldn’t. Joel knows this. But, Christ, is he bad at following his instincts. He finds you on the tips of your toes, hands in the liquor cabinet, and wants to laugh at the irony. History repeats itself, it seems. He stands behind you with a hand on your hip and reaches for the half empty bottle of tequila. He sets it on the counter and when you don’t even turn to look at him he says indignantly, “You’re welcome.”

You wiggle the cork free and take a swig straight from the bottle. “You want me to thank you? For what, exactly?”

Truthfully, Joel doesn’t understand your bad attitude. He doesn’t understand why you’re so happy and bubbly to everyone else, but for some reason seem so… dissapointed with him. Joel might be a pervert when it comes to you, but he’s never, ever done anything you didn’t ask him for first. And it’s not fair, he thinks, that you get whatever you want. You get to go off to college and fuck boys that leave you unsatisfied. Because Joel knows Tommy was right — he knows they’re lined the fuck up for you. He’s not stupid. You get to leave him, and live your life, while Joel is forced to stay right where he is and think of you. You, you, you, all the fucking time. It’s not fair. If anyone should be angry, it’s him. “Oh, I dont know,” he says sarcastically. “Maybe for keeping all of your secrets.”

You turn to face him and lean your back against the counter. You’re in the same exact spot you were the first time you kissed his cheek, except this time you’re narrowing your eyes at him instead. “They’re your secrets now, Joel,” you tell him. “Not mine.”

“How are they not yours?”

“Because I don’t give a shit if the whole world knows them,” you say. “I don’t care if everyone here finds out what a slut I am. I don’t care if my dad finds out I fucked his best friend. But you do. Which makes them your secrets.” 

He doesn’t understand. “Are you saying you want him to find out?” The thought alone chokes him with anxiety. It would change everything — everything. No one would ever look at him the same. His perversion would be loudly on display. “Are you insane?”

“No, Joel,” you say. “I’m not insane. I just don’t lie to myself.”

“I don’t—”

“Then tell me right now you don’t want to be with me.” 

He’s in way over his head, Joel thinks. He doesn’t know how to navigate this, doesn’t know how to explain to you that it has nothing to do with what he wants and everything to do with what he is. He can’t lie, not to you, so he says nothing. Not yes or no, just nothing.

It’s answer enough, though, and when you speak again your voice is a whisper, a breath of life into a brand new secret. “You can have me,” you say. “I want to be yours. I think I always have been. Please, Joel… please.”

He hates the way you sound. He wants to fix it, but doesn’t know how. So, he does what he’s good at, he does what he knows makes you feel good. Joel kisses you hard, and savors the taste of cherry because something tells him this might be the last time. Your mouth opens, and your tongue is so soft against his, and he can’t get enough. Does it make him a bad person to want you so badly? Twenty-one-almost-twenty-two is a fair bit of life lived, isn’t it? Maybe it could work. Maybe he wouldn’t drag you down or keep you in Texas when you’re meant for far bigger things.

Joel slips his hand between your thighs and lets out a ragged moan when he realizes that you’re wearing nothing beneath your skirt. It’s just the nylon fabric of your tights, and he can feel the wetness gathering, can taste you on the tip of his tongue like a word he can’t quite remember. Joel wants a refresher. “Fuck, baby,” he sighs, forehead resting against yours. “I need you to be real quiet for me, okay? Can you do that?”

You nod frantically, and Joel gets on his knees. He pushes the fabric of your skirt up your legs and it bunches around your hips. He rips the nylon tights apart, giving him a perfect, unobstructed view of your pussy, shiny with desire. Desire he created, desire that belongs to him and him alone. Pride fills him when he thinks about it for too long. 

He doesn’t waste a second. Joel worships you like a man starved, and wonders if he’ll ever be satisfied. Wonders if he’ll ever get his fill of the sweetness between your thighs, wonders if he’ll ever tire of hearing you whimper. He licks at your clit, leaving no part of you untouched, and his cock strains in the confines of his jeans. Just tasting you has him teetering on the edge of release, but he wants this to be about you. He wants to show you how much you mean to him, wants you to know that just because he can’t be with you doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to be. He slips two fingers into you and curls them upward, and you have to cover your mouth with your hand because you promised to be quiet. 

Joel makes you cum in his mouth, and feels like maybe his place in the world is right fucking here, on his knees for you, because its the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. Better than cherry, he thinks. But not as good as it feels to be inside of you. 

He turns you around and shoves your chest down against the counter. As he unbuckles his belt, he presses a kiss to your spine and says, “You want a real man, is that right?”

“Yes,” you sigh, “Yes. I want you.”

Joel slides the tip of his cock through your slick, lips turning up at the corners as you roll your hips back towards him. “I know you do, sweetheart,” he says. “Slutty girls need a little bit more, don’t they?”

You nod, a desperate whine coming from your chest. “Yes, yes—please, Joel, please.”

His name in your mouth is the end of his restraint. He eases into you, memorizing how it feels to stretch you out, memorizing how tight your pussy is, how fucking perfect it feels wrapped around him. Joel kisses your cheek softly and buries himself inside of you completely. “I want you to think about me,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, hips rolling against yours slowly. “When you go back to school and do this with all those other boys, I want you to think about me.”

He pulls out at an agaonizingly slow pace, and slams into you without warning. Your hand over your mouth barely muffles the sound. “Fuck.”

“They can’t make you feel like this, can they, baby?”

“Mm’no,” you answer, and Joel rewards you with another hard, deep stroke. “Just you, Joel, just you, just you, just you.”

It’s a prayer, he knows. He can feel the devotion in your words, and the piety makes him ache. Is this how it’s supposed to be? Is it supposed to feel like this? Like pain, like loss, like finality? Like intensity, like consumption, like religion? Joel wants to say it. He wants to say it so fucking bad. He says something disgusting instead. “This pussy was made for me, you understand?” He reaches beneath you, and his fingers swipe over your clit, and your legs start to shake. “It’s all me, pretty girl. It’s all fucking mine.”

You clench around him, and he has to hold you up to keep you from falling. Your eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and Joel wants to stay inside of you forever. “Yours,” you say softly. “I’m yours, Joel.”

Oh, how pretty you sound, he thinks. He’s going to miss this. He’s going to miss you so fucking bad. And because he may never get another chance to say it, Joel decides to make one more really fucked up, awful decision. 

He decides to tell the truth. 

When he spills his cum inside of you, he buries himself as deep as he can. He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “I love you, baby.”

He feels lighter, now that the words are no longer trapped in his chest cavity. You don’t say anything, and he’s not sure what that means, but Joel knows it’s not smart to stay like this. So he pulls out of you, tucks himself back into his jeans, and fixes your skirt.

The door flys open, and Joel is absolutely fucking mortified to see your father and Tommy walk into the kitchen. 

You uncork the tequila and raise the bottle to the air, cheeks flushed but easily passable as a buzz. “To growing up,” you say proudly. You take a swig and gimace at the taste.

Joel pulls the whiskey from the cupboard and pours shots for himself, your dad, and Tommy. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you pulling at the ends of your skirt, barely covering the rip in your tights. 

“To graduations,” your dad says. “Sarah’s today, and another one of yours next year.” He tilts the shot glass toward you before tossing the liquid back. 

Tommy raises his glass. “To hopefully getting little nieces or nephews soon!” 

Joel thinks his brother is drunk on shitty beer. Joel also thinks about his cum between your legs. He raises his glass. “To getting old,” he says, though he’s not particularly happy about it. The whiskey feels good going down. It acts as a buffer to shield him temporarily against the truth that gnaws at his psyche; he’s going to lose you. 

Sarah decides to attend college at the same university as you, and Joel can’t help but be a little nervous. It’s your senior year, and Sarah’s only a freshman, and Joel knows she’s going to cling to you, and you’re going to let her, and he isn’t sure how he feels about Sarah hanging out with people older than her. 

It turns out okay, from what he can tell, though. It’s weird to have an empty home, but he fills his time with work and helping your dad renovate your house. Joel doesn’t hear from you. Even when you visit during Christmas break, you barely manage to look at him. He doesn’t force the conversation, either. He knows it’s for the best. And that deep, aching feeling in his chest is just something he’ll have to find a way to get over. 

Sarah drones on and on about how much she loves college, about how many friends she has, about how you’re tutoring her in English and how thankful she is when you help get her a job as a barista.

And when the holiday is over, you’re standing outside beside your car, saying goodbye to your dad while Sarah hugs Tommy beside you. Joel approaches, holds his daughter tight, and reminds her to let him know if she needs anything. 

There’s a weird, uncomfortable moment when your eyes meet for the first time all week. It would be weird if he didn’t say goodbye to you, wouldn’t it? It would prompt questions from both Tommy and your father, because the two of you had once been so close. 

You move first. You plaster an awkward smile on your face and wrap your arms around his neck. Joel’s shoulders relax for the first time in months. 

It feels so right to hold you, as easy and painless as breathing. He puts his hands on the small of your back, and his fingers twitch with the urge to slide them down and grab a fistful of your ass. Instead, he holds you tightly and relishes in the feeling of your head on his chest. He lays his cheek against your hair and breathes the sweet scent of vanilla deep into his lungs. “You too,” he says. “Call if you need anything, alright? Anything at all.”

You nod and pull away, and Joel wonders if you know how much he means it. A single phone call and he’d be on the other side of Texas in an hour, because that’s what you mean to him. You’re not his, but he wants to love you like you are.

And he’s given the chance to prove himself just a few short days later. 

He’s watching the soft flakes of snow fall from the sky through his bedroom window when Joel’s phone rings. It’s an unknown number, which he’d normally ignore and block in the morning, but something tells him to answer it. Just this once. So he does, and he’s getting ready to tell the telemarketer to fuck off, but then he hears your voice. 

“Joel? Are you there?”

“What’s wrong?”

You sniffle, and he’s throwing the blanket back and searching for his jeans on the floor. “Nothing,” you say. “It’s…it’s nothing. I’m fine, don’t worry.”

“If it’s nothing, then why are you crying? And why are you calling from an unknown number?”

“My phone’s dead,” you explain. “There’s, uhm—there’s a pay phone outside of my dorm. I didn’t want to wait for my phone to charge.”

Something is off, Joel can feel it in his bones. He holds his phone with his shoulder and pulls on his leather boots. “Talk to me,” he says. 

“Actually, I—I’m sorry. It’s late. This is stupid. I don’t know why I called. I’m sorry. Have a good night, Jo—”

“Baby,” he interrupts. “Baby, baby—don’t hang up. Talk to me. Please talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it, yeah? Tell me.”

You don’t say anything, but Joel can hear you breathing on the other end of the phone, can hear you teetering on the edge of a decision you’ve spent a lot of time thinking about. He understands. He really, really does.

Finally, you sigh heavily and say, “You told me you loved me Joel. You said…you said that and then you just let me leave. You just—you—you…God!”

The hands of guilt wind themselves around his neck and squeeze as realization hits. He is the reason you’re upset, the reason you’re crying, the reason you’re hurting. He hates it more than he’s ever hated anything in his life.

He doesn’t speak. He lets you get it all out, lets you purge your anger and disdain, your disappointment. It’s all rightfully placed, Joel thinks. “You asshole! Why would you do that? How could you say that and then go back to acting like it changed nothing? I’ve tried to get past it but I can’t, Joel! You never should have let me leave or—or you never should have said it if you didn’t mean it! It’s just—I don’t…it hurts! It’s mean! You’re being so—!” 

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts. Rightfully placed or not, he’s not strong enough to hear the sorrow in your voice, not strong enough to hate himself more than he already does. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. He’s not apologizing for it. Joel’s not sorry at all for that overwhelming feeling you elicit in his chest. He’s only sorry he said it, sorry it’s caused you so much pain. If he’d known it would hurt you this much, he would’ve swallowed those words and kept them locked up for the remainder of his life.

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” you say. “I want you to say it again and mean it this time.”

Joel doesn’t understand. It’s cruel, isn’t it, to ask him to do something knowing it will hurt you? He can’t. He’s already done enough damage. He can’t.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please, Joel.”

He runs an exasperated hand down his face, and pressure builds behind his eyes. He can’t. He can’t. How is he supposed to live with himself? How is he supposed to hurt you, this little girl whose life has been made miserable because he couldn’t resist your temptation? 

Joel knows he loves you. And he thinks you know it, too. But saying it opens a wound better off sealed, and he wants to watch you flourish. He wants to watch you become your own person, wants to watch you live a full, satisfied life. And you can’t do that with him. He doesn’t think it’s possible. 

You let out a breath. “It’s snowing,” you say, voice thick with emotion. “It’s beautiful.”

You’re beautiful, he wants to say. Instead he says, “You deserve someone better.”

“I don’t want someone be—”

“You deserve someone you can relate to, someone you can grow old with.”

“I can grow old with you, J—”

“I’m already old, god dammit. Listen to me. You deserve something that doesn’t hurt,” he interrupts. “You deserve someone who’s good to you, someone your own age who doesn’t make you cry in the middle of the night. You deserve—”

“I don’t care about any of that, okay? All I’ve ever wanted was you.”

You’re making this impossible, he thinks. He drags a hand down his face. The forbidden fruit is in his hands, begging him to take a bite, and he nearly does it. He opens his mouth to say it, to damn all of the consequences and succumb to whatever hellish fate awaits him in the afterlife all to have you for himself, and then—

“Please insert twenty-five cents for an additional three minutes.”

“I have to go,” you say, voice cracking. “I guess I only wanted to say that I love you more, Joel Miller. Because I would have never let you walk away.”

The line goes dead, and Joel’s sitting there in complete silence with one boot laced, and for the first time in all his life he feels himself swell with grief. The loss is so heavy, so final—and he can’t breathe. His lungs are filling up with all the words left unsaid, and he’s afraid that if he digs out the roots you’ve grown in his chest that nothing will ever feel quite the same again.

The pain is there, and it’s smothering, but if not the pain then what else would he have left of you? 

He doesn’t sleep that night. Or the night after that, or the one after that. It takes less than a week of canceling plans and insisting he just has a cold before Tommy is pulling into the driveway and slamming his fists against the door, demanding to know what the hell is going on. 

Joel tells him. Over six shots of whiskey and a panic attack, he confesses all of his sins at the kitchen table to his little brother. He expects Tommy to be angry, or disgusted—but he isn’t even surprised. He says, “Well, shit, Joel,” and runs his hands through his hair. “Now what are you going to do?”

A million dollar question, it seems. He wants to drive up to that big university of yours and knock on every door until he finds your dorm room. He wants to exhale all those words trapped inside his chest cavity and keep you for himself like he’s always wanted. But that’s such a selfish thing to do, Joel thinks. It’s not what’s best for you, or him, or anyone. 

So he does nothing. Even on his fortieth birthday, when he gets a text message that reads Happy Birthday. I still love you more. He doesn’t reply, because he doesn’t know what to say. 

Well, that’s not entirely true—he knows exactly what he wants to say, but chooses to say nothing because if he does it would change his life, your life, the lives of those around you. So Joel suffers in silence and dreams of you instead, repeating the same old habits. 

You and Sarah come home for spring break together. And a boy your age gets out of the passenger seat. You introduce him to your dad, and Joel doesn’t catch his name but doesn’t really want to know, anyway. 

He tries to swallow the anger in his chest. He can’t expect you to live an empty life that mirrors his. That’s not what he wants for you. The whole point of his avoidance was to make sure you were able to live fully, happily, with someone your own age. Even though his brain is calm enough to rationalize this, it doesn’t change the fact that Joel thinks the boy is a terrible match for you. 

Joel’s helping your dad renovate the kitchen, and he’s waited a month so he could get your opinion on a couple things. At the hardware store, the four— five —of you are debating between three different backsplashes. Joel and Sarah stand a foot behind, watching the scene unfold. 

Your dad has a single white, porcelain tile in his hand. “It’s nice and bright,” he says. 

“But you painted the cabinets white,” you argue, holding up the sage green ceramic piece. “Change it up a little. The green would look better, I swear.”

The boy at your side holds a piece of sand colored masonry, and says, “You’re crazy. White on white is no good but neither is green. What is this, a soup kitchen?”

From a contractor’s standpoint, Joel agrees that the  warm toned green would look far better than the cool toned masonry—but it’s not his place for input. He’s only here to help haul the tiles home and grab the tools they need. And even though the way your little boyfriend speaks to you grates against his nerves, Joel says nothing. 

Your dad ends up going with the masonry, calling it a happy medium, but Joel can tell that you're the least happy out of the three. He doesn’t mention it.

Everyone decides on pizza for dinner, and Joel teaches Sarah how to grout tile, and for a single moment everything feels good and normal. Tommy comes over to help with the project, and you’re laughing at something he’s saying with your hands covered in masonry dust, and you seem content—but then your eyes meet from across the room, and Joel feels the Earth tilt on its axis. 

Your smile falters, and your jaw feathers, and you quickly look away but not before he catches the flash of hurt in your pretty eyes. It makes him feel nauseous. Joel abandons his tools and heads for the front door. Sarah asks if he’s alright, and he says he just needs some fresh air. 

Joel can feel the panic attack coming from a mile away. His palms begin to perspire, his chest constricts, he can’t suck in air fast enough. He reminds himself that you’re here—here, and safe, and happy if not for him. You’re fine. Even if he’s not, you are and that’s all that matters. That thought combined with the cold night air helps a little, abates the fingers of grief around his neck, but then he hears it. 

“I know, babe. I’ll be back in town soon. I just need to get through this week and then I’ll take you out to make up for it, alright?” 

Joel freezes. He strains his ears, trying to pick up the rest of the words as his anxiety hones itself into fury. 

“You know I love you more than her. Of course I do.”

He’s off the porch before he can think better of it. The boy you brought home is standing on the side of the house, cell phone pressed to his ear, and his eyes widen when he sees Joel. “I’ve gotta go,” he says quickly, but before he gets a chance to hang up the phone Joel grabs him by his shirt collar and slams him up against the side of the house.

The words come out slow, even—despite the seething rage that fills him. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t knock your teeth down your throat.”

He laughs, actually laughs in Joel’s face and says, “Cause I’ll air out all those dirty little secrets our girl keeps.”

Joel’s grip tightens. The word our grates against his spine.

“What? You don’t like it when people refuse to mind their fucking business? Me either,” he says. “So let me go, or I’ll tell them everything.”

“Let me tell you what’s actually gonna happen,” Joel says, slamming him against the siding, relishing in the gasp of pain he makes in response. “You’re going to go in there and apologize for being such a scumbag. You’re going to come clean, beg her forgiveness, and if she forgives you maybe—maybe then, I’ll let you walk out of here with no broken bones. Do you understand me?”

“And why would I do that? You think she deserves an apology? We’ve been together for over a year, you know that? When was the last time she spread her legs for you, huh?” The timeline slots together in Joel’s brain, and his jaw ticks. “I’m not apologizing for cheating on a slut.”

Joel’s fist flies across his face, leaving a split lip and blood in its wake.

He doesn’t understand what the fuck you even see in this guy. You obviously care about him enough to bring him home, to let him meet your dad, to stay with him for so long, but God —this is the worst person you could’ve ever picked. 

“Ooh—good one! Does it make you feel better to hit me ‘cause I can have her and you can’t? Wanna know another one of those dirty little secrets, Joel?” He tilts his head forward and whispers. “She can’t get off unless I let her call me daddy. And ya know, feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think her daddy issues come from her real father, do they?”

Joel hits him again, an elbow to the jaw this time. 

“Dad!” Sarah’s panic stricken voice cuts through the fog of Joel’s rage.

He just doesn’t get it. You’re smarter than this. You deserve way fucking better than a half-assed relationship with a boy who—Joel stops.

In the dim glow of the porch light, he sees it. He finally fucking sees it. The boy has dark hair, has messy curls on top of his head, has tanned skin and calloused hands and warm eyes. It’s all vaguely familiar.

He looks like Joel. Or, what he looked like twenty years ago, anyway. 

Tommy grabs his brother by the shoulders and hauls him away, giving you just enough room to swoop in and coddle your little boyfriend, dabbing at his split lip. Tommy’s shoving Joel backwards, away from you and towards his house next door, but the force isn’t necessary. Because now he knows your newest secret, a real one. He knows you don’t care about this boy—you only care that he looks like Joel, and it brings him a strange satisfaction. 

“What the hell is going on?” Your dad asks, standing between the two families.

For a moment, he thinks about outing the bleeding boy to your father. Thinks about telling him how, at the hardware store, he sided with a boy who cheats on you, betrays you, disrespects you. Your father would be just as furious, Joel knows. 

But then he thinks about last summer in the kitchen, less than a year ago. He thinks about your phone call in December, he thinks about the look you shared inside moments ago and how deeply that pensive sadness seemed to run. And then he decides he’s already caused enough suffering, and so Joel shrugs and says, “Honest mistake. I thought he was an intruder.”

It’s a shitty lie, and no one believes it, but Sarah has her arm around Joel’s elbow and leads him home before anyone can ask any questions. Tommy says he’ll come over tomorrow to finish the backsplash, and Joel is thankful because he won’t be able to look at you and see that sad look again without crumbling. 

Joel’s sitting at the kitchen table with a beer in one hand and a bag of frozen peas on the other when Sarah sits beside him with a scolding look on her face. “You don’t get to fuck this up for her.”

“But I didn’t mean to—”

She holds up her pointer finger. “Stop talking. I’m not finished.” Sarah waits until Joel sighs and shrugs his shoulders before continuing. She leans on the table with her elbows and says, “She told me everything.”

His brows pinch together as he searches his daughter's face for something, for anything—but it’s completely blank. “What do you mean?”

“Cat’s out of the bag, dad,” she says. “I know about all of it. The night she brought over that DVD, the night of her grad party, the night of my grad party, the phone call. I know all of it.”

Joel doesn’t know what to say. He isn’t angry with you for telling Sarah. You should have someone to turn to, after all. He doesn’t fault you for that, but Joel also understands how it likely appears. He doesn’t know where to begin, how to apologize and explain that what you mean to him is so much more than attraction. “Sarah…Sarah, I—”

“Stop. Talking,” she repeats, and Joel silences. “I honestly was hoping you would tell me before I felt the need to do this,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “But you’re a typical man so I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

He opens his mouth to defend himself, to offer an explanation, but promptly closes it when she narrows her eyes. 

“I can get over the fact that you’re…I don’t know, involved or whatever with my best friend. I can get over that. What I can’t get over is you being a dick to her.”

Joel doesn’t get it. He’s never, ever been disrespectful towards you. He doesn’t have it in him. And the pain he has caused you has always been for your own good— never out of malicious intent. If anything, he’s been nothing but selfless with you. He’s suffered in your place, and he’d do it a hundred times over if it meant you’d end up happy in the end. He gnaws on his bottom lip as Sarah continues. 

“She has spent half the semester crying over you and just decided recently that she’s ready to leave the past in the past. She likes him.”

He can’t stay silent any longer. “He’s not good enough for her. You didn’t hear—”

“I don’t care what he did or didn’t do,” she interrupts, holding up a hand. “Right now, we’re talking about you. If you don’t want to be with her, if you don’t love her, then let her have this. Even if he breaks her heart, let it be her decision to be with him. Not yours.”

Joel picks at the peeling label on the glass bottle. He stares at it as if the answer to all his problems lies underneath. Quietly, he asks, “And if I do?”

“Do what?”

He swallows, and asks a little clearer this time, “If I do love her, what do I do then?”

“Then you man the fuck up and put your money where your mouth is.”

Joel can’t even be mad about the crude language, because it sounds like advice he would give. There’s so much of his stubborn, loyal attitude in his daughter, and he can’t help but be proud of the woman she’s become. He nods stiffly. “I get what you’re saying. I really do, but—”

“But nothing. If you love her, then love her, dad. It’s not complicated.”

She makes it sound simple, Joel thinks. He wishes so badly that it was. 

“What are you so afraid of?”

He’s afraid of losing the friendship with your father, worried about tarnishing the relationship you have with him, terrified of getting old while you continue to exist in your youth. There’s a million things he’s afraid of, but he settles on the biggest one, the fear that sits like a brick in his stomach. “I’m not good enough for her, either.”

Sarah snorts. “You can’t be serious.” When Joel says nothing, she shakes her head in annoyance and says, “Honestly, dad, I don’t understand how you can be so blind. Let me put it in a way you can understand; you love her, and she loves you. Everything else? Get rid of it. It doesn’t matter. Her dad, her boyfriend, Tommy, me—none of us have anything to do with it. You’re both adults, and you’re doing nothing but hurting the both of you trying to be the good guy. Get it now?” 

He still doesn’t think it’s so simple, so black and white. But it doesn’t matter what Joel thinks, because there’s a knock at the door and you’re standing on the other side when Sarah answers it. She invites you in, but you insist it isn’t necessary. 

“It’s alright,” you say. “I just came to say goodbye.” There’s a sadness in your voice, a familiar sound of longing. “We’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning.”

Joel clenches his teeth and looks away when Sarah glances back at him. He can’t see you, and wants to steal one last sinful glance, but thinks better of it.

“You’re leaving already?”

“Yeah, yeah—I know it’s early, but I don’t…I don’t know. I thought I was ready but now I’m not…I’m not so sure.” You sniffle, and Joel feels his chest crack wide open. “I’ll come back at the end of the week to drive you back to campus. But you’ll call me every day, yeah? So I won’t miss you so much?”

Sarah laughs softly, and disappears from sight. Joel can hear your soft sigh of relief, and finds himself thankful that it’s his daughter you seek comfort in. He’s thankful Sarah is able to provide that for you, even if he can’t. 

Because he can’t.

When you leave after promising Sarah you’ll let her know when you’re back to your dorm, safe and sound, she returns to the kitchen with her arms crossed over her chest. 

Joel can feel the irritation, the disappointment. Sarah goes up to her room and slams the door, and Joel feels the reverberation of the wood in every disc of his spine. 

He sits there, in the deafening silence, and wonders where the hell he went wrong. He wonders why doing the selfless thing feels so awful, wonders if he’s destined to live an empty life and die an empty death. 

It isn’t until three hours later that Joel gets up from the kitchen table. It’s after midnight, and he drags his weary body upstairs. He has every intention of crawling into bed and slipping into a peaceful oblivion for as long as his body will allow. 

Except, Joel finds himself hovering in the hallway just outside his bedroom. He’s afraid to move, because if he walks through the door he’ll never be able to go back. He knows it, can feel the truth of it in his bones. But if he doesn’t…if he doesn’t, everything changes. And it might turn out bad—it might end up being the biggest, most selfish mistake of his life. 

But one aching, terrifying thought nags at him; what if it doesn’t?

“Joel?”

It’s as clear a sign from the universe as he’s ever seen. He makes his decision, and begins to feel at home within his own body after feeling so displaced for so long, and Joel’s so grateful for it. He’s even more grateful he never moved the spare key from under the welcome mat. 

This feels familiar. It feels like an echo of a time years ago, when he thought he ached for you but had no clue how deep his longing would one day be, a time when the scent of vanilla perfume wasn't a shock to his heart. It feels like an opportunity to do things right. It feels like a second chance. 

And he’s not going to fucking waste it. 

It’s his turn to confess his mistakes, though they’re not tequila induced and instead made completely of his own stupidity. 

“I just came to get my phone charger from Sarah,” you say. “I’ll just be a sec—”

“I mean it,” he blurts, swallowing his nerves. He repeats it again, clearer and more precise because it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. “I mean it.”

You wringing your hands around one another in front of you. And he can sense the buzzing of nervous energy, and even though you both know exactly what he means you still ask timidly, “Mean what?”

His heart is pounding in his ears. “All of it. Everything. You might not see it, Sarah might not see it, but you…you deserve better than anything I can ever give you,” he says. “I’m old and I’m tired and I don’t have anything but this house to my name. I can’t give you anything you can’t find a better version of after ten seconds of looking.”

“Joel…I—”

“Hold on. I need you to hear me right now, baby, okay?” His hands are shaking. When you nod, he continues. “I mean it when I say I’m no good for you. I never have been. I’ll just drag you down and hold you back from better things. All of that is true. You and I both know it, but god dammit, I mean it when I say I love you, too. I love your laugh and I love your smile and I love your heart. I love everything about you, and it makes me an awful person because I’m not supposed to feel those things for a girl half my age. But I do, I do—and fuck, baby, I know I’m a bad man, but I’m…I’m yours.”

The words are out. He’s said them, and there’s no going back. Everything he’s held inside for so long is sitting on the floor between you—the entirety of Joel’s perverted heart. Your eyes are glassy, and you're breathing slowly like it’s suddenly a task, but you’re saying nothing and he starts to fill with fear. 

Joel is seconds away from begging you to say something, to say anything—but then you’re there, you’re there, in his arms with your hands in his hair and your lips against his. Your body slots perfectly against him, and Joel thinks that if this is his greatest sin then God can cast him out of the heavens for all eternity and he’d say thank you on his knees. 

Your tongue is so soft, and Joel bites at your bottom lip, savoring the sweet and sugary taste of cherry. He lets his hands roam down your back, allows himself to grab hold of your curves and squeeze the supple flesh. Nothing has ever felt this good, he thinks. You pull away first, and you’re panting hard, and you whisper, “Prove it. Show me, Joel. Show me how much you love me.”

It’s the easiest request he’s ever wanted to fulfill. He grips the backs of your thighs and lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He uses one hand on the small of your back to hold you close, to press his lips to yours again, to moan into your mouth. He uses the other to open his bedroom door, the prospect of closing it behind him much less daunting now that your limbs are wrapped around his.

Joel lays you gently on the mattress, and straightens his spine to look at you. He soaks it up, memorizes the sight of your hair splayed out around you, your thighs parted for him, the pink flush on your chest. Nothing has ever been so beautiful, he thinks. Nothing and no one will ever, ever compare to you. He sighs blithely, licks his lips and says, “Fuck, baby.”

Through a soft giggle you ask, “Do you think I’m pretty, Joel?”

He pulls the collar of his shirt over his head and discards the fabric on the floor, leaving him in nothing but his jeans. He crawls between your legs and leans on his elbows, placing them on either side of your head. “Yes,” Joel says, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face. “I think you’re the prettiest.” He kisses your forehead, and then your cheek. “D’you wanna know what else I think?”

You can feel him smirk against your skin as you run your hands along the cords of taut muscle in his abdomen. “Yes,” you answer breathlessly, resisting the urge to lift your pelvis against his. “Tell me everything.”

Joel obliges. He kisses the tip of your nose. “I think you were made for me.” His kisses grow hotter, wetter, as his mouth graces your jaw, your neck. “I think I’ve loved you since you were eighteen, since the first moment I saw you.” He tugs at the seam of your t-shirt, and you lift your spine slightly so he can pull it off. You’re not wearing a bra, and seeing you bare again after so long makes his mouth water. 

He kisses your sternum, the soft tissue of your breast, and then sucks your nipple between his lips. He doesn’t realize until now how much he craves the taste of you—how much he’s missed it. 

“I think I’m gonna marry you one day, baby,” he says, pressing his mouth to your other nipple. He can feel the vibration of your laughter in his mouth, and his heart constricts at the sudden happiness it brings him. 

“Marry me?” Your hands are in his hair, giving him the slightest direction in the form of light pressure, and Joel is all too happy to follow it. But he does it slowly, giving himself enough time to drink you in.

“Mmhm,” he says, peppering kisses down your belly, across the plane between your hips. He hooks his finger into the waistband of your sleep shorts and pulls them down your hips. “I think I’ve wasted enough of our time. Don’t you?” Gently, he runs his fingertips over your panties. They’re pink, of course, with red polka dots—and Joel groans at the sight. It’s a ghostly touch, but enough to pull a strained gasp from your throat. Your hips buck towards his hand, and Joel reminds himself to take his time even though his cock is throbbing painfully in his jeans and every instinct in him begs to ravish you. 

“Yes,” you agree. “But…maybe we go slow.”

There’s a slight hint of unease in your voice, and Joel rushes to fix it. He reaches up and wraps his big hands around your ribcage, stroking the skin softly with his thumbs. He presses a kiss to your panties, right above your clit, and says, “Relax, baby. I don’t mean right now. Soon though, yeah?”

Your body loosens beneath his touch, and a pretty smile breaks out across your face. “Soon,” you breathe. “But right now, I need you to touch me. Please, Joel.

The sound of desperation in your mouth is so pretty, he thinks. And you deserve anything you want, and Joel intends to give it to you. He pulls your panties down your legs,  pushes your thighs apart, and keeps his eyes trained on yours as he slides his tongue through your slit. You’re so wet, and the sound you make in response to the feel of his hot, wet tongue is the most heavenly sound he’s ever heard. He licks and sucks at your clit until you’re a trembling mess beneath him. And when your breaths turn shorter and more labored, Joel slips two fingers inside you and curls them to meet the sweet spot that makes you writhe. 

One hand is in his hair, pulling at the strands desperately, while your other is twisted in the sheets. In his sheets. Joel can’t keep his hips from rolling against the side of the mattress at the sight of you, at the taste of you, at the feel of you in his hands. Because you’re here, in his bed, and he can taste your cum in his mouth, and fuck he’s so in love with you it fucking hurts.

When your body falls limp, only then does he come up for air. He cleans you up with his tongue, not wasting any of the sweet nectar you’ve cleansed his sins with. Joel stands up slowly, raking his nails across your sensitive flesh. “Does that prove my love, pretty girl?”

He can see the wicked gleam in your eye, and he knows it wasn’t enough. Of course it’s not. You prop yourself up on your elbows and confess timidly, “Maybe I need a little more,” you say. “Some more proof.”

Joel unbottons his jeans. “Hmm, I guess I should’ve known better.” He pulls the denim off and kicks it aside, delighting in the slight parting of your lips as you take in his cock, heavy and hard between his legs. “Slutty little girls always need more, don’t they?” 

You nod, and Joel returns to his rightful spot between your legs. He’s so close—so, so close to home, to resting his weary heart…but your body is his confessional, and Joel isn’t done repenting. 

He rests his calloused palm against your throat gently, a caress. “You wanna know what else I think about?”

You’re squirming beneath him, hips lifting desperately. “Please, Joel,” you beg. 

And he knows you’re not begging for his thoughts, but he gives them to you anyway. “I think about putting a baby in you,” he confesses, laying his free hand flat against your abdomen. He smirks when you let out a shallow breath and your hips start to move faster, seeking him out. 

“Oh—God, fuck,” you whimper. 

“Aw, I’ve hardly touched you yet,” he teases through a soft laugh, drawing his fingers against your ribcage delicately. “You like that idea? Hm? Want me to fill you up with my cum ‘til your belly’s swollen with my baby?” 

You’re nodding, and he can feel your quickened pulse beneath his hand, and Joel decides he’s put you through enough. “Yes,” you tell him. “Yes, yes—please, Joel, please please please.”

He reaches down and guides his cock into you, and your pussy takes him so eagerly that he can’t help but mirror your low moan. “Fuck, baby—you feel so good,” he murmurs. 

Slowly, he rolls his hips against yours. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, your arms are around his neck, and he kisses your bruised lips until all the air has left your lungs. “Oh, God—!”

“Shh,” he coos, moving his hand around your neck and instead using it to grasp your jaw. “Look at me. Look at me. Quiet now, sweetheart.” 

Your eyes are glassy and wide and beautiful, and Joel picks up his pace. His cock slams into you, filling you up, and it’s impossible to keep quiet. “I can’t,” you whine. “I can’t, Joel—it feels too good, it’s too much, I—!”

He kisses you hard, swallowing up your cry of bliss when he reaches down to circle your clit with the pad of his middle finger. “I know, baby, I know,” he soothes. “It’s okay, you can take it.” 

The prettiest sounds are falling from your mouth with each deep thrust of his hips, sending shivers down his spine. Joel wishes he could be here, be inside of you forever. He wonders how he’s ever going to get his fill, wonders if it’s even possible. You’re so fucking perfect and you’re his and God—he wants to eat you the fuck up. 

He can feel your pussy constrict around him, and he lets out a probably-too-loud-moan that mirrors yours in response. He knows you're close, can feel the rush of heat, can feel you tremble around him. “You gonna cum for me? Hm?” 

Joel slams into you relentlessly, obscene sounds filling the space of his room. Your second orgasm is impossibly stronger, sending electricity dancing across your skin.

You open your mouth to tell him, but Joel seems to know your body better than you do and before the words are out of your mouth he’s whispering in your ear. “There you go,” he says. “I love you so fuckin’ much baby, my good little girl. Give it to me. Thaaat’s it.”

His hips slow just slightly as you come down, but his thrusts are no less punishing. You press kisses to his collarbone, his neck, his chin—every place you can reach. Your mouth is desperate and needy and shameless, and there’s no better sin than the divinity of your lips, he thinks. 

Joel’s pace falters and becomes frantic, and he groans into the crook of your neck as he fills you up. You whisper, “I love you, Joel,”  and it does him in completely. 

He collapses on top of you, unable to move, but you don’t seem to mind. You stroke his spine lazily, tracing soft patterns into his flushed skin. He could sleep just like this, he thinks—but it can’t be as comfortable for you. So he pulls himself out of you wistfully and helps you crawl under the blankets. 

With a blissful sigh, he pulls you close and holds you against his chest. 

“What now?” 

Joel doesn’t know, if he’s honest. He knows he wants you, knows he has you, knows he’s unable to go on without you by his side any longer. But the rest? It’s all uncharted territory. “You go back to school,” he says. “You only have a few months left. Get that fancy degree of yours.”

You let out a soft groan. “I have to leave in the morning. I promised.”

He should feel bad for your boyfriend, most likely sleeping in the spare bedroom in your dad’s house that Joel just refurbished two months ago, but he doesn’t. There’s not an ounce of sympathy for him. But he does have sympathy for you, which is why he asks, “You want me to take care of it?”

“Like you did earlier tonight?” You snort, and the sound is light and airy and carefree and Joel is so happy to hear it. “No, I got it.”

“You gonna break up with him?”

“Mm. Haven’t decided yet,” you say. The sarcasm is thick in your tone, but Joel can’t help the slight panic that erupts in his chest. But the second you notice he isn’t laughing with you, you quickly amend, “I’m kidding. Of course I’m going to. First thing, okay? I promise.”

He nods and kisses your temple. “Okay. And while you’re gone, I’ll talk to your dad.”

You prop yourself up on an elbow. “Alone?”

“I’ll probably use Tommy as a buffer,” he says. “But you shouldn’t have to deal with it. He’s going to be upset with me—not with you. You’re not the bad guy here.”

“I don’t think you are either, Joel,” you say. 

But he doesn’t agree. And he never will, no matter how many sweet words and even sweeter touches you offer. “I’ll take care of it.”

You lay your head back on his chest, and his panic eases until it withers away into nothing. “Okay,” you say. “And…and after? After I finish school, will you still be here?”

Joel can sense the hesitation in your voice, can feel the sudden rigidity in your limbs. He caresses your face and promises, “Yes, baby. I’ll be here.”

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

“Of what?”

He’s not sure what he expects your answer to be, but he definitely doesn’t expect the stab to the chest when you say, “Whenever I leave, you change your mind about me. How do I know you won’t do it again?”

“Look at me,” he says. When you do, his eyes are molten with affection. “I will be here,” he repeats. “I will be here, and I will still love you. Do you understand me?”

You nod let out a long, sleepy breath. “Good.”

That night, Joel sleeps better than he has in years. So much so that he’s up before you, and this time it’s his turn to make the pancakes. He doesn’t do nearly as good as you, burning half of them and undercooking the other half, but he doesn’t worry about it because he realizes he has so much time to perfect it. Time he never had before. 

You pad barefoot down the stairs wearing your sleep shorts and the t-shirt he discarded last night. Joel wonders if he’ll ever grow tired of seeing you in his clothes.

When you notice Sarah and Tommy sitting at the kitchen table with plates pooled with syrup, your eyes widen and your cheeks grow crimson. “Uhm—morning,” you murmur, sliding into the seat at Sarah’s side. 

“Morning,” Joel responds, sitting a plate of pancakes in front of you. “Coffee or orange juice?”

“Uhm…orange juice,” you reply timidly. 

Joel pours you a glass, and joins you at the table, and doesn’t know how to break the weird silence that’s settled over the room. 

Thankfully, though—his daughter volunteers to do just that. “It’s gonna take me a second to get used to this,” she says. “And I will, I swear—but I’m just telling you now that I’m never gonna call you mom.”

Laughter breaks out in the kitchen, and the smile on your face brings Joel so much joy he can hardly contain himself. 

“That would be so weird,” you say. “God—could you imagine?”

“Fuck that—can you imagine living together, dude? It’s going to be amazing! I’ll always have someone to hang out with. Plus I won’t be the only one in this house with decent film taste anymore,” Sarah says. 

“Don’t you dare throw me in with this guy,” Tommy says, pointing a finger at Joel from across the table. 

“No, no—you like terrible movies too,” you argue. 

It sparks a heated debate, and pancakes get flicked from a fork across the table, and there’s a giant mess to clean up afterwards, but Joel Miller has never been so content, so at peace, so happy.

When you take your little boyfriend back to the city, Joel reminds you to call him if you need anything. He uses the opportunity of your absence to do the scariest thing of his life. 

He’s playing a game of pool in your dad’s garage, and Tommy is leaning against the wall with a beer in his hand, and Joel decides there’s no time like the present. “I have to tell you something,” he says. 

Your dad doesn’t look up at him. He lines up his cue and lets out a heavy sigh that sounds so similar to the ones of your frustration that it’s startling. “This about my daughter?”

Joel and Tommy exchange a look of uncertainty. “Uh—yeah,” Joel prods carefully. “Yeah, it is.” He doesn’t know where to begin, so he decides to only say what he needs to say, to say it firmly and without room for question. “I’m, uh—I’m in love with her. And after she graduates she’ll be coming home and we’re…we’re going to be together.”

He doesn’t say anything and at first, it unnerves Joel. He simply draws his cue back, shoots, and waits until the ball falls perfectly into the table’s pocket. He calmly lays his cue at his side, picks up the black eight ball from the table, and chucks it at Joel’s head. 

It misses him by an inch, and something shatters behind him, but Joel is too busy running from your father to look back and assess the damage. 

“You motherfucker! I should kill you! That’s my fucking kid—!”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Tommy is stepping between them, shoving your dad back. “Just hear him out, man! It’s not what you think!”

A warmth erupts in Joel’s chest to hear his brother’s words, to hear him defend his atrocities so easily. Joel knows exactly what thoughts are going through your fathers head, because they went through Joel’s first. He knows it looks like he’s just an old man trying to get his rocks off with the first pretty, young thing that ever looks his way, and maybe there’s some truth to that, but it’s also so, so much more. Still, Joel has a daughter, too, so he understands. “I swear I love her,” he says as if it’s some sort of consolation. “I really do.”

The vein in your dad’s temple protrudes as he shoves past Tommy and gets in one good punch, splitting the skin of Joel’s cheek. “Get the fuck out! Get out of my house before I break your fucking jaw!”

Joel listens. He slips through the half-opened garage door and goes home, adrenaline coursing through him. There wasn’t a lot of blood, and he considers that a win. He cleans out the cut on his cheek, orders a pizza, calls you to tell you how it went. You’re angry at first, when he tells you about his small injury, but Joel assures you that it’s the least he deserves. He says he’d do it a hundred times over if it meant you’d be coming home to him.

Tommy comes through the door a couple hours later with a weary look on his face. He flops down on the couch beside his brother, grabs a slice of cold peperoni pizza and says, “Fuck you for that, by the way.”

“How is he?”

“Fine for now. I think he’ll come around. Just give him a bit of time.”

They polish off the pizza, Tommy crashes on the couch, and Joel sleeps well with the scent of vanilla still lingering in his sheets. Several days later, he’s mowing the front yard with his t-shirt tucked into his back pocket when your dad gets home from work. 

When he crosses the yard and approaches him, Joel turns off the mower and prepares himself for another swing. Except, your dad only raises a hand and says, “I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want to see it. We’re neighbors, Joel—keep the fucking windows closed or so help me God.”

“Done,” he agrees quickly with a shrug of his shoulders.

“And I swear to Christ, if you break her heart—”

“I won’t.” It’s the truth, and Joel thinks your dad knows it, too. He shakes his head and says it again, firmer this time. “I won’t.” 

There’s a second of silence, and it’s thick and heavy while your dad debates on whether he should hurt Joel again just for good measure. But he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “There’s a Longhorns game tonight. Tommy’s coming. You can…you know, you’re welcome to come too.”

“I’ll be there,” Joel promises. 

It takes a few weeks, but the comfortable energy between the three men returns, and one night your father even tells Joel, “Better you than that asshole she brought home for spring break. Kid was a cunt.”

Joel agrees, and all that’s left for him to do is wait for you. It’s only a few months until graduation, but it feels like a lifetime when he’s wasted so many years already. He calls you every night and his thoughts never stray far and for a little while, it’s enough.

He busies himself by finishing the renovations in your dad’s house, and then turns to his own to do the same. 

Joel starts with the kitchen, painting the cabinets and switching out the hardware. He clears out half of his closet for you, buys pink hangers to sit beside his black ones, buys a two pack of toothbrushes and sticks yours in the cup on the sink right next to his. Your dad offers to help when Joel says he wants to build a deck for the backyard, and they use Tommy’s truck to bring home new lawn chairs that recline so you can tan in those tiny bikinis comfortably.

He puts cherry chapstick on your nightstand. He buys pancake mix and orange juice and a bottle of top shelf tequila. And when you finally graduate and walk across the stage to receive your fancy degree, Joel is the second loudest person in the crowd. (The first is Sarah, who greets you with a flower bouquet bigger than your head.)

When you finally, finally come home to him, your eyes turn glassy when you discover what he’s spent his time doing in your absence. You say, thank you, Joel and throw your arms around his neck and drown him in kisses and he feels religion stir in his chest.

He asks you later that night what your favorite thing is, asks you whether it’s the deck or the tequila or the pink hangers. Your favorite part is him, of course it’s him, but you say instead that it’s the remodel in the kitchen. 

The backsplash is sage green.

[masterlist]

divider by @thecutestgrotto <3

a/n; i seriously cannot thank you guys enough for the unending support on this, i love you all so much <3

taglist; @aamatis-blog1 @goldenispunk @storytimeblog @locaparapedrito @bluesweaters15 @ace-27749 @joelmillerlover123 @shivkillian @bbyplutosblog @tiredbuthappy @samsamsantos @elegantduckturtle @pinkiec6-rubi @pascaltesfaye @pedropascalsbbg @heheheilovepedro

[brain-rot-central]

Unholy Desire

Pairing: spawn!Astarion x female!Tav (the reader is Tav)

Warnings: 18+, religious kink, breeding kink, innuendo, dry humping, mutual pining, reclaiming sexuality through kink, they talk out their feelings

Word count: 2.7k

Summary: Takes place in Act 3, pre-Cazador. You've finally made it to Baldur's Gate. You take time to offer prayers to your God after coming upon a small church on the outskirts of the city. You and your lover have grown closer over these long weeks, healing past wounds within your hearts, minds, and souls. Your desire has grown to become... sinful. You have a choice to consider: your Oath, or your lover?

This is the third camping spot you and your team find on the outskirts of Baldur's Gate. Rotating spots every few days was probably the best course of action, lest the Flaming Fists come to chase you away in the middle of the night.

You find an old abandoned church during your inspection of these latest campgrounds. It has been a while since you had a proper spot to sit and pray. Lathander has been kind in your journey, thus far. You hadn't offered thanks nearly enough for shining light in the darkest depths of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Despite the challenges you faced, you and your companions arrived safely to Baldur's Gate. You kneel down behind a bench within the church and fold your hands in prayer. You hang your head and close your eyes. The sun begins to warm your skin as it shines through a crack in the church ceiling. A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth; Lathander is receptive to your prayer offering.

You don't recall how long you remain in that position, praying to the Morninglord. When your eyes lift up, you notice that night has fallen. You see a faint glow in the distance, surely that of the campfire. Faint bits of conversation travel along the night air. The conversation sounds jovial; it's probably fine for you to stay here a bit longer.

Astarion stands in the doorway to the small church, eyes fixated on you as you kneel once again in prayer. He'd come searching for you after your companions failed to reveal your whereabouts. He scoffs softly upon entering the abandoned structure. He thanks the tadpole nestled in his skull for affording him the luxury of waltzing straight into a church. Were this a few months ago, he surely would have burst into cinders upon the first step.

You hear a small 'crunch' off to your left; your head shoots up and your eyes settle on Astarion, who is frozen in place. You will your features to soften at the realization it was only your partner, your lover, who came to check on you. "Are you certain you're a rogue?" you speak to him through the darkness.

Moonlight pours through the ceiling and bathes his face as he comes closer to you, now within full view. He looks ethereal in the pale light. The moonlight reflects off his silver hair in a halo. His eyes glint like newly-polished ruby gemstones, his skin glows like the finest cut ivory. You find it challenging at times to believe he is your mate on this journey. Difficult to accept that the two of you had shared a bed on multiple occasions. The thought makes your mouth dry and your head swim. You shake your head slightly, clearing your mind of such perverse thoughts.

"My dear," he begins, his signature posh tone dripping from each word, "if you've truly forgotten just how deft I am with my hands..." Astarion sits next to your knelt form. He drops a hand to cup your chin, gently tilting your face up to meet his, "...then perhaps you need reminding."

You swallow thickly as he holds your face, and watch his eyes begin to hood. A smile graces his lips and he releases your chin. He scans the church briefly, snickering. "What in the hells are you even doing here? It's rather... drab, darling."

You stand up and brush yourself off. You proceed to then sit next to him on the bench. "I'm praying, Astarion." You take a deep breath in and meet his eyes. "Lathander has been most kind on our journey. I haven't given him nearly enough of my thanks."

Astarion audibly scoffs. "Ugh, I can clearly see that. But why, is my question."

"We made it safely to Baldur's Gate," you explain. "That's more than enough to be thankful for."

Astarion suddenly stands up and over you. A scowl graces his visage, "And you didn't think to tell me you'd be here?" He places one hand upon his hip. "No one had any idea where you'd gone!" His face falls and he averts his gaze to the side. "I was... concerned that you were still out in the city."

You chuckle. Astarion has a softer side to him that sometimes slips out of his otherwise gruff facade. It makes your heart sing with delight each time you see it.

"I'm Baldurian, my love. Remember? I know the city streets quite well." You reach out to hold the hand at his side, and his palm wraps around yours. "I also happen to be a Paladin."

You follow his eyes as they fall upon the floor. The grip on your hand tightens. "And it's not exactly a daily occurrence to have a blood-thirsty vampiric master hunting you." He sighs, soft eyes regaining their focus on you, "Please, darling, just give me some warning next time."

Ah, he's worried you may have been snatched by Cazador. You stand to meet him and wrap your arms around his neck. "My apologies, Astarion. It was not my intention to make you worry." You bury your face in his neck and breathe in. Bergamot, rosemary, and brandy; his signature scent. You feel your body slowly mold against his as the smell floods your olfactory receptors. There have been many nights you've fallen asleep dreaming of this scent. It was oddly comforting to you. It makes you feel safe and secure.

Astarion rests his hands upon your hips and leans his cheek against your temple. You stand together in the small ruined church, holding one another, bathed in moonlight from the cracked ceiling above. "Do you have any idea how much you mean to me," a low rumble escapes his chest as he speaks. His hands begin to snake up your back, his palms resting on your shoulder blades, "Any clue what I think about when I'm alone in my tent at night?"

You slide a hand up into his hair, twirling the locks between your fingers. You litter featherlight kisses along his jawline, and he tilts his head back to give you better access. The hand in his hair tightens, holding him in place. A soft groan escapes his lips as you lick a stripe up the center of his neck. "I don't think you've ever told me," you say.

He shivers within your touch. You watch his eyes flit to the back of his head as you suckle at the scars upon his neck, "Hells, Tav, I've told you so many times..." his voice comes as a soft whisper into the night air. Astarion's hands slide down your back and to your waist, gripping your hips.

"Remind me," you insist as you watch a purple mark bloom on his neck. His hips stutter into yours, and you feel the hardening length of him ever so lightly brush across your mound. You tilt his head to gain access to the opposite side of his neck, and your mouth descends once more.

Another moan escapes his lips and he lowers his face to your ear. "I..." You feel his hands sink lower, coming to rest on your backside, "I think of you below me." Astarion’s breath is cool yet heavy in your ear as his hips begin to meet yours in a soft rhythm, "Or, bent over, with my cock splaying your darling little cunt."

Your hands drop to his biceps as a shutter passes over you. Your hips involuntarily grind against his, pleasured groans slipping free from both of your lips at the joint friction. His hands grip your ass and he holds you against him. You feel the outline of him press against your sex; your walls clench around the thought of him buried to the hilt inside you.

You lean back in his hold and he dips his face to your neck, nose tracing the outline of your pulse point. You shiver as Astarion begins placing chilled kisses against your carotid artery, and you once again lace your hands through his hair.

"I think about your greedy pussy milking my cock for as much of my spend as it can…" Astarion takes a hand off your behind and guides it to your clothed mound, pressing his fingers slightly upward as he swipes across the general vicinity of your clit, "...until you’re positively overflowing, and my seed weeps down your folds into a pool under us." You buck into his palm at the pressure of his fingers. Your hips grind down instinctively against his hand, and you mewl into his neck.

"Please," you beg, "what else do you think about?" Your voice is airy and ragged. You notice the door of the church is open, meaning anyone could see your current state, were they to come over. You feel a sensual twist in your abdomen, and your hands begin untying Astarion's trousers. You need this man stripped and bare before you, getting caught be damned.

His hands come to rest upon your own. "Oh dear, whatever could I have possibly said to put you in such a state?" he feigns coyness as he takes over for you, undoing the knots to his pants. “Are you certain you can handle knowing more?” You raise your head to meet his gaze and nod, slowly. Your eyes are hooded over in lust and you feel a warm blush begin to creep across your face. 

Astarion raises a hand to cup the side of your face in his palm. His lips come to grace the shell of your ear, nipping at it softly with his blunted front teeth. The hand on your cheek begins to slide down to your throat and his fingers wrap around the column of your neck. His grip tightens into light pressure against your throat. “Do you truly want to hear…” his tongue traces the curve of your ear down to the lobe, “how I bring myself to completion…” his teeth tug at your earlobe, “...at the thought of you, swollen, with the ultimate consequence of our couplings?” His voice is a whisper in your ear, and you feel your knees threatening to buckle. You groan and extend your neck, a silent offering to the hand on your throat to hold tighter. 

He guides one of your hands between the apex of his thighs and cups his swollen length in your palm. Even clothed, you could feel how hard he is. It sends electric shooting down your spine, resonating as a throb of your sex. He sucks in a breath at the pressure of your hand. A broken moan escapes his lips and he speaks into your ear again, “Have you any idea how terribly my body yearns to breed you?”

Your head swims, slowly losing all connection to this material plane of existence. To carry the child of an undead would be blasphemy; you would lose your Oath and fall out of favor with Lathander. Yet… you breathe heavily at the thought of being pumped so full of cum that your womb no longer has room for it. Your pussy throbs at the thought of falling pregnant from such a situation. You feel wetness gathering at the center of your thighs. 

“Wouldn't that be the epitome of a holy offering to your God of life?” Astarion moves to press his forehead against yours, and kisses the tip of your nose.

“He's…” you try to rasp out a reply, but your voice fails you. Your face is burning and your thoughts are a muddled mess.

“He's what, dear?” You can hear the amusement in Astarion's voice, knowing he has gotten you to the point where your mind can no longer form coherent thoughts.

“He's… also the God of birth,” you force out. You feel his cock twitch against your palm as the words leave your lips. A shiver passes through you at the thought of giving birth to an undead child, Astarion's undead child. Would it even be possible?

“My, my…” You manage to open your eyes and catch the devious smirk gracing his lips, “how entirely sinful that would be. Your holy womb, thoroughly disgraced by the planting of my seed.” Astarion's lips form into a pout, his voice taking on a soft mocking tone, “I wonder if your God would forsake you for such a thing?”

You often forget Astarion is an undead; he played the part of the living so well, would easily blend into any crowd. Yet, during times like these, he relished in his unholy attributes. He'd long teased you about your devotion to Lathander, went on long monologues about how the Gods were graceless and inevitably forsook everyone. He'd told you how he prayed to every God he knew of during the year he was sealed in a tomb by Cazador. None had answered him. He was bitter, you knew this. And yet… he was also enamored by your devotion. Jealous, even, that your attention was divided between him, and a God.

Your arms come to rest upon his shoulders once more, and you move your head slightly back from his. Your eyes find one another; you hadn't noticed before, but your chosen conversation is having an impact on him, as well. Astarion's pupils are blown wide, the reds of his irises becoming thin rings. “...Could we even do that?” you question, “Could we actually… could I… Now?”

A chuckle escapes his chest. The corner of his tips turns upward into a smile. “Now probably isn't the best time, my sweet. Unless you'd like an audience.” He nods his head in the direction of your companions sitting around the campfire.

Suddenly, your periphery vision returns to you. You recall you're in the small abandoned church within camp, with your companions mere feet away from you. You'd almost begged Astarion to take you within earshot of your companions… in a church, after having just finished your prayers. A scowl graces your lips at the thought.

“Oh, don't be so sour,” Astarion says, tucking strands of hair behind your ear, “We can always try to make this a reality later tonight?” 

“Astarion, is it even possible for you to sire a child?” You watch his lips purse into a flat line with your questioning, obviously offended, “I mean, with your… condition.”

Silence stretches long between you. You watch his gaze fall to the laces of his trousers and he begins to retie the knots. The silence is uncomfortable, and you begin to fear you'd said the wrong thing. Yet, you genuinely did not know. Could it happen? You'd not taken precautions during your past encounters. Could it have possibly… already happened? You shift uneasily and remove your arms from his neck.

“...I read a book while out with Gale one afternoon,” he finally says, grasping your wrists before your arms return to your sides. His fingers weave between your own, joining your hands. “He'd been raving about visiting ‘Sorcerous Sundries’ again. Something about an old, dusty tome of some sort,” he scoffs. “I haven't a damned clue what he was talking about.”

Your eyes widen. “You went out shopping, willingly, with Gale?”

“I know,” he sighs, “rather unbecoming of me. Though, I often have reasons for my madness.” He raises one of your joined hands to his lips, kissing the back of your hand, “One being… us. And what our future could be.”

“Astarion…” It dawns on you: he took the afternoon with Gale to research this very topic. To find out if this could ever be a reality for you both.

He unlaces one of your joined hands and brings his palm up to hold the side of your face. “As it turns out, so long as you keep me well-fed, that of which you already do…” a genuine smile graces his lips, “this could very much be a thing between us.”

You smile and raise your hand to cover the one on your cheek, turning your face into his palm. You kiss the inside of his palm, “I think it's best we return to everyone else, lest we get tempted again to start.”

“Of course, dear. I would have to agree,” Astarion turns toward the doorway of the abandoned church, holding out a hand toward you. “Our chosen company of weirdos may turn up with pitchforks should I not return with you in tow rather soon.” 

You place your hand in his and follow his lead toward the doorway. “Another night, then?” you suggest.

“No, my sweet,” he says, kissing the back of your hand once more, “tonight would make a lovely opportunity to start.”

[edgeray]

“LATE NIGHT DEVIL, PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME

and never never never ever let go”- Teeth, 5 Seconds of Summer

Mafia AU! Arlecchino x Reader Oneshot

Author's Note: It's been a while since I've actually published anything on here. Well, my gay ass is back with another oneshot. This one has been in the works for at least a month. I'm considering making a Part 2, but that will definitely take at least a couple weeks for me to publish (if not months). I wish I was kidding. School literally hates me and my teachers are incessant on killing my GPA. This is also a gift for @megistusdiary because it'll be her birthday when I post this. Please go check out her blog for amazing genshin wlw content (especially Arlecchino content!) Would you guys like this on AO3 as well?

Content Warning/Info: This is a long af oneshot (6.3k words), long af descriptions and kinda long intro, Arlecchino is referred to with they/them pronouns, implied female but no usage of feminine pronouns for Reader, general dark-ish content, pet names, Arlecchino is a lil scary, I've never been to a club so I apologize for the very inaccurate information, nor have I ever been apart of the mafia so also inaccurate, a bit suggestive but otherwise sfw, if I'm missing anything feel free to tell me!

---

Monsters are said to have lied underneath beds–waiting to ensnare an unknowing victim–or stalk hidden among the depths of a closet–awaiting an opportune moment to strike its next prey. Monsters are fabled entities that are used to scare off children from bad behavior and are quickly eased from the mind by coddling parents. The mere notion of a monster shooed away like a pesky fly, swept underneath the subconscious like forgotten specks of dirt. 

You know otherwise. Real monsters don’t lurk on the undersides of mattresses; no, they lurk both in the skies above and the depths below. They do not stalk dark closets because they instead stalk alleys in daylit streets. Monsters are very real, that you know is true since you’ve seen your fair share of them. You’ve met monsters in person–they’ve come to you before. Terrifying is an understatement for them, and each time one has appeared as a client, you’re no less scared shitless.

You’ve learned that even inhumane demons find themselves in need of entertainment; like the sinful creatures they are, they seek self-pleasure. And that is how you found yourself in this particular circle of hell, meant to serve and please demons, devils, and monsters alike. Perhaps it was a revolting job, working at a strip club run by a criminal organization but it paid decent money for being danced on the fingertips of whoever you were unfortunate enough to be assigned to.

If it was a regular strip club, being an exotic dancer would have been fine. It wouldn't be so bad. Lustful and prying eyes can be accustomed to quickly, and so are the flattering compliments and the awkward flirting by middle-aged married men. However, there was a difference between lecherous and predatory gazes. Here, you aren’t even viewed as a person, no, the clients here, those that come in reeking of smoke or blood (though sometimes both), armed with knives and guns on their person, see you as nothing more than a toy or prey for them. Even in the eyes of your employer, you're less than human in their eyes. 

‘You harm our merchandise, you’ll pay for it,’ is the warning given to every guest when they first enter. Merchandise. That's what you are. And that single line of words is the only thing that assures you of your safety among mafia members, gangsters, crooks, and whatnot. You've heard that the organization behind this strip club does well in enforcing that rule according to other dancers, but you personally don't want to see if the statement is true. You've been here for a little over a year, and besides bruising grips and pulled hair you’ve surprisingly yet to be seriously injured in any way. So maybe monsters do have a little humanity in them. 

You're quickly growing to be a fan favorite as of recently, which means more money goes your way, but you're not sure how you feel about all the attention on you. It's most likely because of how often you offer private dances and private rooms to clients. Whatever gets you the most money; the faster you make money the faster you can pay off your debt and be out of here. 

Tonight is supposed to be no different from other nights. You perform on stage, you rile up the crowd, you get showered in tips, and if there is a customer that looks mentally sane enough not to murder you in private, you take them to the back. Except, tonight, you're approached by your boss, who informs you that the entirety of the club was reserved by the Fatui, a well-known mafia more powerful and larger than the one that backs you up, for some celebration. These kinds of occurrences in the club rarely crop up, but when they do, they're often the most opportune time to bag in an abundant amount of money. Big shots like the Fatui pay and tip well, but there's one unsaid risk that comes with this: as a mere dancer like yourself, your life quite literally dangles in the Fatuis’ hands tonight. The organization that owns this establishment can't retaliate against the Fatuis if they so choose to dismiss the warning. They can't even compare to the might of the Fatui.

Simply put, if a Fatui kills you tonight, no one could do more besides bat their eyelashes. You're not at all pleased with this predicament of practically bordering on death, especially when you know one wrong move with one too hot-tempered Fatui could land you at the pearly gates. Keep pleasing the crowd, keep entertaining them, keep racking in the money, you remind yourself as you continue your dance, twirling around the pole sensually, and the customers devour every movement with their eyes. The only comfort you're given is that you've heard the Fatui are quite reasonable and diplomatic most of the time. This is especially true for the Harbingers, you've heard, the twelve most elite members that serve under the Tsaritsa, and the ones that are the most exclusive customers this night. That doesn't mean the Harbingers are any more humane than the average crook. Having worked in a strip club run by the mafia and surrounded by criminal organizations, the more rumored something is, the more dangerous it is. They can be considered devils amongst demons even. That's simply how vile they're supposed to be. 

The most concerning problem about the Harbingers is that you don’t know what they look like, only the occasional whisper has alluded to how to distinguish between the twelve. Perhaps, you can survive through the night if you try not to draw too much attention; let the other dancers shine instead and hope you don’t get requested for a private room or dance. That way, you can ensure you don’t end up dead. 

Your time to go upstage comes sooner than you’re prepared for. Your hands are clammy, and your form trembles in a way that only happened during your first month. Both reactions don’t make for a very good combination when your survival relies on you not fucking up and disappointing criminal customers. As you approach the pole, just like every time you’ve done, you make sure that the crowd’s gazes are in the backdrop of your mind, and instead, fixate on repeating the movements you’ve been taught and have mastered with your experience. Bet your survival on the provocative sway of your hips, the practiced showcase of your legs, and the allure of your dancing form. Beguile the crowd, but not too much, just enough to wow them. From what you can tell by the volume of the crowd, you’re doing a good job pleasing the Fatui enough. Your body stops tremoring after a few minutes on stage, and with one last final push of courage, you focus your eyes on the crowd before you.

Unsurprisingly, the makeup of the Fatui are men, though there are notably quite a few women. Either way, all of their attention is on you. As your eyes scan across a crowd, for one reason or another, you stop at a particular set of eyes near the back of the crowd. Intent, pitch-black abysses stare back, like they were trying to bore into your soul and devour every single motion of yours. They don’t quite hold the same ravenous desire as many of those before you right now, you mentally note with curiosity. It feels like your form is being calculated, in the way a predator would cautiously observe their next prey, a sensation you’ve experienced a few times, but each is no less chilling. The weight of their engrossed gaze causes you to shiver momentarily, and you snap away from their disturbing gaze to prevent any fumbling or faltering while you’re on stage. 

Tonight marks the first time you actively seek out the same viewer while on stage, or even, during your entire time here. For some reason, you feel awfully bold, or curious, whichever two comforts you more, and unlike the meek little rabbit you usually are, you instead search for the viewer’s gaze. You find the pair of eyes with relative ease, as you remember that above their eyes are distinctive snow-white strands with streaks as black as their orbs. You take a moment to study them, and they remind you of a lion–or lioness–among hyenas. The aura they exude varied quite a bit compared to the other Fatui in front of you: not rambunctious, or arrogant; it's apparent they held an aura of indomitable authority just from the way they held themselves. Perfect posture with their clasped hands nested in their lap, with one leg raised over the other. They’re an embodiment of perfected elegance, however, much like a porcelain doll, they’re also expressionless, their appearance unmarred. You don’t examine the Fatui’s form for much longer because their scrutiny on you pricks at your skin irritatedly. 

You don’t look for them again throughout your performance. In fact, you hope you never meet those charcoal pits again. You’re afraid that if you do, you’ll be ensnared by whatever beastly claws or fangs you know that Fatui hides underneath that impenetrable mask. The moment your time on stage ends, you rush back to the changing room to shake off your nerves. You sit down at a nearby chair, taking in deep sighs as you attempt to forget how you were stared down like a you were cornered, defenseless animal. And that is what you are, as much as you hate it. There’s nothing that can protect you from the Fatui. Maybe if you hide, never show your face for the rest of the night, they’ll forget they ever saw you and they’ll target another dancer. Surely, that will work, won’t it? 

You’re able to steady your breathing before you can delve into a panic attack. Tonight, you decide, you’re not going to take any customers to any private rooms or take any private dances. You’d be missing out on a lot of money, but your life is more of a priority as of currently; not after the ‘encounter’ with that individual, you don’t want to think about how many more are just like them, hiding in the crowd like they were awaiting an opportunity to pounce on your vulnerable form. 

Unfortunately, it seems like someone else has other plans for you because your manager storms into the room asking for your whereabouts before his eyes narrow on you. You immediately sit up, stiff as a board when he practically marches his way towards you. 

"Someone wants you." 

You sigh and shake your head. You should have known. "Not tonight." 

He clicks his tongue. "You know I can't allow that tonight." 

You bite your lip. "Just pass them to someone else." 

"They're not someone you or I can refuse." 

"Who?" You question with a shuddering breath, your nails digging into your thigh. 

"The fourth one. The Knave. Lord Arlecchino."

Fuck your life. You might as well pull the trigger now. You’ve heard faint whispers of each Harbinger from the customers audacious enough to speak of them. The youngest, the eleventh, charming and boyish. The ninth, money-obsessed but a pretty looker. The eighth, elegant and cold, yet no less alluring. The seventh, as human-like as their robotic creations, which to say isn’t very. The sixth, is hotheaded and mysterious. The fifth, unknown. And the fourth?

Insane. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. That’s how the fourth is described. You shiver at the horrors that appear on the forefront of your mind when imagining what may come for you. If you're lucky, you'll be alive at the end of the night, more than likely clinging to the edge of living. 

“Well? What are you waiting for? Get ready as soon as you can.” 

And you do. It’s not long until you stand in front of the private room’s door, your guest is already inside more than likely. The Fourth Harbinger is waiting, you remind yourself, fruitlessly trying to swallow down your stress. You can be dead the minute you step inside, this room could be marked as your grave. Whatever he tells you to do, you’ll obey wordlessly to survive. Just nod along, smile, and do whatever it is that he tells you regardless of the demand. You inhale deeply, regaining some ease of mind, before you bring your knuckles to the door, knocking. 

“Come in,” comes a deep, flat voice, slightly muffled by its distance but what surprises you is how feminine the Harbinger sounds. Maybe you got the wrong room. You glance back at the room number plate on the door, and it’s the room you remember your manager mentioning. It’s the right room. Maybe someone else? You don’t have time to wonder, however, as you enter the room, knowing that if it is the Fourth, it wouldn’t be wise to keep him (Her? Them? You’ll just stick with ‘them’ now.) waiting. 

“Lord Arlecchino?” You inquire as you enter the room, closing the door behind you. Sucking in a harsh inhale, you instantly recognize their distinct hair. It’s them. Your sight is immediately greeted by the figure sitting on the couch before you, sitting in exactly the same way you discovered them–crossed-legged and lounging back with unfaltering confidence. The Knave wears a scarlet blazer over a black compressed turtleneck, with a matching set of crimson leggings. Upon closer inspection, you’re able to make out red irises in their jet-black eyes. Despite the blatant and literal red flag, something about their appearance draws you in even when they scream danger. They’re… you’re not quite sure how to describe them. You admire the unblemished and pale skin, their elegant and rugged demeanor is like the perfect balance between femininity and masculinity. Are they beautiful, or are they handsome? You think both. 

Arlecchino stares back at you like they’re considering devouring you then and there. You can’t suppress the shudder that runs down your spine. You’re a sheep before a wolf. There’s something so chilling about them that even with your experience with other clients, none has ever made you feel this way with just their mere gaze alone. This is what separates the average crook from one of the most powerful mafia members you've ever heard of.

You wait for a response but they only continue to observe you. You take the silence as confirmation to your question and that they’re anticipating something from you. Biting back a sigh of resignation, your hands hook underneath the band of your bra top and you lift it just the slightest amount before a cutting voice makes you freeze.

“What are you doing?” the Harbinger demands, their tone chilling and apathetic, making you want to shrink in yourself immediately. Your blood pumps loudly in your ears and your hands tremble a bit. Something about how designing their gaze makes you suddenly self-aware in a way you’ve never felt before another client–you’re practically half-naked in front of them with your skimpy bra top, undergarments, and fishnets and now is the only moment that you've actually considered how little covering is on you. 

Why are they stopping you? Isn’t this what they wanted you to do? Or maybe they just want to do it themselves. Those types of customers always have the most bruising of grips and suffocating of holds. You stiffen at the notion. How are you going to survive this night with a Fatui Harbinger of all things? How many of your limbs are going to be fractured and how many of your bones are going to end up broken? 

“I…I’m undressing,” your meek voice sounds out and you hate the crack in your speech. The Harbinger continues to scrutinize you. You don’t dare continue disrobing yourself. 

There are several beats of wordless response before they then stand up from the couch. 

Oh shit. You’ve fucked up. Are they going to kill you now? Is this your end? 

Every thought is telling you to run in the opposite direction as they stalk up to you, but you're petrified as you realize with a chill that they’re taller than you. You’re not short by any means, a bit above average height, but they tower over you, looking down at you from above and casting judgment on you like a god. Once they stride toward you, you avoid eye contact by looking straight, observing their neck and clavicle that protrudes from underneath the fabric. You tense when they raise a hand, their manicured fingers placing themselves underneath your chin and long, carmine nails dig into the underside of your jaw, making you wince. They forcefully tilt your head, raising your focus onto their face. 

It’s like they plunged their hands down your throat and ripped out the oxygen from your lungs, leaving you unable to breathe. Up close, the first thing you notice is their lips, plump and red from their lipstick. Briefly, you wonder what color their lipstick would look on your skin. Then your eyes travel up, red-crossed eyes gaze back at you and you gape quietly at the distinct shape of their pupils. You swear that their pupils flash red as you finally lock eye contact with them. 

“Did I tell you to?” Their tone is cold compared to the strange softness of their handsome (beautiful?) face. 

Something in your gut coils inwardly and you want to look away, but their firm hold on your chin prevents you. You bite your bottom lip to repress a whimper. You’re delicate glass in their hands, and they can break you so, so easily. 

“No, sir.” Only the numerous times you’ve said this phrase ensures you don’t stumble over your words. They don’t answer promptly, but as they observe your features, their lips quirk up the slightest amount. 

“You know how to address me. Very good,” Arlecchino purrs after several beats of silence, in a low, oh-so-sultry tone, and oh. Oh. 

You’re not sure why, but their last two words make your stomach churn, but not in a discomforting way. In the way that lights a fire underneath your skin and spreads heat to every part of your body. You’ve never quite felt this way with another customer. You couldn’t believe that your body reacts this way just from a single praise but it doesn’t stop the pooling heat in your bowels. The chill down your spine still remains in place, but there’s an off-putting equilibrium of iciness and fervor generated from the client. 

The Fatui’s eyes stay fixated on you wordlessly until the hand on your chin turns your head, finally breaking you free of their intense behold. Their grip slackens so that they can trace their nails gently down your throat, every inch of surface their fingertips brush against ignites a blaze on your skin. A shuddering exhale leaves your lips and it seems like they take notice because from the corner of your eye, the small uptick of their mouth grows. Despite how sensual and probing the Harbinger’s touch feels, there’s nothing lecherous about it–purely just intrigue and fascination. It’s a touch you both have and never experienced before. Cold nails rake against your throat, not enough to mark or scratch, but enough to invoke shivers. 

You’re aware you should be terrified, but for a reason you can’t pin down, you can’t jerk away from their touch. You try to reason with yourself it was only because you’re one upset away from getting yourself killed but that reasoning falls apart when their hand gingerly traces your jawline and you make the softest of groans, a barely audible noise of content. Unfortunately for you, the sound seems to have reached Arlecchino’s ears and their expression softens slightly: their eyes narrow less and their brows aren’t as creased. And that smirk–if you could even call it that from how faint it is–becomes a half-smirk. 

They pull their hand away and your trance is broken, reality returning back to you as you remember that the person before you is still a Fatui Harbinger, no matter how bizarrely melting their touch was. They turn on their heel and walk towards the couch in front of you; the slightest bit of heaviness is placed on your heart. You remain stationary where you are, observing them as they seat themselves gracefully on the couch, and their attention encounters yours again. Their black pits hold expectancy in them. At first, you’re clueless as to what the criminal desires from you, but then their legs spread apart, an inviting gesture that beckons you and every rational thought leaves your easily swayed mind. Your heart skips a beat, and you're sure this time it's not out of trepidation. 

Even if you didn’t command them to, your legs would take you to their seating figure. You stand before them, feeling blatantly disrespectful to look down at Arlecchino, but you await their order. They lean back, lounging laxly against the couch, their posture never lacking their usual self-assurance. It only ties the knot in your gut tighter. You’re aware of what they’re instructing you to do, but the absent confirmation makes you hesitant. It seems like the Knave picks up on this because the room echoes with one definitive spouted word from their lips, authority and dominance ringing through their husky voice. 

“Sit.” 

Your legs buckle underneath you from the one-worded response, the demand only stoking the consuming fire inside you. Eager to please, you perch yourself on their lap, straddling them, your knees pressed into the furniture below you and encasing both of their thighs between your own. 

Oh, you think to yourself as your legs make contact with their thighs. They're firm. And for some reason, that provokes your stomach to churn in itself even more. You're so close to them, enough to feel their breath cascade against your skin. 

As you seat yourself, you nearly clumsily topple over, instinctively grasping onto their shoulders for support. Their shoulders are remarkably broad, you regard, well-muscled as well. Their hands creep up on your hips, steady but gentle hands grasping on each bare side of yours to stabilize you. The heat that radiates from their hands is infectious, regardless of the nails that burrow into your plush waist. For the first time, you flush considerably, a sweltering inferno forming in your cheeks and your head fills with dizziness. Their touch is gentle–something you rarely experience with customers–so, so gentle that you would describe it as heavenly. How can someone so inexplicably vile have heaven on their fingertips?

It's not a position you never found yourself in. In fact, it's far from the first time you've been like this with another client. But here, as you're sat on top of the Fatui Harbinger, and red x-pupils search yours, a foreign feeling passes through you. Placing your finger on it, you dubiously think it's bashfulness, but the heartbeat that sings in your ears and pulses underneath your fingertips tells you otherwise, tells you it's something more. Against that, you remove your grasp on their shoulders and place your palm flat against the couch’s surface behind the Knave. 

You squirm a bit, nervousness in your form as you remain as still as you possibly can, waiting for any more instructions. All you need to do is act like an obedient doll for them in order to survive; compliance is the best way of ensuring survival with people like these. You feel like you're merely eye candy from the way that their attention flits across your body, but you're immobile throughout the entirety of their observance. Being looked at is much better than any physical interaction. Their hands still cup your hips, but slowly, they descend to the side of your thighs, making your skin feel tingly. 

Impulsively, you mumble out a quiet "Sir…" as strange sensations brush against your skin. 

The sound surprises you and you feel on edge as their eyes travel from your lower half to your face. You gulp considerably. From their stare, they expect more of a response, a reason for their addressment, but even you don’t know yourself; it seems like an unconscious calling that just rolled off your tongue. You cow underneath their gaze, even when the two of you are at eye level. When you linger in quietude, their hand releases one of your thighs and lifts to your face, supporting your chin while their thumb rests on your bottom lip, unfurling it just the slightest amount to implore an answer from your now parted lips. Gleaming scarlet pupils grip your regard sternly, piercing into you and instilling you to spew something out. Except, you still can’t, now too entranced and lost in the crimson. 

“Doll.” 

Despite the pet name, it's devoid of any affection or warmth. It's a word that drips of command, a reminder of your place: simply a toy that they can play with however they want, a manipulated and decorated plaything for their amusement. That means you answer to them, and so when they request a response, you're under the obligation to please them. Your survival is in their palms anyway, if they wanted you to dance, you would just so they wouldn’t strangle the life out of you. 

However, its implication doesn’t prevent the tingling shudders that wrack your body nor the involuntary clenching of your thighs around theirs. Was it the gravelly voice that aroused your behavior? Your cheeks flare at the knowledge that Harbinger sensed the physical reaction. It shouldn't be possible. It shouldn't be possible, your thoughts repeat, but then they're interrupted by: 

"Oh?" Arlecchino inquires to themselves, a stark amusement in their speech. Their red glare illuminates slightly, replacing the lost darkening with a faint glow in their pupils, and the corner of their mouth curls up. It is only then that you discover something entirely new: that monsters can be sinfully, cataclysmically, terrifyingly beautiful and the sight before you is the most exquisite example. A devil has you wrapped in its claws and its fangs readied for devouring but it’s disguised as an ethereal angel; blinded by their perilous allure, you mistake their snow-white hair, their lustrous piercing rubies, their flawless porcelain skin, and their burning, fleeting touches as traits of a seraph. From a measly smirk, you forget the atrocities lying underneath their fingertips and dismiss the hazard their presence holds. 

The hand on your thigh rakes its fingers up, red nails trailing across the surface of your fishnet, wrenching out a breathy gasp from you as they travel inwards. Tingling pleasure injects into your veins as you subconsciously lean in, imploring for further sensual contact. A plea sits on your tongue and nests in your eyes as you beg them through your pitiful expression. They drink in your desperation with a slow swipe of their tongue over their lips, and that single action is debauched enough to elicit a soft groan from your throat.

“Well, aren’t you an amusing toy?” They drawl out with a preposing rasp and dark abysses glint with an insatiable hunger. 

They smirk enticingly, their thumb running across your bottom lip and smearing your lipstick on their thumb pad. Their grip on your chin tightens a bit, pulling you even closer to them before a shadow casts over you when their face nears. Before you can even fathom their intentions, they descend upon you, closing the distance between the two of you. Your lips are greeted with something pillowy soft and fervently warm, and you sharply inhale from the sensation. Every one of your nerves sings frenziedly, your muscles tense all over, and your heartbeat drums deafeningly in your ears–all of this as your body is engulfed in a fervid tornado of heat that makes you lightheaded with pleasure. It takes you several beats to realize the reason for this is that Lord Arlecchino, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave is kissing–no, kissing is far too intimate, devouring–you voraciously like they're trying to rob you of any air, trying to imprint themselves on your mouth. Their mouth dominates yours, pushing against them with a deep fervor and famished urgency, eager to swallow every bit of shocked noise you make. 

You close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge. 

You first taste lipstick with a waxy flavor hitting your tastebuds. It’s cold against your lips, yet warm at the same time. But the physical texture and flavor of their lips are irrelevant; there’s only one true manner you would distinguish their taste: 

They taste like sin. 

The type of sin that’s chocolate coated and sprinkled with colorful toppings; depravity so sweet and charming it makes you reconsider the bounds of right and wrong. Degeneracy is far, far tastier than anything you’ve indulged in before. How can something so evil be so heavenly? Cushiony soft, placidly warm, flatteringly zealous, it’s like having a dance with a devil; so unequivocally immoral but no less gratifying. You question if they really belong to the Fatui because how can something like this come from such? You want to engrave the texture of their mouth onto your memory, feel this faux intimacy even when you’ve long parted. The Fourth Harbinger, you surmise as you surrend your will to them, is decadent–the only word that can be defined as both wicked and delectable at once–the perfect word to describe them. 

The last remaining bit of reasoning comes to the backdrop of your thoughts and begs you to not be swept away in the heavenly embrace. You discount it in favor of accepting this godsent gift by leaning further with a weak imitation of their ravishing lips and pressing back. It’s a feeble attempt to match their insatiate nature, far too domineering and forceful than you can manage but they display a token of appreciation when they squeeze your thigh, indenting your skin shallowly with the burrowing of their nails. The action exposes just how sensitive you’ve gone underneath their touch and you reward them with the sweetest of sounds. 

“Arlecchino,” you mumble with half-lidded dazed eyes in between ravenous exchanges and it evokes a depraved throaty growl from the Fatui, like provoking a call from a starving beast. They lean deeper to indulge in your taste. The gruff sound reaches your ears and it’s like a psalm–you shudder from its musical melody. 

Their clutch on your jaw releases and their fingers outline your jawline before snaking to the back of your head. Well-manicured digits entangle themselves in your hair, and there’s a gentle shove against your skull that forces you deeper into the kiss. Your hands clutch onto the couch underneath you as tight as you physically can for any sense of grounding and your knees attempt to close in even more to feel more of their body against yours. The hand on your leg, in turn, caresses the length of your thigh. 

Every graceful touch, stroke, and brush exudes an unyielding and infectious warmth that only adds to the stoking fire in your gut, and you’re bathed in so much swelter from the ecstasy that you feel dizzy. Yet, you never want it to end, you grow more addicted and drunk with each encounter of their lips. That, paired with your strained breathing, prompts your stamina to falter much sooner than the Harbinger’s. You let out a soft whine to signal your depleting oxygen, and their mouth unlatch with yours, pulling away despite your ache for more. With the separation comes a small string of saliva attached between the two of you, evidence of the shared intimacy that’s snapped when they lick their lips. The hand behind your head detangles from your hair and you silently mourn over the loss of contact. 

You heave for air, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You’re a little perturbed when you notice that they’re not even out of breath, a small but firm reminder that they’re as inhuman as humans can be. That knocks a sense of reality back into you. Customer, mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, it comes back to you like a train. Here you are swapping spit with them while in the lap of potentially the most dangerous criminal you could ever meet, but fuck were they a good kisser–you’ve never experienced anything that came close to this in your lifetime.

Any foolish doubtful contemplation of the morality of this interaction is swept away just like that when you hear:

“Greedy little thing that you are,” they regard with the most cunning and handsome of smiles, discrete amusement dripping from their words. Their dark pits behold you entirely, the same way they have always done when it seems like they were contemplating what part of you to savor the most. Only this time, you’re not so disturbed by the notion. If anything, the swirling heat in between your legs suggests the opposite.  

Greedy wasn't a word often associated with you, yet you couldn't more correctly describe yourself in that moment. Greedy. Greedy for a Fatui Harbinger no less. As ashamed as you should be, there's no use denying that you crave for their touch, for their gaze, for anything and everything they're willing to give you. You want everything and more. The more you contemplate, the more it seems obvious why you wouldn’t. Are they a devil disguised as an angel, or are they an angel that fell from grace? Regardless, they bring nirvana to you. An incessant desire bubbles inside you, your throat swelling up with an urgent request on the tip of your tongue. Would they allow such a thing if you plead? Would they be offended by your impudence? Would they punish you for such? But the necessity outweighs any reconsideration of your insolence and the supplicant beg tumbles out of your loose lips. 

“Can I… touch you please, my Lord?” You croak out, wincing at just how wretched it comes out. The response from them is not immediate as the two of you stew in silence, a building sense of dejection inside of you. The expression on their face noticeably contorts, smile lessening, their brows furrowing, and their red x’s glinting dimly. Their free hand raises to near your neck and you suck in a harsh breath as their fingers enclose around your throat. The mere action sends a stinging reminder to your lust-dazed thoughts about their position, and a chill pierces you. 

Mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave–the labels cycle through your thoughts. Though their grip is lax, not exactly suffocating and giving ample space to breathe, their fingertips does acutely jab into your skin, a display of their impressive grip strength. You have no doubt that they can suffocate you with one hand alone, snap your neck, or, as your mind ventures into more harrowing territories, crush your skull. Those thoughts alone has you breathless with anticipation. A heavy weight suddenly appears in your gut, so heavy that you feel like you can’t move so much as a muscle. 

Did you just go too far? Was that too much to ask? Was this how you were going to die?

The reflex to gag and inhale combat each other in your throat, a discomforting sensation that crawls up your spine while you tremble. You’re almost certain that the nails have penetrated the layer of skin, drawing beads of blood that’ll trail down your mark. You whimper at the prickly pain. Yet, in all your unease, the most masochistic thought arrives briefly at the forefront, and you can’t help but consider: this position is just as intimate as all the other interactions. You’re already so vulnerable in their lap, does the hand around your neck change your peril in any way? No, you’ve been a defenseless lamb to a slaughter the moment you’ve stepped into the domain of a menacing wolf. 

Ah. Even now, you can’t dismiss the warmth of their fingertips. 

“Do you still want to touch me when I do this?” They demand callously, their voice harsh and reverberating through the room. Their grasp closes more around, and you feel your supply of oxygen inhibited. Tears begin to brim your eyes, but you’re undeterred. Unlike Arlecchino’s, your answer is instant and breathless. Your eyes intently lock on theirs, the hardened expression enough to satisfy their question. There’s no need for contemplation. Danger, you determine, is addicting. 

“Yes.”

The previously small smile stretches across their lips considerably. Content, or dare you say it, thrill writes itself over their face and the boulder previously pressed against your shoulders is lifted. Your throat is freed from their hold, but their touch doesn’t halt there. Instead, they rotate your head for you to face to the left, exposing your side profile to them. From the corner of your eyes, you watch as their face draws closer to your skin, hot breath cascading across the small dents her nails created. The one on your thigh finally leaves, moving to one of your hips, tender strokes across your flushed surface. They lean forward, and moist, plush skin meets yours. Lips traverse over the length of your neck, teeth scraping against, making you weakly groan. It takes all of your will to still your body, only allowing for the Harbinger to do whatever they desire to your form. Their touches are burning, burning, burning–so hot that you wonder if you’re experiencing a heat wave. Peppered kisses follow the edge of your jawbone, all the way up to your earlobe. A wet kiss graces your ear and then the most sinful of statements dignifies your eardrums, like a devil whispering hymns directly into your ear. 

“I think I’ll keep you to myself after this.”

A short hum follows afterward. 

“If you want to touch me, you’ll have to work for it. You’re only mine for tonight, aren't you? Entertain me. Give me a private dance, doll. After all, you have me for all night.” 

---

Link to M-Alexa's amazing art and how I imagine Arlecchino to look like in this oneshot.

[illyrianbitch]

Of Our Own Devices — Part Four

For @erisweekofficial Day 4: Traditions

Pairing: Reader x Eris

Summary: The Autumn Equinox Ball is a tradition of royalty, an event to symbolize the growth, prosperity, and power of the court. This year, Eris has set his sights on having you at his side.

Warnings: yearning tbh

Word Count: 3.5k

Part Three | Part Five

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

"No."

Eris grimaced at the door shut in his face, the sharp sound echoing through the quiet night. The heavy oak door, adorned with intricate carvings, gleamed under the porch faelights.

He took a deep breath, grip tightening on the box in his hands— it was large enough to require both of his palms and weighed heavy in his hold. Not because of its contents, no, but because of the importance it held to him now, in this moment.

He knew you were still there, lingering behind the door. He hadn't heard your footsteps to prove otherwise. 

And he knew you. You were curious, and despite how much you loathed him—something he assumed was quite a lot at this point—your curiosity would be biting at you, begging you to understand why he’d come.

After all these years, you'd want to know why he was here, at your door. 

"Y/n," Eris said tightly. “It’s considered bad taste to slam doors in the faces of court royalty.”

He heard a scoff from the other side of the door. The sound tugged at his lips, almost coaxing a smile. His words had hit their intended mark, indeed.  It was oddly comforting, in a way he couldn’t fully grasp, to know he still knew how to get under your skin.

The door clicked as a lock was undone, but it only opened a crack. Through the narrow gap, the warm light from inside casted a halo around your silhouette. An angry eye glared at him.

"Go away," you sneered. "It's in bad taste to harass females who don't wish to speak to you."

Eris didn't have a chance to open his mouth before the door was shut on him once more. He let out another deep, frustrated breath. 

"You're going to ruin your door, Vixen."

Silence.

He shifted his weight on his feet. He hadn’t seen you since before the second war on Hybern—since that night in his cabin following Feyre and Lucien’s trespassing. Maybe the time hadn’t been long enough. Perhaps it would take centuries to regain your trust, if he had ever held it in the first place. 

But Eris didn’t have that long. He needed to make this work now.

"Y/n," he tried again. "Please let me in."

More silence.

He was nearly ready to walk away, to accept this as one of his rare defeats, when he heard the click of the lock again. The door creaked open wider, revealing you standing just inside. Your anger was still evident, still rippling off you in waves, but there was something else in your gaze—curiosity.

And he suddenly found it hard to breathe.

He'd almost forgotten how beautiful you were. 

The years, which had been rough on him, seemed to have only made you more breathtaking. Perhaps it was the distance, or maybe it was what he’d seen in the war, but Eris had found a newfound appreciation for the beauty in life.

All of it paled in comparison to you.

It was a shame—a sin, even—to have you hidden away from the eyes of the central Autumn Court, from the vibrant life that might have appreciated your beauty. It felt wrong to deprive the world of such glory, of the ability to witness you. But then, he thought, he was grateful for it. There was no other scent in the house, no jewelry on your hands, no glow of a bond. It was just you, here, and he was thankful for that.

You stepped aside. "Well?" You said, tone clipped. "Come inside before I change my mind.”

Eris didn’t need to be told twice. He stepped over the threshold, his heart pounding as he crossed into the warmth and light of your home.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

“No.”

Eris almost rolled his eyes, the word feeling like a brick wall he was constantly battling against. 

“Is that the only word in your vocabulary?”

Something flashed in your eyes.

"Maybe,” you said. “I guess I’m too ordinary to have the vocabulary of someone as well-regarded as a High Lord’s heir.”

Eris flinched— he didn't bother hiding it, though he knew he should've. Instead, he quickly collected himself, straightening his posture further, adopting a cold, unamused face.

You were always one to hold grudges, always one to remember the details. It was why you'd bonded with Lucien, someone equally as observant.

Lucien had gotten that habit from Eris, whether he'd realized it or not.

Ordinary. It was one of the last things he’d called you, a comment that had haunted him more persistently than other nightmares. The memory of his father’s cruel hand, the sight of wounded siblings—all of it seemed to merge with the sting of that word, with the memory of your palm against his cheek.

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he took a moment to look around, absorbing the space around him. It was alive with the essence of you—every detail, every personal touch. He walked over to a table near the entrance and placed the box down, his fingers lingering on its edges for a moment. His gaze wandered to the art on the walls, running a finger along their frames. 

You cleared your throat from behind him. Eris turned, finding you standing with your arms crossed, jaw tight and rigid. You looked like someone who had allowed a wild animal to prowl around their home, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.

For a moment, he was at a loss.

There was no sinister agenda here, no political gain, no deep analysis needed for his next move. But he still needed to tread carefully. He hated that he had to. There was too much to say and not enough at all. Small talk would be useless. You wouldn’t entertain it anyway. He was treading a thin line.

You nodded towards the box. “What is it?”

Eris, casually fixing his sleeves, replied, “A gift.”

“A gift?” you echoed, a bitter laugh escaping you. “I don’t want your gifts.”

He stared at you for a moment, taking in your features, your stance. 

“Come to the Autumn Equinox ball with me.”

You blinked. A smile broke across your face— it lacked any genuine warmth, any kindness. It was pure disbelief, pure anger even. Another bitter, humorless laugh escaped you as you ran your hands along your face. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Eris didn’t react, didn't so much as move a muscle. It only seemed to anger you further. 

“Where do you hold all of your audacity? Is there a specific pocket in those tailored jackets?”

In another situation, he might have laughed at the comment. It was funny, truly, it was. But this wasn’t that moment. Instead, he merely raised an eyebrow, unphased. “The ball is—”

“I know when it is,” you interrupted, your voice sharp. “I also know who it’s reserved for. And I’m not going.”

Your hands curled into fists and Eris’s eyes tracked the movement. His steady gaze returned to your face as he repeated, “Come to the ball, Y/n.”

Had your jaw been any tighter, you might have shattered your teeth from the sheer force of clenching them.

"Did you lose your hearing in this war?" You sneered. "I said no."

Usually, in any other circumstance, Eris would have respected your wishes, recognized the discomfort in your stance, and taken his leave. He would have understood, would have taken the clear signals that you wanted him gone. But tonight was different. He couldn’t afford to walk away, not when he needed you there, not when he needed a chance, a moment. His resolve hardened, his gaze unwavering as he faced you. He knew he had to press further, even if it meant pushing past your boundaries. With a determined breath, he pulled out the only card he had left:

 “Consider this calling in my favor.”

The world went quiet for a moment, absent of your breath as you processed his words. He watched as you blinked once, as your gaze took him in, then watched as you blinked again. A small crease appeared between your brows. 

"You're calling a centuries old bargain for some ball?"

Eris scanned your face, allowed his gaze to linger on your lips, to drift to your eyes. Then, he smiled. 

"Seems so."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The Autumn Equinox ball was a spectacle of opulence and splendor.

It stood as one of the premier events in the Autumn Court, the kind of affair that young females, newly recognized as adults, fantasized about attending alongside someone of high standing, someone deserving of an invitation. You had only heard whispers of it, never coming close enough to the court’s grand celebrations when Beron hosted such festivities.

Despite his appreciation for the grander, more beautiful things in life, Lucien never attended such events. You always thought it was a waste. Lucien was immaculate in his presentation, in the way he dressed and carried himself. You used to long to see him dressed for a ball, waiting for you, asking you to stand by his side.

But you weren’t a family of title. These events were reserved for royalty and high-ranking court members. Beron extended invitations to other courts as well, but it was never out of friendliness. It was a display of power, a way to showcase the flourishing of his court.

But now you were here, surrounded by the Autumn Court's elite.

And you'd never felt so out of place. 

The grand ballroom shimmered as you entered, the soft glow of faelight casting a warm light over the crowd, the chatter of conversation blending with the gentle strains of a string quartet.

You looked around, hands clenched at your sides, gripping the fabric of your gown as if it were an anchor. You avoided the eyes of those around you, afraid that their looks would make you feel smaller than you already did, that you'd hold their gaze wrong, prove to them that you didn't belong. 

Within seconds of scanning the sea of elegantly dressed guests, you found Eris’s amber eyes. 

The rest of the world seemed to blur as that fire met yours. 

He made his way toward you, cutting through the crowd with the same grace and authority he commanded in all things, regal like a blade through silk. His attire was impeccable:  a deep, rich burgundy jacket adorned with intricate golden embroidery that caught the light with every movement, fitted trousers, and polished shoes that gleamed like liquid shadow. His outfit was completed with a pair of exquisite gold cufflinks and a matching set of earrings, each studded with garnets that mirrored the fiery tones of the autumn leaves.

Eris paused, running an attentive eye down your figure. A small beat of silence passed, as if he was deciding how to approach the night, contemplating what to say. 

“Dance with me,” he finally said, extending a hand toward you.

You hesitated, glancing down at the gown that hugged your form. “I—I don’t know how.”

Your answer didn't seem to phase him.

“Dance with me,” he repeated, his voice carrying a note of insistence. “I will show you how.”

You hesitated. It would be so easy to refuse, to walk away and leave this entire farce behind. But something in his tone, something in the atmosphere of the ball, made it clear that this was not just another game.

Fighting it was no use. This could be your last night around the eldest Vanserra. If you truly wished to never see him again, he would probably respect that. He had always been a male of his word when he wanted to be.

But as you looked around the beautiful ballroom, draped in the soft glow of countless lights, you felt the weight of the opportunity slipping through your fingers. You would never be in such a lavish dress again, never witness such finery. Take advantage of it, your mind whispered, pretend for a night that you are more than ordinary.

With a resigned sigh, you placed your hand in his, allowing him to lead you to the center of the ballroom. His touch was more gentle than you would have thought, though the palms of his hands are calloused. You felt an urge to compare him to something divine, to admire how he was finely polished like a beautiful, stone statue. Something of greatness, something worthy of being praised.

You did your best to keep your breathing steady as his hand wrapped around your waist, tried not to fully inhale his scent as his head dipped down when he spoke.

“Is the dress to your liking?” 

You bit the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. To say it was to your liking was an understatement.

The box Eris had left was unassuming, its exterior plain and nondescript. But when you opened it, you were greeted by the most breathtaking gown you’d ever seen. It was a rich, burnished amber, catching the light with every movement. The fabric shimmered like fallen leaves in the dusk, and the intricate embroidery, reminiscent of autumn’s delicate patterns, wove around the bodice and down the skirt. It was as if the essence of the season itself had been captured and spun into the fabric.

It felt entirely too beautiful to be worn by the likes of you.

You glanced at Eris. Up close, you could see every freckle that decorated his nose and cheeks, could count them if you truly wanted to, each dot pronounced against the pale skin. 

“Yes,” you replied curtly, struggling to keep your voice steady. You turned your gaze away quickly, not wanting to stare at him longer. "What poor seamstress did you have to threaten to have it made on such short notice?”

 "None," he replied. "Do you truly think so low of me?"

"Yes."

Against your better judgment, you found yourself glancing back at him anyways, your eyes meeting his as he studied you. Eris’s gaze flickered, his expression briefly faltering before that well-practiced charm returned. He laughed, and the sound carried a note of sincerity, a rough edge that hinted it hadn’t been used recently.

“Well, no matter. You look beautiful in it.” His hand moved against the small of your back. "You look beautiful."

Your stomach flipped, a feeling so embarrassingly strong that your cheeks began to burn. You were supposed to be angry at him— you were angry at him.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” you retorted, though a small smile tugged at your lips. The gentle movement of the dance seemed to ease some of your tension, some of that anger that had settled in your bones. Either that, or the warmth that radiated from Eris's hand. You'd never been this close to him, never felt his skin against yours. It resonated somewhere deep inside you, brought warmth to places you weren't aware were cold.

“Distance isn’t what I seek tonight,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur.

For a moment, you faltered. He noticed, of course—he always noticed. His hand tightened on your waist, guiding you back into the rhythm. His eyes were trained on you, but there was something different in them tonight. A weight. A silence behind the usual arrogance.

“What are you seeking?” 

His lips quirked into a smile, not the biting, sarcastic one you were used to, but something softer. “Time to think.”

You frowned, a crease deepening between your brows. “At a ball?”

“Yes.”

"Liar," you muttered, but there was no venom in your voice.

Eris hummed softly, a thoughtful sound, but offered no immediate response. Instead, he guided you through a graceful turn, the fabric of your dress swirling around you.

There it was again—that strange softness. He wasn’t needling you like usual, wasn’t pushing for a reaction. It made your stomach tighten with suspicion. His grip on your waist felt protective now, and as you stared at him, you realized that the usual front he presented—the one of the cruel prince, the sharp-tongued heir—was slipping.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight," you murmured, "Did you finally run out of clever quips, or are you saving them for another unfortunate soul?”

You wanted to provoke the usual sharp retort from him, something to break the coil in your stomach, to bring a sense of cold familiarity. You wanted the mask back, wanted the bitter, sharp Eris. The one you knew, the one you could hate. But he didn’t bite. Instead, he glanced around the room, taking in the grand ballroom and its glittering guests. 

You followed his gaze, watched as it settled, momentarily, on a corner far across the room. On the Night Court's contingent. They were one of the few courts in attendance tonight. Rhysand stood in all his glory, a beacon of effortless power, and beside him, two females. One was shorter but radiated undeniable authority, and the other— the other you recognized instantly. The High Lady. Feyre Archeron. 

Cursebreaker. 

Their eyes seemed to lock onto you, and a shiver ran down your spine. You couldn’t breathe for a moment, an unsettling sensation settling over you. Instinctively, you turned to Eris, but he had yet to look back.

When his gaze did return to you, there was something unreadable in it, something that made the hair on the back of your neck rise. “Do you believe in second chances?” 

"What?" You blinked, instinctively pulling back, but Eris’s hands caught you, pulling you back in with a natural, effortless motion. 

“Second chances,” he repeated, his tone as calm as ever. "Do you believe in them?"

He spun you again gently. For a moment, you felt a flash of disorientation as you twirled, your feet struggling to keep up with the rhythm of the dance. Thoughts were pounding against your head, all equally heavy, equally damning. Your chest felt tight with an emotion you couldn't quite describe— not now, not here.

"I'm not sure."

Eris didn’t offer another word. Instead, he studied your face, his gaze tracing over your features like he was memorizing you.

“Our ancestors,” he began, “Used to believe this time of year marked change. The Autumn Equinox. A point when things are supposed to shift, make way for something new.”

You raised a brow at him. “Is that what this ball represents? Growth?”

Eris’s lips curled into the faintest smile. “In theory,” he said, "Our Court is one of endless change, after all. Decay and rebirth.”

You eyed him closely. There was something about the way he spoke tonight, something too pensive, too reflective. He was rarely like this—rarely this vulnerable, even in his cryptic way.

"Why did you ask me here?”

You fought to keep your voice steady, to keep it level despite the way his touch made your skin tingle. 

He continued to guide you in a slow, measured dance. You hadn't even thought about your skills, hadn't been granted a moment to overthink your movements. The ballroom around you seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you in a world of elegant isolation. With a practiced twirl, he spun you, and you found yourself dipping into a graceful arch.

“I owe you an apology, Vixen,” he said softly. He brought you back into his arms. Your head swirled with the motion, with his face so close to yours. Your bodies were touching now, nearer than you had been when the dance begun. The proximity intensified the warmth of his touch, making it difficult to breathe. 

“Many, in fact," Eris amended. His hand tightened around yours, and you could feel the solid weight of his words as if they were pressing into your very bones. 

“I know you may hate me,” he continued, his voice low, almost a whisper, a confession of sorts. To you. To himself. “But I do care for you. There is something about you. It unnerves me and entices me all the same.”

You were at a loss for words, completely unaware of the song’s ending or the shifting crowd around you. As you came to a halt, Eris’s eyes widened slightly, as if he were nervous. 

“I don’t hate you,” you said, the words slipping out before you could fully grasp their weight. His eyes now glowed with something else, flickered with something that felt like hope. You swallowed, forcing yourself to continue, “I wish I did. It would be easier. It would make more sense. But I don’t hate you.”

Eris looked down, a sense of vulnerability, of thoughtfulness, passed through his face. It was almost bashful, and the sight of it was so foreign, so out of character, that it made your chest tighten.  He lifted his gaze to meet yours, and as he released your hand, he took a step back and bowed. “Then I ask for you to hold onto that.”

A frown tugged at your lips. “Why?" You took a step forward towards him, now eager to close the gap, to have his warmth near you again. "What are you up to?”

But Eris simply looked at you, tilting his head with a fleeting smile that vanished almost instantly as he straightened up.

“Enjoy the rest of the ball, Y/n. But make sure to leave before the feast. You won’t enjoy it.”

He adjusted his clothes with a delicate hand, his face hardening into a mask of cold indifference. With a final glance, he turned and walked toward the far corner of the room, to where the Night Court’s presence lingered like an encroaching dusk. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: idk guys something about having someone who just sees straight through eris and despite knowing they have every reason to hate him, they still try to dig deeper and dont accept him at surface level... it gets me.

almost as if...she just has some innate sense... some connection...that pushes her to him...over and over.....hmm. strange.

thanks for reading <3

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@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters

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@melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

[radiaurapple]

Lucid Dreams of New Orleans: Chapter 8

CHAPTER SUMMARY: IN WHICH Alastor goes for a swim.

The last time Lucifer saw his father, he was granted a fragment of His divine power — a punishment in the guise of a blessing — that he might serve as steward of the wayward souls cast down into Hell. It is a cruel gift, designed to ensure that he will always be haunted by his mistakes; Lucifer has endured the past seven thousand years by avoiding its use at all costs. But in the aftermath of the fight with Adam, Alastor’s worsening injury threatens the foundations of his daughter’s dream. Lucifer does what any good father would do: he uses his long-forgotten power to deliver Alastor’s soul from the brink of destruction. In turn, knowing Alastor — with all his sins, past lives, and heartbreaks — teaches Lucifer a little more about what it means to be human.

[AO3 LINK]

Another Saturday means another chapter + another promo art attempt!!! it's human Alastor and Lucifer on the subway!! Next chapter coming next Saturday, chapter preview below! 📻🍎

Alastor returns the next three nights. Lucifer brings him first to Victorian-era London, where they explore the rainy streets under a conjured umbrella. The following night they visit a speakeasy in Chicago — the next they spend wandering the streets of modern Tokyo. 

It is nothing like those nights, so many years ago now, when Lucifer would seek out Lilith’s warmth on the other side of the bed. When he and Lilith touched, they almost always ended up somewhere sleepy and serene — a meadow in the midst of Eden’s enormous, ancient trees, or a breezy morning on the deserted Mongolian steppe, in one of Lucifer’s memories of the age before humans spread across the Earth. Perhaps it had reflected a love built more on companionship than actual desire — the love that would bind any two souls alone at the desolate edge of the world. The love that hadn’t been strong enough, in the end, to hold them together — that had instead flickered out over the years into a warm but lonely friendship. 

This is different. 

The doors of the F train slide shut and the train lurches into motion — Lucifer glares up at Alastor, both of them gripping the pole in the center of the car. 

They’re in New York in 2019. Alastor’s visit today was an unexpected surprise on a lazy morning with no meetings and nothing to do; they’d arrived here just before sunset and spent a while exploring the Lower East Side before they hopped on the train at 2nd Avenue.

“You are fucking unbelievable,” Lucifer says, too loud — a father seated between his two children casts him an affronted glance over the top of his phone. Lucifer continues at a whisper: “How the Hell can you be so sure this is a downtown train? You’ve never even been to New York.”

“I can be sure because I have made use of an advanced technique known as observation of our surroundings. I highly recommend it.”

“Okay, well, you’re wrong. I’m getting off at the next stop. Asshole.” 

“This is a downtown train,” says a voice behind him, not unkindly — Lucifer turns around to find an elderly woman watching them, leaning her forearms against a cart of groceries. She inclines her head above her, at the monitor that lists the upcoming stops. “See? It’s going to Brooklyn.” 

“Oh,” Lucifer says. 

He shifts his weight on his feet as the train slows to a stop. The doors slide open; Lucifer stares out at the pillar reading Delancey/Essex and fights a losing battle against the flush rising on his face. After what feels like an eternity, the doors close again and the train accelerates out of the station.

“This is my first time in New York,” Lucifer says to the woman, as if it will in any way improve this situation. The woman glances up at him again and offers him a smile, but says nothing.

“No, it isn’t,” Alastor says behind him. “He’s been here many times before. He is the Devil, nearly as old as time itself — unfortunately he is notoriously absent-minded and plagued by the regrettable belief that he is always correct.”

The woman blinks at Alastor. The silence is broken by the deafening screech of the train’s brakes as it slows; the doors slide open before an enormous sign that reads East Broadway. 

“Ah — this is our stop. Thank you for your assistance,” Alastor says. He steps fluidly off the train and turns down the platform, toward the exit.

Lucifer stares after him in shock for a long moment, then jolts forward. “Hey!” He trips off the train, quickly rights himself — “You can’t just tell people I’m the Devil!” 

Alastor’s laughter echoes down the platform like music. 

[AO3 LINK]

[molly-ghuleh]

Camellia: Copia x f!reader - Chapter 1

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: You are a translator for the Ministry. You receive a letter summoning you to the Abbey for a project involving an ancient diary with a mysterious author, but you find yourself wishing you were back home. That is, until you meet the charming Papa Emeritus the Fourth.

Word count: 4.4k

A/N: Hi all!! This is the first long-form fic I've ever written and decided to publish, so I hope you all enjoy!! The first chapter is mostly setup and scene building, so not a lot of interaction with our beloved Copia. But there will be more, I promise!!

Warnings: none for now but there will be some in later chapters.

AO3 Link

Prologue

“Will you help me move this box?” the Brother of Sin says. 

Wordlessly, the Sister of Sin stops what she’s doing and maneuvers through the crowded, dusty basement room to help the Brother. The two crouch down, bracing their hands against the box of books. It leaves behind a path carved into the layers of dust as it slides across the wooden floor. 

Once the box is pushed a few feet out of the way, the Sister lets go and, losing her balance, falls to her hands and knees from the crouching position. She cries out in surprise when her hand sinks through the floorboards as one of the slats gives way. The hole is only a few inches deep and filled with dirt and cobwebs, but the Sister’s hand falls onto something softer than wood. 

She lifts her hand to find that there’s a small leather-bound volume hidden face-down in the small crevice. The Sister can hardly imagine how long it has been there, with how thick the grime lies on the back cover. 

This room of the Abbey’s basement had been long forgotten, until Sister Imperator tasked these Siblings of Sin to clear out the room to make way for new storage. They had half expected to find a ruby-encrusted sarcophagus in the room, with how ancient and opulent the Abbey is. So far the only things of interest they have found are books—it seems that the only items stored in the room are books. 

The Sister gently removes the book from the hole in the floor and replaces the wooden slat. Even through her gloves she can tell that it is close to disintegrating. The distinct orange of rotten leather lines the edges of its binding and a few corners of pages fall to the ground. 

“What’s that?” The Brother asks. 

The Sister carefully turns the volume over so that she can read the front cover. It, too, is covered in dust, so she gently brushes it with her hand in order to read the embossed leather cover. Having been face-down in the crevice, the gold leaf illuminating the embossment is preserved and it shines in the low light of the basement. 

“It says…” the Sister squints to read the small letters, “...Elizabeth.” 

“Elizabeth? Who’s Elizabeth?” 

The Sister turns over the book once more. “I don’t know, just… Elizabeth.”

Chapter 1

The ride from the airport to the Abbey is a long one. The car you had been picked up in took you through the city and the suburbs, to the rural outskirts of civilization where the coniferous trees block much of the sunlight. The winding roads, dotted in late-afternoon sunbeams, feel endless as the car climbs into the hills. It’s been a silent ride, and rather awkward (at least, you feel that it’s been awkward) because the helmeted ghoul who drives the sleek black sedan has not said a word. 

You knew that the Abbey has ghouls. A few abbeys do, as they are big enough to warrant summoning help, but your home chapter is not. This is the first time you’ve met one. 

You wonder if they’re all so stoic, or if the driver simply doesn’t have anything to say. He isn’t impolite, but you wish he would say something, anything to make the drive a little more bearable. You want to ask him about the Abbey–what the Siblings are like, what Papa is like. How many Siblings live there full time? How big is the library? You’ve heard that the ghost of a former Papa haunts the corridors, is that true? Hundreds of questions brew in your mind, but the ghoul remains silent and you’re left feeling like an unwelcome guest in a strange country.

You already miss home. 

The Marseille abbey, your home for the better part of your adult life, is a medieval stone structure built on a hilltop south of the Marseille city proper. The ornate, stained-glass windows of its chapel face west over the Mediterranean so that the sunset streams into the room during Black Mass. The walls are old and drafty, and keep faded tapestries in a constant state of fluttering. The linens line the walls of the refectory in between tall, narrow windows which also overlook the sea. If it were not for the inverted crosses and scenes of the unjust fall of Lucifer, one might think the atmosphere in the chapel—and the rest of the small abbey—is almost holy.

The windows in the Sibling dormitories are small and south-facing, with deep stone sills and wood frames that have somehow managed to survive the ages (although they hardly open without a fight.) Your own dormitory windowsill is lined with personal prayer books. Each has about a hundred loose papers sticking out. They are your translation practice, your way of staying versed in every language you know, because you know the prayers by heart at this point. The papers are experiments: which language makes the prayer sound better, sound prettier? Which language makes the most sense? Which language makes the prayers the shortest, the longest? 

No matter which language you use, to you the prayers sound the most beautiful in your mother tongue. That is how you’d memorized them, after all. Yet… you wish there had been room in your single suitcase to take your prayer books with you. 

“We’re almost there,” the ghoul says, snapping you out of your homesick reverie. His voice is deep and softer than you’d expected. There’s no spurt of hellfire from his mouth as you’d half-thought there would be, and no low rumble in his words that might signify he’s more beast than man. The ghoul, despite his bug-eyed mask, seems shockingly human. 

He steers the car through tall wrought-iron gates which seem to open automatically. You can see the tall peak of the Abbey’s bell tower peeking through the trees, and suddenly the reality that you’re very, very far from home hits you. 

You unfold the crinkled envelope in your hands and reread the letter for the hundredth time that day. 

Dear Sister, 

I hope this letter finds you well. 

We at the Abbey have recently uncovered a very important document which we require your expertise to translate. However, this document is extremely fragile and cannot be transported in the post. Papa Emeritus IV and the rest of the Clergy request your presence at the Abbey as soon as possible. 

We expect this project to take several months. Enclosed is a one-way ticket for you to travel to the airport closest to us, from which a car will transport you to the Abbey. We will discuss plans for your return to Marseille when you are nearing the end of your work here.

We anxiously await your arrival. 

Sincerely, 

Sister Imperator

The letter itself is quite presumptuous. Sister Imperator had assumed you were not busy, and assumed that you would be able to drop everything and travel halfway across the world for a months-long project. And then to use Papa’s name to exaggerate the importance of this mysterious document which she hadn’t even disclosed the nature of? 

Well… you can’t exactly say no to the woman who practically runs the Ministry’s affairs. 

The car takes a bend in the Abbey’s endless driveway and emerges into a clearing. Sitting far back on a sprawling lawn is a massive, imposing stone structure. The rows of trimmed hedges and flower bushes do little to soften the gothic hardness of it. Two pointed bell towers loom over the steep roof of what must be the chapel, with stained glass windows stretching up at least two storeys. The central image is of Baphomet, in his iconographic pose. The setting sun glints off of his golden halo. Sweet Satan, you think, your eyes tracking the window as the car rounds the drive. Baphomet alone must be taller than the entire height of Marseille. 

The ghoul pulls the car to a stop in front of the wide steps leading up to wooden double doors. A woman stands there, her hands clasped in front of her and her back straight, like the matron of this grand palace. You suppose she is–the severity of her expression alone leads you to believe that it’s Sister Imperator who waits for you.

You step out into the chilly air and shut the car door behind yourself. The ghoul already has your suitcase in hand and gestures for you to walk up the stairs before him. You wish he’d let you carry your own suitcase, if only to give your hands something to do, but you are far too stunned to ask. Climbing the shallow stone steps feels like stepping into another world. A world in which you feel far too plain to exist. 

“Sister,” The woman greets with a smile. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes, which squint at you beneath slightly furrowed, well-groomed brows. She strikes you as someone who is all business, all the time. “How was your journey?” 

You return her smile as best you can. She speaks to you like you don’t understand English. “It went well, your dark eminence.” 

She seems a little surprised that you respond so fluently, but she quickly fixes her face into another warm grin. “I am glad to hear it,” she says. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m sure you must understand that this document is very important, and quite fragile. We would not risk losing it in the post.” “Of course,” you nod. “If I may ask, Sister Imperator, what is this document? You did not disclose it in your letter.” You gesture to the envelope safely stored in your jacket pocket. 

Sister Imperator turns to step inside the slightly ajar wooden door and you assume she wants you to follow. The ghoul accompanies you over the threshold, but at the wave of a hand from Sister Imperator, he turns down a narrow corridor with your suitcase and disappears around a corner. 

You are still a bit too overwhelmed to thank him. Instead, you look at the woman beside you. “The ghoul will bring your luggage to a room we have prepared for your stay,” she explains at your silent question.

She continues down the main hall, deeper into the Abbey. Your footsteps echo through the atrium, bouncing up to the high, painted ceilings and off the stone walls. There are a few wooden benches pushed back against the wall, with pots of surprisingly lush houseplants on either side. Framed oil paintings line the walls: some depicting biblical scenes, some of landscapes, and a few large, dignified portraits. You can tell by the distinct Papal paints in each portrait that the subject is a Papa, and you wonder which one depicts Papa Emeritus IV. You’ve never seen an image of His Unholiness before. 

After a few moments of silence, Sister Imperator speaks again. “We found the document last month, in one of the storage rooms in the Abbey’s basement.” She likes to use the royal ‘we’ a lot, you think. 

She continues. “One of our archivists believes that it is at least five hundred years old. It is very fragile, you see, and so we ask that you handle it with the utmost care as you work with it. We would prefer it if you used gloves. And frankly, Sister, I believe that you would want to. The leather is fairly rotten.” You stay silent as you follow slightly behind her. You’ve worked with old, rotten books before. The pages nearly crumble apart in your hands and the leather splits easily, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. 

“We believe it is a journal—a diary, rather, of someone very important in the Ministry’s history.” You find it strange that she doesn’t immediately disclose whose diary it might be. “Who, if I may ask?” “Elizabeth.” Sister Imperator’s voice is clipped as she answers you. She gives no further explanation. Just Elizabeth. 

There are millions of women named Elizabeth in the world. It is very likely that there is more than one important Elizabeth in the Ministry’s history as well. It’s a fairly common name, especially five hundred years ago (if the archivist is correct). For all you know, this document could be some random Sister’s sexual logbook, and documenting her sinful indulgences was her way of praying to the Lord Below. 

You break out of your ponderance over possibilities when Sister Imperator turns a corner to walk down another, slightly narrower (but still wide) corridor. She speaks again. “The book is to be kept in a lockbox at all times when you are not working with it. Under no circumstances is it to be removed from the Abbey library without my express permission, or the permission of Papa. Is that understood?” 

“Yes, Sister,” you answer hastily. Her tone of voice as she lays down the law makes you feel as though you’ve already made a mistake. 

“Now. The reason we need you, Sister, is because none of our own archivists or translators can figure out what language the journal is written in.” 

This piques your interest, and also slightly flatters you. “What do you mean?” you ask.

She releases a long-suffering sigh. “The writing is jumbled. It is a mess of letters and sometimes numbers, with no spaces whatsoever.” 

The possibilities immediately start to stack in your mind. Latin from the Roman era tended not to use spaces, a practice called ‘scriptio continua’. Ancient Greek also did this… but wouldn’t the in-house translators be able to read it? 

“I cannot explain it well enough,” Sister Imperator says. “You will have to see, Sister.” 

The two of you come to another set of large double doors. Sister Imperator pushes one open and steps inside, holding it open for you. You slip past her into a huge, bright room, filled with hundreds and hundreds of bookshelves. Immediately you are hit with the scent of old books and parchment paper, and the gentle sounds of turning pages. To your left sits an ornate wooden desk with one Sibling standing behind it. They are sorting books onto a three-tiered cart, presumably to put them away in the correct order. You accidentally make eye contact, but they smile politely and you respond in kind with a little wave. 

You avert your gaze upward towards the open second floor, which wraps around the large atrium and is protected by a dark oak bannister. A few Siblings linger on the catwalk, carrying books or making their way towards the wide staircase that opens to your right. The bottom floor of the atrium houses several wooden tables where another smattering of Siblings sit. Most other tables are empty save for an abandoned book or two. 

The late evening glow shines down into the room from a large, circular skylight in the middle of the ceiling. There are desk lamps and overhead lights scattered about but none have been turned on yet. 

It reminds you of the University library.

“Come,” Sister Imperator says after allowing you to gaze around the massive library for a moment. “The lockbox is in the restricted section. You will receive your own key while you are here but you are required to return it, directly to myself or the Head Librarian, before you leave.”

She leads you up the carpeted staircase and deep into the bowels of the second floor. Towards the back corner, where the shelves are labeled ‘Fiction - Romance’, there is a wooden door tucked against the wall. A sign beneath its small glass window reads ‘RESTRICTED’. Sister Imperator fishes a rather noisy set of keys from her pocket and finds the correct one to unlock the door. She pushes it open with a squeak that feels loud in the quiet of the library. When both of you are in the room and the door is shut behind you, she removes an identical key from her keyring and hands it to you. “Your copy,” she says. “Do not lose it.” 

The room isn’t cramped, but it is small compared to the atrium. A few single-person desks sit along the back wall, while the walls on either side of you are lined with glass boxes. Each box is shaped similarly to a narrow cubby, and houses a single book. Printed labels on the front face of each box display a box number and the name of the volume stored inside. 

“Your key allows you to access any of these boxes,” Sister Imperator explains to you, “but I do not expect you to require any of them, except for the diary you’ll be working with. It is kept in box number seven, which is here,” she points to a box about halfway up the rightmost column of cubbies. Using her key (still attached to the incredibly jingly keyring), she gently unlocks the box and it glides out like a drawer. 

You step beside her to look down into the glass drawer. The diary is wrapped in white linen, but you can see the faint brown color of the leather through the cloth. “The archivist requests that you keep the white cloth under the book at all times,” Sister Imperator says. She reaches down into the box and gently retrieves the diary, careful not to jostle the cloth too much. “It will protect the leather from further decay.” You don’t need her to explain how preservation works, but you appreciate it anyway. It saves you from having to ask, or endure another awkward silence. 

She places the book down on a nearby table and slowly unwraps the cloth. Already you can see small flecks of brown and orange sticking to it where the leather has rotted, but it seems to be fairly well preserved in light of its age. On the front cover in small, embossed gold letters is the name Elizabeth. 

“Elizabeth,” you say, understanding. 

“Elizabeth,” Sister Imperator replies. “That is the only word we have managed to decipher. Hopefully you will be able to help us with the rest.”

You nod. “I believe I can.” 

She wraps the cloth loosely around the book once more, and returns it to its box. “I do not expect you to start tonight, Sister. We will give you time to settle, and have something to eat. But from tomorrow morning until you are done, this is your sole responsibility. Do you understand?” 

Her sudden, almost intimidating tone surprises you. You bite the inside of your cheek–a nasty habit you’ve had since you were a child. “I understand, your Dark Eminence,” you say with another nod. 

Her face softens, as does her stare. “Please, just Sister is fine,” she says. You follow her again as she begins to lead you out of the Restricted room. “I believe the dinner hour is to start soon. I will show you to your dormitory, and then leave you to get settled.” 

She brings you back through the library and the main hall towards where you’d seen the ghoul disappear with your luggage. The dormitory hall is a long, narrow corridor with windows on one side and doors on the other. Each door is marked with a number and a nameplate, and in between each door are wall sconces lit by incandescent bulbs. Halfway down the hall there is an opening to a stairwell which, you assume, leads up to the second floor of the dormitories. You walk past many, many doors, some of which have two nameplates, until you reach the very end of the hall where there are unmarked doors. Sister finds her keyring again and unlocks one, then removes the key and hands it to you. 

“These rooms here are the guest quarters. They are typically not suited for long-term stays but we have prepared yours to have everything you will need. If you need anything, ask Sibling Superior and they will make sure that you receive it.”

Sister Imperator turns to leave, but then turns around. “You know, Sister,” she says, with a curious look. “For someone of your expertise, I thought you would have been… older.” You can’t tell if it’s praise or suspicion in her voice. “Yes, well,” you stall. How are you supposed to explain that language just comes naturally to you and that it’s not your fault you’re not old and wrinkly? “I suppose once you learn one language, all the rest come easy. Especially romance languages.” 

“Hm,” Sister Imperator hums, sizing you up for a moment. “Find me at the end of the week and we will talk about your progress. I’m sure you will know your way around by then.” 

It seems her well of kindness has run dry.  

~~~

If the loud ringing of the bell didn’t tell you that the dinner hour had started, then the steadily rising sounds of a crowd did. You can hear the murmurs of conversation even through your closed door. A few Siblings emerge from the dormitory next to yours, their chatting and laughing growing quieter as they walk down the corridor towards the refectory. The old wood floorboards creak above you from the movement of Siblings who occupy the second floor. All around you there is an excited bustle, and yet you don’t feel like joining it. 

You have never liked crowds. Especially crowds of strangers. And these strangers all seem to know each other, if the echoes of loud conversations tell you anything. 

But your stomach does rumble, and you feel rather weak from a day of travel, so you decide that it’s best to eat something before you go to bed. Once the corridor seems clear again, you quietly slip out your door (patting your pocket to make sure you remembered your key) and make your way to the refectory. Sister Imperator hadn’t shown it to you but you can make an educated guess as to where it is. 

When you emerge into the main hall, you see a few Siblings occupying the wood benches that had been previously empty. They all hold trays or to-go boxes on their laps. Some speak animatedly, enthralling their friends with stories from their eventful day, while others sit quietly beside each other and eat. You think that it might be nice to sit somewhere to eat so that you feel a bit more connected to the Abbey, but all of the benches are occupied. The ever-growing roar from the refectory does not seem too appealing, either. 

The large room is across the main hall from the library. When you turn the corner you see that it’s not as grand as the atrium, and that it only occupies one level. There are sheer curtains hung over the windows, which allow the sunlight to illuminate the room but keeps it from growing too warm. Siblings, Clergy members, and ghouls alike sit at long wooden tables not unlike those of your home Abbey. But these tables alone are longer than the entire length of the Marseille refectory, and once again you’re reminded that you’re quite far from home. 

No, you can’t eat here. Not tonight. 

There is a long counter stretching nearly wall-to-wall to the left of the door, where a dwindling line of Siblings make their dinner selections. Whatever meal the kitchens had prepared smells delicious but you find that you don’t have the appetite for it. However, close to where you stand in the doorway and nestled in the space between the wall and the counter, are a few baskets of fruit arranged on a small table. The baskets are nearly empty, with the only indication of their contents being the small pops of color peeking through gaps in the woven pattern. 

Despite not wanting a hot meal, you are hungry, and so you enter the refectory and move towards the baskets. You opt for two good-sized oranges–although the bananas do look perfectly ripe–and turn to leave as quickly as you came. Your eyes briefly sweep over the crowd and land on a long table, perpendicular to all the others, situated on a platform at the opposite end of the refectory. The platform isn’t tall, but it is just enough to raise the table’s occupants slightly above the Siblings. The table is entirely composed of men, save for Sister Imperator, who seems to be talking to an older man with Papal paints and long blonde hair–is that Papa?

You look at the others occupying the table, and find that no less than three are also wearing Papal paints. 

Marseille is a tiny Abbey. At any given time, only about ten Siblings reside there at once. And so there is no need for an upper Clergyman to be stationed there. Instead, the Chapter is run by Bishop Beaumont, who (until now) is the highest ranking member of the Satanic Ministry you have ever met, let alone seen. 

So, to be faced with not one, but four Papas, all in the same room, makes your heart thump with nerves. You recognize them all from the portraits in the main hall, but in person they are all so much more… just more. And yet you still don’t know who is who. 

Of course, you know that all four of the most recent reigning Papas are brothers, the order of which was determined by age. The man who Sister Imperator is talking to must be Papa Emeritus I, or Papa Primo, as you’ve heard him called by Bishop Beaumont. The other three look relatively close in age, and so you truly have no idea which man currently holds the helm and steers the ship. 

You realize you’re staring when you make eye contact with one of the Papas. You nearly gasp in surprise, as if you shouldn’t even be on the same plane of existence as him… and yet your eyes met. Of course one of them would have caught you eventually, you think. You were practically ogling them from across the room. 

Hastily, you turn and make your way back out of the refectory and into the main hall. Your eyes fall on the nearest portrait. The Papal paints of the subject match the ones of the man you’d just been caught staring at. You blush as if his portrait could think, and had just caught you a second time. Your eyes flick down to the gold plate affixed to the frame, and read the words. 

PAPA EMERITUS IV.

[truwaifu]

Hearts Entangled

It's finally Friday! Chiyori is buzzing with excitement but maybe she’s not the only one?

Final chapter in this series!

Read Chapter one, two, three, four and five here

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Chiyori ( fxreader)

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: NSFW, minors DNI 

First actual attempt at writing smut. Thank you to those who enjoyed the series!

It felt like Friday would never arrive. Chiyori couldn’t remember the last time two days felt this long. When Friday finally did arrive, work had been a blur. Chiyori’s personality defaulted to jittery. She had been so excited about her date with Nanami she couldn’t focus, nor could she stop smiling like an idiot. If Nanami noticed, he didn’t let on. Ellie, her coworker and now friend, on the other hand noticed her behavior and demanded answers at lunch.

“Are you getting laid?”

“Jeez, way to be professional!” Chiyori spoke, nearly choking on her matcha. 

“Don’t give me that shit. You’ve been nothing but smiles the last two days. Smiling into your coffee, sitting at your desk, smiling. Hell, I even saw you smiling at your computer after our mass emails about deadlines went out.”

“Stalker much? You sound like Adam.” Chiyori had to shake off the feeling she got when she recalled the lengths she went through to avoid being alone with the office creep.

“Now Chi, have we or have we not passed this whole “more than work friends” phase?” Ellie was right, she had long passed that phase. She was the second person Chiyori spent most of her time with outside of Satoru. 

“I have a date.”

“Okay, with who? Hey, hello? Are you even listening?”

Chiyori did in fact stop listening. Nanami had walked up to the table they were sitting at.

“Ladies.” He gave them a small nod of acknowledgement and continued. “Shelts-san, do you have a moment?” Chiyori scrunched her nose. She didn’t like that Nanami wasn’t referring to her by her first name. She wanted to remain professional but felt a tug inside her, a need she had never felt with anyone before. A need to be an absolute brat. Chiyori turned away from Nanami to continue facing Ellie.

“Don’t know Shelts-san. Sorry, wrong table.” Nanami felt his shoulders tense. He knew what she wanted and it made him so frustratingly infatuated with Chiyori even more. He cleared his throat.

“Ms. Chiyori, if I may.” Warmth blossomed across Chiyori’s chest. Surely this was enough to sate her while on the clock. Instead Chiyori squared her shoulders and looked Nanami straight in the eyes, a teasing gleam behind hers.

“Oh, come on, I know you can do better than that.” 

She heard Ellie excuse herself but couldn’t care less. She kept her eyes on Nanami. She noticed his cheeks and the pink dusting them from her challenge. She recalled the last time she saw him react that way and her heart began to leap. Has she always had this effect on him? It was now just her and him in this lunch room. Nanami felt his jaw tighten. For someone who craved control and hated wasting time he found himself lost in this game with Chiyori. He reveled in it. Feeling bold he pushed further into this game, further into Chiyori’s space. His voice was quiet, deeper than what Chiyori was used to. 

“Chiyori. Go to my office now. Close the door behind you and wait for me there.” Chiyori gasped. Dangerous. This man will be the death of me. “I won’t say it again.”

The smirk Chiyori had on her face was replaced by something else. Where there was usually brown, Nanami's eyes were now almost completely black, something she could notice through his glasses due to their proximity. She felt it too, the shift in this game they were playing. Something darker, something sinful. Chiyori had no more cards up her sleeve. This was another moment where Nanami showed that he was completely different from what she was expecting. She didn’t dare speak. She simply nodded before grabbing her forgotten lunch to throw away and head towards his office. 

Now that she found herself in Nanami’s office she felt nervous. Chiyori had never been that hard headed with a man before, let alone be that bratty! At work no less. She sat in Nanami’s chair yet again and waited, watching the hands of the clock tick. Five minutes passed, no Nanami. Ten minutes passed, still no Nanami. When Chiyori began to wonder if he was actually coming at all, Nanami walked through the door. He entered his office but didn’t look at Chiyori. He simply closed the blinds in his office, keeping his back to her. She watched his back rise and fall. Nanami turned to walk towards where she was sitting. He removed his glasses in the process, his eyes never failing to leave hers. When he was close enough to make out the blush on her face and the glint in her eyes, Nanami spoke.

“Do you insist on making everything with you so difficult?”

All Chiyori could do was tuck her bottom lip in between her teeth in protest. Without hesitation Nanami placed his hand on her chin and pulled her lip out of the confinements of her teeth. “What? No bratty remark?” 

Feeling the buzz between the two of them, Nanami caressed her bottom lip as if to soothe Chiyori. That move alone lit a fire in the pit of her stomach that went directly in between her thighs. He was so close to her, she has fantasized about being this close to him for months. Now putting a personality with his image has only caused her to fall even deeper into him. Chiyori couldn’t fight her desires anymore. She didn’t want to talk, she wanted to show. So instead of a verbal response she gave a physical one. 

She took Nanami’s arm and held it steady. All while looking into his eyes she took his thumb that was caressing her lip and bit into it. Hard. When she heard him groan, she took his thumb into her mouth and let her tongue coat all over where she bit to soothe him right back. She swirled her tongue around the tip of his thumb as though it was a cock, imagining it was his. Never once daring to take her eyes off of him. The look in Nanami’s eyes, Chiyori has seen before. He’s looked at her like this before, on more than one occasion. It hit her like a freight train when she realized. The look in his eyes was never disdain, it was hunger. A hunger for her. The thought made Chiyori moan. He wants me. He’s always wanted me. She pressed moon crests into his arm from the grip she had on him. The last of Nanami’s control snapped like an old band.

“Oh fuck this.” He whispered in a desperate state. Nanami grabbed his free hand and wrapped it around Chiyori’s throat pulling her closer to him. He needed more access, he needed her closer. Chiyori squeaked after he pulled his thumb from her mouth.  “Tell me to stop.” He clipped. Ever the brat Chiyori seemed to be, took one of her hands to palm his length through his slacks. Nanami was so hard, he shuddered at her touch. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

 It was the only warning she had before his lips were on hers. Dizzy from his hand on her throat and his taste on her lips, Chiyori moved her hands from his impressive length to his neck. She let her hands roam up to his hair and tugged. Chiyori and Nanami let out a sigh of relief as though they both had been holding their breath waiting for this moment to arrive. Chiyori heard her phone going off but chose to ignore it, never wanting this moment to end. Getting lost in the sensation of Nanami pushing her against the wall, he released her throat to wrap his hands under her thighs to keep her upright. 

They were nothing but tongue and teeth, Chiyori giggled into his kisses. It all felt so high school, the way they touched each other. Foolish. Nanami thought. How foolish of me to wait this long to touch her, to taste her, to have her. Chiyori’s phone didn’t stop ringing. Too caught up with each other, Nanami didn’t notice when his phone started doing the same thing. Neither of them noticed that someone had opened and closed the office door. 

“Well it’s about time, isn’t it?” Satoru’s teasing voice came from behind Nanami and Chiyori. She looked up dazed and then immediately jumped out of Nanami’s grasp when she realized who she was looking at. 

“And while at work too? Naughty.”

“Toru, what the hell are you doing here?” Chiyori was trying to smooth out her clothes and her hair while Nanami was trying to compose himself as well, keeping his back to Satoru. 

“Came to surprise you since you were so devastated the last time but you weren’t answering so I figured I’d bug Kento until you were free. Didn’t think I’d find you here pinned to his wall though. Sexy.”

“Shut up, okay. We aren't talking about that right now.” Chiyori was already pulling away from Nanami and heading towards the door to leave. 

“Hey, don’t stop on my account! Mind if I watch? I’ve never seen Kento so unhinged before, it’s exciting!” 

“Ew, as if, let’s go. Now.” Saturo was being pushed out of the office when Nanmai finally spoke.

“Chiyori.” She stopped dead in her tracks to look at him for the first time since they were caught. The realization of what they were caught doing weighed on her. Not sure of what to say she simply looked up at him with a doe eyed expression.

“How does seven sound? For tonight? I would like to pick you up.” Chiyori couldn’t help the smile forming on her face. 

“That sounds perfect. I’ll text you my address.”

—---

Chiyori was adding some final touches to her outfit while she waited for Nanami to arrive. With the weather being decent, Chiyori chose to wear a black skirt that accentuated her curves and a button down blouse. She found herself staring into the mirror softly touching her lips. She recalled the events that transpired between Nanami and herself and wondered if he too was stuck having that moment on repeat. She could still taste him, even now. When she finally heard the knock at the door felt her heart jump to her throat. He’s here. Nanami had beautiful, bright yellow sunflowers in his hands. 

“Oh, Nanami… They’re perfect, thank you.” She gestured for him to come into her apartment. “I should put them in water, please come in.”

“You’re very welcome.” Seeing Nanami in her home had this foreign feeling seeping deep within Chiyori. She could see it, a version of her life where this was normal, where it wasn’t uncommon for them to share this space together. That feeling scared her considering they hadn’t even had their first date yet. 

“You really didn’t have to get me flowers, we kind of already skipped some steps earlier this afternoon.” She giggled in hopes to relieve some of the tension she was feeling while she busied herself with arranging her flowers in a vase. She didn’t want to know how he knew that sunflowers were her favorite. 

“I respect you far too much to lead you to believe this afternoon was simply a whim.” 

“Yeah, then what exactly was it?” She felt that boldness coming back when typically she would feel nerves. She had no idea where she stood with Nanami despite wanting him so badly, she enjoyed this game too much.

“Would you really like to know?” Nanami didn’t hesitate to lessen the space between the two of them.

“No take backsies.” Having him so close again, Chiyori couldn’t look him in the eyes. She wanted to kick herself for egging him on just to cower when he doubled down. 

“Look at me.” Chiyori didn’t oblige. Instead she insisted on scrunching her nose in response. Nanami huffed and placed his hand on her chin. If she wouldn’t look at him on her own, he would make her. 

“I had no idea you’d be this bratty, Ms. Chiyori.” Another nose scrunch. “I know precisely how to deal with that attitude. Would you like me to demonstrate?” That caught her attention. He wasn’t wearing his glasses tonight and she noticed he had that same look in his eyes that he had back in his office. He wants me. Her thoughts whispered what she confirmed earlier in the day. How can she cower from this man when he was practically devouring her with his eyes. He’s always wanted me.

“What if I said yes? What then?” It was barely audible.

“We would miss our reservations.” The way his pupils dilated let Chiyori know she was playing with fire. 

“Would you be disappointed if I made us miss dinner?” As she spoke, she felt her insecurities seep in a bit.  

“Nothing you could ever do would disappoint me.” She heard the resolve in his voice. Is this really okay? Can I truly be selfish? “You have me, Chiyori. Ever since that damn night all those months ago in that bar, I have been yours.” His words cut deep into her, blending with that foreign feeling she now understood was longing. Chiyori was so tired of fighting her feelings for Nanami, the months of pining and fantasizing. She was done and wanted nothing more than to see this man bare and unhinged for her. She took a step and closed the gap between them and kissed him.

“Fuck the reservation.” Chiyori wrapped her arms around his neck and allowed Nanami to snake his arms around her waist. 

“I think I’d rather fuck you instead.” Chiyori froze in his embrace. 

“Potty mouth!” She relished in seeing him so undone.

“What do you take me for, Chiyori?”

“You are full of surprises.” 

“Your mouth is far more filthier than mine.”

“We’re not talking about my mouth right now, are we?”

“Oh, but we should. I think about it quite often.” Nanami pulled her in even closer, the movement causing Chiyori to feel just how hard he already was.

“Fuck.” She whispered. 

“We will. Bedroom, now.” He lifted Chiyori allowing her to wrap her legs around his middle. 

“Down the hall, to the right.”

Her lips were on his again as he walked to her bedroom. Her hands found his hair while his hands found her ass. Nanami groaned when Chiyori tugged on his hair. He felt it was only appropriate to slap her ass in response. 

Upon entering the bedroom Chiyori wasted no time in undoing his tie. When she managed to remove it, she made an attempt to move towards the buttons of his shirt. Nanami had something else in mind. He stopped her. 

“I want these gone.” He was gesturing towards the clothes she was wearing.

“You first.” The smirk on her face made Nanami’s cock twitch.

“We will remedy that mouth, I promise you.” He used his strength to hold her arms up and swiftly pull her blouse off. 

“Nanamii.” Chiyori whined. 

“Please tell me if it’s too much.” Nanami had a moment of clarity, noting his desperation. He didn’t want to scare her away. He couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, he felt this ravenous for someone.

“No take backsies.”

“That’s not enough. Let me hear you say the words.” He refused to let his dick make this decision. Not when he knew his heart had a say in this situation too. Nanami knew he would fuck Chiyori as hard and as long as she wanted but only if he got to still have her in the morning as well.

“Please, Nanami. I want this, I want you. Please, fuck me.” Her hips lifted from the bed as if it would help her feel any sort of friction, his lips found hers again.

“Call me Kento. Don’t ever want to hear you call me anything else.” He knew he wouldn’t last long, his desperation for Chiyori far surpassed his patience not to cum. “Condom?”

“No need, you’ll be the first since my last screening and I’m on the pill.”

“You’re sure?”

“I have fantasized about you cumming inside me for months. I don’t want it any other way.”

“You’re killing me here”

“Good. Now fuck me, Kento” Chiyori seized the opportunity to stroke Nanami through his slacks. He wasted no more time removing the rest of his clothes while finding moments to kiss Chiyori as though he wouldn’t get another chance. He sucked on her nipples and left love bites on her neck. He bunched up her skirt and took a look at just how ready Chiyori was. She began to feel the heat on her face from his gaze.

“What? As if you’re any better.” Nanami chuckled at her words. He loved seeing her like this. She was always the type to lay all her emotions out on the table no matter who was present. The complete opposite of him, maybe that’s why he couldn’t stay away. Nanami didn’t respond to Chiyori, instead he lowered himself between her legs and flattened his tongue on her pussy. One long stroke over her panties. Chiyori thought she was going to combust. “Again, please do that again.” And so he did, another long stroke. He wondered what other reactions he could get from her, so he wrapped his arm around her hips to keep her in place and began sucking on her clit. ‘Kento, fuck, wait, that’s too much. I’ll cum like this, please, I want your cock. Let me cum on your cock.” Chiyori was rambling but Nanami didn’t stop. He knew he wanted to draw out as many orgasms as he could from her. Just when she thought she couldn’t take anymore, Nanami pulled her panties to the side and slid his finger deep into her. Chiyori arched her back and he latched onto her clit once more. She was gone, her orgasm hit her hard and Nanami relished in helping her ride it out. Chiyori shamelessly rubbed her pussy up and down Nananmi’s face. She was panting hard when he pulled away. He didn’t go too far though, Nanami towered over Chiyori’s spent body and kissed her deeply. She whimpered when she realized she could taste herself in his mouth. He took a moment to caress her face. 

“I like it when you cum, Chi.” He looked so disheveled, his hair was a mess, his face was glistening. The hand that was caressing her face slowly moved to her chest, he was tracing circles along her body, down to her stomach and when he got lower to her pussy he kept the circle motion going on her clit. He knew she was sensitive but he wanted to hear her moan some more. “I’m going to fuck you now, Chi.”

“God, yes, plea–” Chiyori didn’t get to finish as she felt the head on Nanami’s cock slide inside her. He was being so gentle, allowing her the time and patience to adjust. “More,  it’s okay.”

“I promise this is more for my sake than it is for yours, love.” She could see the struggle on his face, his composure was slipping. When he was buried to the hilt, he took a deep breath.

“Lose control, Kento.” Hearing Chiyori speak those words to him caused him to do just that. He was no longer gentle or patient. He was relentless and brutal in the best way possible. Stroke, for stroke he was hitting the right spot and Chiyori couldn’t contain her mouth. She was sure that if her neighbors didn’t hate her before, they would now and she just didn’t care. 

Nanami buried his face in Chiyori’s neck. He was babbling now too. 

“You’re mine, Chi, you understand? Fucking. Mine.” She honestly didn’t mind, she knew she was his long before his declaration, she could die here tonight and would accept her fate if it meant she got to die in this man's arms. “I’m close, Chi, cum with me.” She didn’t need to be told, with his unforgiven pace, his scent and his words, she knew she was right on the edge too. With one final stroke, Nanami grunted and bit Chiyori’s shoulder. He came hard and the sensation snapped the band Chiyori was pulling. 

The two just laid in each other’s embrace, listening to each other breathe. Peace. Chiyori thought. With this man, I will come to know peace. 

“Did you mean it?” She spoke softly.

“Every word.” He didn’t need her to clarify because he already knew what she was referring to. “So long as you’ll have me.”

“I think I’ve been searching for you for a long time.”

“I didn’t think I would ever find someone like you.”

“Well I’m glad that we found each other.”

“Me too, Chiyori, me too.”

The two laid there until sleep caught up to them. For a man who needed control, he knew his hands would be full with Chiyori. Foolish. He thought. It’s a good thing I’ve got two hands. Chiyori would serve as the type of chaos Nanami could never live without, he wouldn’t dream of it. And maybe they both were a little foolish for trying so hard to fight what was already set in motion when they met all those months ago. For once they both agreed to be grateful to Satoru for forcing them to go out that fateful night, although they would never tell him that. ~end; .xx

[marichive]

𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍 : 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄

Writing / roleplay prompts collected from the POV chapters of Daenerys Targaryen in A Game of Thrones , the first book of the ASOIAF saga. Feel free to adjust pronouns / etc. as needed.

tw: dark & mature themes, death, violence, suggestive / sexual content

❝ Is it really mine? ❞

❝ Tonight you must look like a princess. ❞

❝ What does he want from us? ❞

❝ All they have taken from us, we will have it back. ❞

❝ He will be enraptured. ❞

❝ Do you take me for a fool? ❞

❝ My apologies if I have given offense. ❞

❝ Kings lack the caution of common men. ❞

❝ I shall kill him myself. ❞

❝ Many important men will be at the feast tonight. ❞

❝ No doubt he would pay well for your head. ❞

❝ He will not sleep easy while I live. ❞

❝ I don't want to be his queen. ❞

❝ Please, I don't want to, I want to go home! ❞

❝ How are we to go home? They took our home from us! ❞

❝ If you must wed him and bed him for that, you will. ❞

❝ In time you may even learn to like him. ❞

❝ All things of importance in a man's life must be done beneath the open sky. ❞

❝ He has promised you a crown, and you shall have it. ❞

❝ I council you to be patient. ❞

❝ Guard your tongue or I'll have it out. ❞

❝ There are no more dragons. ❞

❝ There is no privacy here. They do not understand sin or shame as we do. ❞

❝ It is a small thing, my princess, but all a poor exile could afford. ❞

❝ Silver for the silver of your hair. ❞

❝ Is that the only word you know? ❞

❝ It's so beautiful here, I don't want to think about everything dying. ❞

❝ You are learning to talk like a queen. ❞

❝ You dare give commands to me? ❞

❝ Have you forgotten who you are? ❞

❝ Can you wake the dead? ❞

❝ He is still the true king. ❞

❝ It is no matter to them if the high lords play their game of thrones, so long as they are left in peace. They never are. ❞

❝ What do you pray for? ❞

❝ I pray for home, too. ❞

❝ He ought to have come by now, for the feast. ❞

❝ You ought to have gone with him to keep him safe. ❞

❝ He is the only one left. The only one. ❞

❝ He is all I have. ❞

❝ You belong to them now. ❞

❝ Please, [name], it is forbidden! ❞

❝ I want what I came for. ❞

❝ Turn away, my princess, I beg you. ❞

❝ Fire cannot kill a dragon. ❞

❝ I have a chill. Light the brazier. ❞

❝ The poisoner was the first, but he will not be the last. ❞

❝ A few cuts. Nothing of consequence. ❞

❝ You have a gentle heart, but you do not understand. This is how it has always been. ❞

❝ It is not for you to tell me what I cannot do. ❞

❝ This is the way of war. ❞

❝ If you must stay, then help. ❞

❝ I sing of my scars. ❞

❝ You must not say that. ❞

❝ We have ridden far enough today. We will camp here. ❞

❝ For the love you say you bear me, help me now. ❞

❝ I will not let him die! ❞

❝ Weep for him tomorrow, or a year from now. We do not have time for grief. ❞

❝ But why? Why should they kill a little baby? ❞

❝ Better to kill the child than to risk his fury when he grows to manhood. ❞

❝ They must not hurt my son! ❞

❝ Some would say that death is cleaner. ❞

❝ Is there no other way? ❞

❝ Only death may pay for life. ❞

❝ This is bloodmagic. It is forbidden. ❞

❝ The dead will dance here this night. ❞

❝ Bring him back to me. ❞

❝ They say she is accursed. ❞

❝ He did not live. ❞

❝ All the grief has been burned out of me. ❞

❝ Should you be up, weak as you are? ❞

❝ I saw you, alone, dancing with the shadows. ❞

❝ I swear to you, these men will die screaming. ❞

❝ If I look back, I am lost. ❞

❝ See what life is worth, when all the rest is gone. ❞

❝ Do you think bloodmagic is a game for children? ❞

❝ Loose me from these bonds and I will help you. ❞

❝ I am his heir. Whatever was his is mine now. ❞

❝ You shall not be alone. ❞

❝ Come with me. We will see all the wonders yet unseen. ❞

❝ I know what you intend. ❞

❝ I understand that you loved him. ❞

❝ I will not watch you burn. ❞

❝ I was a child yesterday. Today I am a woman. Tomorrow I will be old. ❞

❝ Give me your hand and your heart, and there will always be a place for you. ❞

❝ I vow to serve you, to obey you, to die for you if need be. ❞

❝ Forgive me for all I have done and all I must do. ❞

❝ Is it so far from madness to wisdom? ❞

❝ You swore to obey me, whatever might come. ❞

❝ Do not fear for me. ❞

❝ The fire is mine. Don't you see? ❞

[sinner-sunflower]

P.2 HH Lucifer-centric AU 12/?

STORY 1, PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11, PART 13, PART 14, PART 14.5, PART 15, PART 16, PART 17, PART 18, PART 19, PART 20, PART 21, PART 22, PART 23, PART 24, PART 25, PART 26

If you guys see any changes when re-reading a chapter, means that I'm just proofreading and editing it haha

I proofread after I post something. Anyone interested in being a beta reader/proofreader?

-----------------------------------------------

Lucifer is anxious.

After his no more than 10 minute nap was interrupted by the arrival of Belphegor, they were the only 2 in the room. The Sin of Sloth all but ordered that no one enters Lucifer's quarters until she is has looked him over and deemed fine and safe.

He didn't even get to see Charlie but Belphegor in doctor mode is someone he doesn't want to be difficult with.

He could hear the rest of the Sins beyond the door, probably pushing each other to try and sneak a peak or hear something. It reminds him of the time when the Sins first came into existence and acted like clingy children to him and Lilith.

With all the experience he had with them, he still managed to fuck up with Charlie.

Belphegor: -head?

Oh, Bel was talking.

Lucifer: Hmm?

She purses her lips at his inattentiveness and type something on her tablet. This can't be good.

Belphegor: I asked how is your head?

Lucifer: Still attached to me.

Bel gave him a deadpan look.

Belphegor: Very funny.

Lucifer: I am a clown.

Belphegor: Do not let Mammon hear you say that, he might include you as one of his trademark jesters.

Bel fired a few more standard questions and despite her doubts, he was honestly feeling fine. His body and mind is just craving sleep right now but he's in not any sort of pain. Plus, it's not like Bel can cure his problem no matter how good she and her meds are.

Belphegor: Charlie mentioned stuff came out of you? Like dark smoke?

Lucifer: You have to take her word for it because I have no idea what was happening. I was basically asleep the whole time. You should check on her too though. She looks worse than I did.

Belphegor: Yes. Maybe next time, inform one of us of your whereabouts so that the princess doesn't have a mental breakdown when she finds you near dead.

Lucifer: Yeah yeah. But I was only there for a nap. Honest! You know how these Heaven trips are always so tiring, Bel.

Belphegor: Which brings me to my next question, how long have you been coming and going into Heaven?

Lucifer: Uhhh I don't know what you're talking about.

Belphegor: Don't think I did not get that slip of tongue. You said trips.

Lucifer: Did I? I meant trip. Cos this is the first time I've come back there. Yep.

Belphegor: You are supposed to be the father of lies yet you cannot even make up a good enough excuse when the situation calls for it.

Lucifer: Ouch.

Belphegor: So, how long have you been making your secret Heavenly trips without us knowing…… Your Majesty.

Ahhh ever so respectful, even when she's scolding him.

Lucifer: It looks like you already had your suspicions even before I fucked it up.

Belphegor: Opening a portal to a place that is obviously not the entrance to Heaven, having a key to open said portal to a private quarters, not one message above for a permission. It's not rocket science.

Lucifer: Jeez. I didn't even know you were watching that intently.

Belphegor: What servant would I be if I did not keep an eye on my King.

Lucifer: Ain't a good servant supposed to follow their King with no questions asked? This is feeling a lot like an interrogation.

Belphegor: You are correct. And you have mine and the Sins' unyielding loyalty. But.. it does appear like you've forgotten a simple detail.

Lucifer: Oh yeah? And what's that?

Belphegor: You are our big brother. We value you as our family, not simply as royalty.

Lucifer doesn't know what to say to that. Instead he opts to steer the subject.

Lucifer: Do the others know?

Belphegor: I do not think so. And I have half a mind to let them loose on you but.. no. I have a very good inkling you don't want anyone to know of your endeavours.

Lucifer: Just don't tell them. Not yet.

He know Bel won't but he still wants to ask anyway.

Belphegor: Very well. But you are not answering my question. How. Long?

Lucifer can't help but gulp. There's really no getting out of this one. He's a bit glad it's Bel and not anyone else. If there's anyone of the Sins who knows how to keep something to themselves, it's the Sin of Sloth.

Thankfully, she's also too focused on the fact that he's having secret meetings in Heaven than what happened back at the palace.

Lucifer: ….More or less 5000 years ago. It was Michael who reached out first. No one else knows except my siblings up there.

Belphegor: Not even the head Seraphim?

Lucifer: As far as Sera is concerned, I am still banned from setting foot beyond the pearly gates.

Belphegor: Why would the Archangel Michael take that risk then? If found out, would that not affect his standing in Heaven?

Lucifer: At first it was just to stay up to date. He said that he didn't fully trust the council but I think that's just an excuse to have me alone with no one hovering. It's not frequent enough that anyone in Heaven will be able to sense me. But I stopped going when the extermination was proposed.

He took Bel's silence as a cue to continue.

Lucifer: Long before the Fall, Michael and I promised never to lie to each other. And during those secret meetings, I still thought that. I told him everything. But he never told me about the extermination so I guess it was just me upholding that promise. I'm such a fool.

He buries his face in his hands because the he really is a fool. Michael wasn't the only one pretending everything was okay; that anything barely changed. Lucifer hopes that Belphegor doesn't take his secrecy the wrong way.

He just wanted to be the little brother again.

Belphegor: You are a fool.

He can't help but shot Belphegor a pitying look but she puts up a hand before he could say something.

Belphegor: But so was I when I kept that secret that almost destroyed all of Hell. So was Satan for antagonizing the Son of God on Earth which consequently made them think it was you. So was Asmodeus for making his crystals and allowing illegal travels on the human world. So was Mammon when he tried to sue you for the first time and sent you to one of your self-isolation punishments. So was Leviathan for picking a fight with Lilith when you were already in distress. So was Beelzebub for almost letting you drink yourself to death. And so was Lilith for leaving.

The Sin of Sloth moves in front of him so their knees are touching. Bel had never been a touchy person. Much like Alastor, small gestures of touch are her way of shouting her love for you.

He'll forever be honored to be on the receiving end of those kinds of affection because he knows that those gifts given only to people who they think they deserve.

Belphegor: We're fools and we must learn from it. Was it not you who gave humanity the gift of knowledge? Who gave us life? Who gave us free will? So now you have the free will to choose if you'll remain one.

-----------------------------------------------

I don't know why but I love writing Belphegor so much. It's the way she talks that is just easy to keep writing.

Anyway, continuation of this is tomorrow!

I only wanted a Bel and Luci chapter again, you'll see the rest of the Sins and Charlie again tomorrow!

Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated!

[hmshermitcraft]

I thought the "x goes to the life server to see what's up" ask was going to end with, "x went to the death games and had a great time bc hes doomguy"

The vast majority of the time the hermits have known x, he's been a very friendly, goofy, mild mannered admin. He takes care of them, protects them, and loves them with all his heart. What they don't know about x, is that he has not always been this way.

X is a man born of divine violence, he has fought to be kind, clawed his way out of hell for another chance more than twice and defeated the final sin. All in a metaphorical past life, it's been hundreds of thousands of years since he's done anything like that, and he has no desire to go back.

But...he will say that the life server feels familiar in a way he nearly can't remember. Nearly.

Once he goes red, all bets are off the table. His diamond sword feels like the crucible in his hands and his friends and lovers smell like hellwalkers. Xisuma has so. much. fun. Cutting them down, spilling their blood, it's refreshing, he's present for every second of it and in the back of his mind he knows the regret and shame of his actions will crush him to dust, he knows that his hermits won't ever see him in the same way, but he's busy right now.

He wins, and is sent back to hermicraft where he begins his tour of regaining the trust of his family. Etho is the easiest to win over again, saying that everything that happened is forgiven and forgotten as long as x tells him where the hell he learned to use a sword like that. And grian is the hardest. It takes some coaxing from the rafters, lots of soft kisses, hours of explanation and apologies for how he acted.

X doesn't wear his armor anymore and never brings out any weaponry around anyone. grian still isn't totally comfortable and Cleo won't turn her back to him. He understands and hopes that he can leave his last behind for good someday.

That day finally comes years later. Grian knocks on his door in the dead of night and asks him to help preen. Xisuma welcomes him in and coaxes new pinfeathers out of their protective casings with gentle ease. Grian falls asleep as x holds him close, stroking through his hair.

Cleos gone back to playfully punching his arm and sprawling over his work when they want attention, unafraid to bare their neck, to be vulnerable.

Pearl perches on his shoulders and leans down for a kiss, scar asks him out on dates, Bdubs curls up with him in the dark.

Things are good, and the games have never come back, apparently satisfied with his debut performance enough to leave them all alone.

Ough this got so much longer than I wanted it to be cause I need everything to work out and be ok in the end. Sorry lads

-s

Xisuma knows the road in life isn't always a straightforward one, but he's still disgusted with himself for his actions. He scared nobody more than himself.

That bloodlust should be reserved for threats, not the hermits he loves so dearly. He would've gone his entire life without them seeing that side of him if he could.

He acquiesces to any request asked of him for a while, hoping to earn back that trust. He announces himself when walking into a room, pays attention to his footsteps, keeps his weapon tucked away.

It's Cleo who calls him out on it eventually. X had spent most of his week grinding because Impulse just so happened to mention needing a resource. Just like any dressing down, it's a good one. And it ends with them knocking the back of his head and telling him, "We don't care who you were before this. We don't really care for you moping around like this, though Scar probably enjoys it. We just want our stupid admin that listens to metal too loud and can't read a book to save his life back."

Xisuma... He can do that. With time, but he can do it.

[armandauntie]

I am so intrigued to hear all your thoughts on Armand as a lapsed Muslim hello 👀 as, like, a semi-lapsed Muslim myself I have so many thoughts on what Islam looks like for Armand and I’d love to hear your version if you’re willing to share!

(disclaimer, I am in no way an authority on Islam, especially how Islam is practiced outside my specific Shaami/Egyptian community. this is just my interpretation based on my personal experience. i can also not emphasize enough how lapsed I am, I have forgotten 90% of the sunnahs)

aaaaaaggh thank you I am so grateful for your ask!! I will have to dig around and find the source but I love the take I saw either her or on twitter that Armand has been alienated from his own culture because his culture no longer exists (both because of the fall and semi-erasure of the civilization in which he was raised and because his trauma and unwillingness to acknowledge any part of himself that existed before Marius), as well as Assad's (I think it was Assad, could have also been Rolin Jones) insights that Armand code-switches like crazy both in culture and in attitude for the sake of his survival. It resonated with me as an experience that so many immigrants and Muslims have had and really grounded his character in reality, despite the fact that he's a five-century old vampire which might be hard to relate to.

Taking that along with his specifically non-Arabic recitation of the Asr prayer (him saying 'asr namozi' instead of salat al-asr, although wikipedia is telling me that namozi is specific to uzbekistan which could be intentional or just a script error) meant to me that his observation of Islam was a personal choice that he has kept up over the course of his long, long life rather than just a front intended to sell his performance as Rashid. Now, this could be untrue, because I have no idea how much intention the show-writers put into that single moment (or when he has Malik try to reach the mosque before sundown, which although very warped, is also pretty Muslim) buuuut I would like to believe that it's true and that Islam, in whatever form he learned and internalized it over his life, is something he genuinely practices.

OKAY NOW ACTUALLY GETTING TO HOW I VIEW HIS BELIEFS OR AT LEAST WANT TO VIEW THEM, I see Armand's practice of Islam both as a cultural ritual that gives him normalcy and comfort, which he mentions as something very important to him during his days leading the Paris coven, as well as a very personal and maybe not fully realized version of reckoning with his own existence. When he's discussing the idea of evil with Louis in Paris (in episode 2.3 I believe), he counters Louis very Catholic view of killing as a single, unforgivable sin that catapults one into hell, with a view of evil as a gradient (interestingly, this is a direct quote from the book, which posits Armand more as a very Cristian-influenced atheist), but the idea of gradiation in evil is something that reminds me so much of the concept of haram in Islam and how many Muslims in my community believe of it (the halal-haram ratio, if you will). Doing good deeds, showing your devotion to Allah/God through recitation, donation, etc., are all important and worthwhile even if you also also commit acts that are haram, whether that's drinking alcohol, blaspheming, committing aldultery, and in Armand's case, a ton of murder. I see this echoed in how my famiily practices, how myself and my gay friends practice, and even how Muslim characters are portrayed in literature like the Palace Walk series by Naguib Mahfouz. It also especially echoed how I and other gay Muslim people feel as an irrifutable part of ourselves is viewed as inherantly haram, and specifically how we reconsile that with ourselves and our faith. I personally don't see my homosexuality as a sin, but that took a long time for me to come to terms with, and a lot of gay Muslims still view their own sexuality as haram, and process that alongside their faith.

I also think that debate and introspection is a central tennant in Islam, which you can see through masjids becoming the worlds' first universities, as well as through how masjids make time for discussion and questioning during Jummah. The fact that Armand and Louis bond over debates of faith felt extremely Muslim to me.

Although it's very likely not Quranic in nature, the balance of belief and ritual with acts of 'sin' is extremely Muslim to me, and that is exactly what Armand does. The way I interpret it, it's the only way he can live with himself, with his horrific trauma and guilt. Catholicism (a religion I was also raised with), is very all-or-nothing, and that's a source of Louis' trauma. Some versions of Islam are also like that, but so many are not.

Part of the reason I have this account is because I love to highlight the beauty and the thoughtfulness of Islam, because it is so rare for any Western media to show. It's demoralizing and infuriating to only see Muslim people as either terrorists or victims, and it's a big part of the reason I latched on so much to Armand in the show.

Okay that turned into a massive essay, so apologies for that, and I'm also sure there are a million points I'm forgetting. If you (or others) have any points that you also want to bring up, please feel free! This topic brings me so much joy.

[vigilskeep]

ok here's the ostagar ambient dialogues i was talking about for anyone who didn't stop by to hear them all! i was having trouble uploading video so i've just written transcripts real quick :)

briefings

Look carefully, men. This wretched thing is a darkspawn. They're strong and cunning and smart, but don't listen to those old wives' tales. They can be killed. Stick them with your sword enough, and they go down. Their blood is black as sin and poisonous. Don't even touch it. You get tainted with that blood and you may as well slit your throat. We've lost many dogs already, had to muzzle them to keep them from biting. It's a long and painful way to die.

There are lots of darkspawn, different kinds. We're getting reports of things we've never even heard of. Our short friend here for instance is something called a genlock. They're pretty common in the horde, but we've seen others much larger. We don't know where these new darkspawn are coming from, or what they can do. All I can say is to use caution. There aren't any we've seen that won't die once they bleed enough.

I want this nonsense talk stopped immediately. What are you? A bunch of nattering fishwives, spreading gossip until you brown your smallclothes out of terror? We've seen nothing to suggest that the darkspawn drag our people underground to eat them. And I want this talk about darkspawn enslaving survivors to stop immediately. Keep your minds focused on the battle, you fight for Ferelden, and for your king. Remember that.

two soldiers conversations

Female Soldier: This is supposed to be the battle that sends these darkspawn back underground. You believe that?

Male Soldier: I don't know what to believe. We've won every battle, but there's more of them each time.

FS: Makes you wonder if them Grey Wardens are right.

MS: I don't want to think about that.

FS: [sigh] Sounds like the perfect time to get drunk, if you ask me.

*

FS: The last scouting party made it back last night. Barely.

MS: What do you mean?

FS: Only two of them made it. And one was minus a leg. Said they encountered some darkspawn that was ten feet tall, with horns as long as your arm. The injured one died last night. They said his blood was already turning black.

MS: Maker's breath! Where are they all coming from?

*

FS: So there's supposed to be more of these Grey Wardens coming, I hear.

MS: Petran said they were Orlesians, coming with a whole army of them fancy Orlesian knights.

FS: If my pa wasn't already in his grave, that'd put him there.

MS: You think they'll leave once this is done, if we ask them nice?

FS: If they don't, then we keep on fighting, I guess.

MS: I'd rather fight them painted fops than the darkspawn. That howling of theirs... gives me nightmares, it does.

sermons

We stand here in this hour, good folk of Ferelden, and we contemplate the death that may await. Death is no failure, my friends. Should it find you, you will not have failed your king. You will have served your Maker. Die in this battle and when you stand before the Maker in the land beyond the Fade, he will not find you wanting. Go not into death gladly, but with the knowledge that evil has been held at bay by your spilled blood. And if you go to stand beside the Maker, go with our blessing. For you shall not be forgotten. My friends, let us bow our heads and remember those who have fallen and those who have yet to fall.

Maker above, hear the prayers of your sons and daughters. We who betrayed your prophet Andraste now beg your forgiveness. Do not abandon us in our darkest hour. Watch over the valiant king Cailan and guide him as he faces this terrible evil. Watch over Teyrn Loghain and give him the wisdom to bring us victory against the scourge of shadow. Watch over Ferelden, the homeland of Holy Andraste. Keep her people safe from the darkspawn. Let us bow our heads and offer prayers to the Maker, that he might find us worthy.

Soldiers of Ferelden, my sisters and gentle folk, we stand here on the eve of battle. Let us consider the evil before us. In their pride, the mages of the ancient Tevinter Imperium sought to open a portal into the heavenly Golden City itself. They tainted it with their sin and they were cast back into our world as darkspawn. They are man's sins made flesh, an evil that spreads like an illness across our land. To face them, we must first face the evil within ourselves. Let us bow our heads and beg the Maker's forgiveness. Let us not be proud, so we may take courage against the darkness.

[simvanie]

7 Sins Legacy - generation 4 (pride)

Supriya: So, Did you talk with... your father about his proposition he made last Friday? You seemed a little hesitant during the conversation.

Rohan: There were some things I wanted cleared up, but it's all good now.

Supriya: What did you want cleared up?

Rohan: He let me know that he was thinking about retiring a while ago. I had almost forgotten about it so I was a bit taken aback when he said that he is actually planning on doing now. But I get his point that he preferably wants to do it before the city's elections-

-speaking about the elections, I made this rather redundant pie chart and wrote down ways we can secure votes and their chance of succeeding.

Rohan seemed to quickly change the topic of the conversation as Supriya was processing the fact that Rohan didn't give a proper answer to her question. She then looked at the chart as she read the ways to secure votes. "Debate politics from our standpoint, promote policies, and... make empty promises?!"

Rohan: Well, yous see, you've earned the career reward to make empty promises two promotions ago, so it's an option.

Supriya: No. We're not going to make promises we can't keep and lose trust from our voters.

Rohan: Listen, I can guarantee you that no politician in history, whether that be a congressman, senator, or even president, has ever kept all their promises. It won't harm the party as long as we make sure that we keep and fulfill our main promises, don't you think?

Supriya: ...

...let's say connections. ...put everything in place to ensure a smooth transition before the next elections...

Rohan: Supriya?

Supriya: Suraj wants you to lead the party when he retires, doesn't he? Now I understand what you meant with connections when I asked you about the cause you protested for. You didn't have to work your way up, everything is already laid out for you!

Rohan: Hey, I've worked just as hard as you to get to the point where I am now. The reason I didn't have to protest was because he wanted me to work by his side when I started so I could experience what it means to be a politician first hand. You've no idea how much work I had to do- why do you seem so affected by it anyway?

Supriya: Don't you see? An equal opportunity for someone in our party to work their way up and even have a chance of getting that position is completely taken away. On top of that, it'll probably take years before another opportunity like this occurs. He just wants us to work together so I can help you to look your best for the public-

Rohan: What? No! Why would you think that? You're amazing at what you do. It's partially because of your work why we are doing so well in the polls right now. You can make it so far in this career. I just had no idea that you wanted a shot at it too, although you have to realise that your current position is not high enough yet to be even considered as head of the party.

Supriya: I know I can do it! I've been working so hard since I started here. I don't want to be stuck on a position if I know that there could have been a possibility for me to achieve more. I just... wouldn't feel good about myself- about working here... I'll stay to secure the votes for the party because I told him that I would, but I'll probably try to look for a job where there is AT LEAST A POSSIBILITY to reach the top of the career somewhere else after.

Rohan: Oh- wow, hold on, there is no need to take such radical decisions right now- I know that you love this job, don't you want to think about it? Just promise me that you will think about it before making any rash decisions.

Supriya: ...Fine. I will.

[saras-devotionals]

Quiet Time 8/12

What am I feeling today?

I fear my depression is getting the best of me. I also fell into a sin that I hadn’t for a year and it troubles me but I corrected myself swiftly and will confess. I also uninstalled Instagram. I noticed that it was far too much of a distraction for me and was in a sense becoming an idol because I spent time on it first thing in the morning before reading the word of God. My heart is in an odd place that I can’t decipher. I’ll need to go on another prayer walk today. The guy I liked for over a year now also asked me on an encouragement date yesterday and I’m still reeling from that. There’s just a lot swirling around in me that I need to acknowledge and slow down and give it to God.

JOB 19 NIV

“Then Job replied: “How long will you torment me and crush me with words? Ten times now you have reproached me; shamelessly you attack me. If it is true that I have gone astray, my error remains my concern alone. If indeed you would exalt yourselves above me and use my humiliation against me, then know that God has wronged me and drawn his net around me. “Though I cry, ‘Violence!’ I get no response; though I call for help, there is no justice. He has blocked my way so I cannot pass; he has shrouded my paths in darkness. He has stripped me of my honor and removed the crown from my head. He tears me down on every side till I am gone; he uproots my hope like a tree. His anger burns against me; he counts me among his enemies. His troops advance in force; they build a siege ramp against me and encamp around my tent. “He has alienated my family from me; my acquaintances are completely estranged from me. My relatives have gone away; my closest friends have forgotten me. My guests and my female servants count me a foreigner; they look on me as on a stranger. I summon my servant, but he does not answer, though I beg him with my own mouth. My breath is offensive to my wife; I am loathsome to my own family. Even the little boys scorn me; when I appear, they ridicule me. All my intimate friends detest me; those I love have turned against me. I am nothing but skin and bones; I have escaped only by the skin of my teeth. “Have pity on me, my friends, have pity, for the hand of God has struck me. Why do you pursue me as God does? Will you never get enough of my flesh?”

‭‭Job‬ ‭19‬:‭1‬-‭22‬ ‭NIV‬‬

I’ve been reading Job lately (not sure why, it just called to me). He went through so much pain and suffering even though he was a righteous man. It first shows us the lesson that even if we’re great disciples, God still allows us to suffer and even Jesus himself said we’d suffer.

Furthermore, Job has been blaming God (despite the words from his friends). He believes God had wronged him but what he doesn’t understand is that what has happened to him came from the hand of Satan. Yes God allowed it (as a test to prove Satan wrong) but it still came from the enemy.

Now, I don’t necessarily blame Job for his reaction because everything he lost happened all so suddenly and I believe any one of us would have reacted poorly in the face of all that grief and suffering.

However, I believe that this just further goes to show that the point of it all is to rely on God. He is not the one to blame (He’s quite literally blameless). A lot of what happens to us tend to be the result of our own actions and decisions and we must deal with it accordingly. Though there are things that are out of our control remember that sometimes God tests us and examines us in different circumstances (esp those who are righteous). How can you ever improve if you are not ever tested?

Anyways, I feel that I’m in a period of testing right now and I’m failing. I keep asking God for help but just now I’m reminded of an analogy. God is present through this all but He can’t interfere just as a professor is present during an exam but can’t give you the answers. Regardless, I will continue to plead with God to purify me and to help me remain in Him.

“I know that my redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand on the earth.”

‭‭Job‬ ‭19‬:‭25‬ ‭NIV‬‬

Just a reminder for us all🙏🏼

[notgonnaedit]

Beskar and Bone

Chapter 3: The Sin

Summary: A lone bounty hunter must make his way through the galaxy as he cares for two children with mysterious powers.

Chapter summary: A Mando is conflicted about handing the kids over to the Client

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, creepy medical procedures, Mandad on a rampage, child abuse, (If I miss a tag LMK)

Updates on Fridays. If you want to be tagged LMK

Master list

The Mandalorian flipped a few switches as he traveled with the two children. The Child was trying to reach a lever topper sphere and Elaine was staring at the stars.

Suddenly, there was a trilling noise and a transmission from Greef Karga came through.

"Mando. I've received your transmission. Wonderful news. Upon your return, deliver the quarries directly to the client." He chuckled. "I have no idea if he wants to eat them or hang them on his wall, but he's very antsy. Safe passage! You know where to find me." The transmission ended and Elaine swallowed the bile in her throat.

"Are we gonna be eaten?" She asked fearfully.

"Probably not." Mando said. He looked down to see the Child with the lever topper and took it from him. "It's not a toy."

When they arrived on Nevarro, Mando did as Greef said and went straight to the Client. He couldn't help noticing the way Elaine took in her surroundings with great interest. How long has she been held captive, he wondered.

Before long, they reached the sketchy house and Mando held up his chain code to the droid, and was let in. The same Stormtroopers as before escorted him to the Client. One prodded Elaine in one of her bruised spots.

"Easy with her." Mando told him.

The trooper scoffed. "You take it easy."

Mando breathed slowly to control his temper. Soon they came to the Clients office where he held to fobs.

"Yes!" He said as he moved nearer. "Yes, yes, yes!"

The Child whimpered softly and Elaine moved closer to Mando. The armor clad man noticed this and ignored his urge to take them back.

"Very healthy. Yes." Dr. Pershing said in a hushed tone.

The Client reached his hand out to touch Elaine's horns. "Very interesting, indeed."

Mando took a step forward, even though he knew it wasn't his place. 

The Client stood up. "Your reputation was not unwarranted."

"How many fobs did you give out?" Mando asked, annoyance lacing his words.

The Client moved back to the container on his desk. "These assets were of extreme importance to me. I had to ensure it's delivery. But to the winner..." He opened the container to reveal a large amount of beskar. "Go the spoils. Such a large bounty for such small packages."

Mando watch as the Stormtroopers guided the kids into the next room. The Child cried and Elaine looked at him with her innocent eyes, silently pleading for him to save them.

"What are your plans for them?" Mando asked when the exited the room.

The Client titled his head in curiosity. "How uncharacteristic of one of your reputation. You have taken both commission and payment. Is it not the Code of the Guild that these events are now forgotten? That Beskar is enough to make a handsome replacement for your armor." The elder said. "Unfortunately, finding a Mandalorian in these trying times is more difficult than finding the steel."

The Mandalorian took the container and left for the Covert with a conflicted heart.

~~~

Mando set the container down and took a seat as the Armorer walked over.

A crowd of Mandalorians had gathered and where marveling at Mando's reward.

"This amount can be shaped in many ways." The Armorer said as she took a piece of Beskar.

"My armor has lost it's integrity. I may need to begin again." He told her.

"Indeed. I can form a full cuirass." This would be in order for your station."

Mando nodded. "That would be a great honor."

"I must warn you. It will draw many eyes." The Armorer said.

Paz Viszla scoffed as he looked at the Beskar. "These were cast in an Imperial smelter. These are the spoils of the Great Purge. The reason that we live hidden like sand rats."

"Our secrecy is our survival." The matriarch told him. "Our survival is our strength."

"Our strength was once in our numbers." Paz argued. "Now we live in the shadows and only come above ground one at a time. Our world was shattered by the Empire, with whom this cowered shares his tables."

Mando lunged for him at that point. They fought until they held each other by the throats with their vibroblades.

"The Empire is no longer." The Armorer said calmly. "And the Beskar was returned. When one chooses to walk the way of the Mandalore, you are both hunter and prey. How can one be a coward if one chooses this way of life?" Have you ever removed your helmet?"

"No." Mando and Paz said at the same time.

"Has it ever been removed by others?"

"Never."

"This is the Way."

"This is the Way." The Mandalorians echoed

"What caused this damage?" The Armorer asked looking at Mando's battered armor.

"A Mudhorn." He said.

"Then you have earned the Mudhorn as your signet. I shall craft it."

Mando stopped her. "I can't accept. It wasn't a noble kill. I was helped by an enemy." He thought back to the Child saving him, and Elaine's worry.

"Why would an enemy help you in battle?" She asked.

"It did not know it was my enemy."

"Since you forgo a signet, I shall use the excess the forge whistling birds."

Mando perked up at that. "Whistling birds will do well. Reserve some for the foundlings."

"As it should always be. The foundlings are the future. This is the Way."

"This is the Way." The group echoed.

"This is the Way." Mando said.

~~~~

Elaine looked around her as she was strapped to an examination table. She saw the Child on one across from her and felt her fear take over. What was going to happen to her? Why was she so special? She wanted her parents more than anything, but she held out a small hope that the Mandalorian would come back for them.

Just then, the doctor entered the room with a pained look on his face. Elaine watched him as he pulled a syringe out from a drawer.

"I'm so sorry." He told her. "But I have to do this."

Elaine didn't have to think about that for long as the doctor injected a sedative into her arm and the world faded to black.

~~~

Mando powered his engines up as he got ready for his next job. He went to move the lever, but stopped when he saw the top was missing. Finding it nearby, he screwed it back on, but as he did, he saw a bandage on the floor. It was Elaine's and must have fell off when the left. He stared at it remorsefully, then at the ball in his hand. Those kids were foundlings, and he had to get them.

Mando powered down the engines and left for the Client.

~~~~

Elaine slept restlessly as the Doctor ran tests on her. She faintly heard a conversation.

"I don't care. I order you to extract the necessary material and be done with them."

"He has explicitly ordered us to bring it back alive."

"He said no such thing about the girl. Finish your business quickly, as I no longer can guarantee your safety."

Elaine moaned softly and fell back into unconsciousness.

~~

Mando stormed into the lab to find the kids unconscious on medical tables.

"What did you do to them?" He asked aiming his blaster at the doctor. "What did you do to them?"

"I protected them. I protected them. If it wasn't for me, they would already be dead!"

Mando ignored his pleas and wrapped the Child in a blanket. He moved to Elaine and gently shook her.

"Elaine, get up. We have to go."

She opened her eyes and a sleepy smile graced her face. "You came back."

Mando helped her up. "I did, but I'm gonna need you to follow me, I can't carry you both."

They moved through the building until they were surrounded by troopers.

"Freeze!"

"Don't move."

"Hands up."

"Drop the blaster."

"Wait." Mando said slowly lowering himself to the ground. "What I'm holding is very valuable. Here." He set the Child on the ground and pulled Elaine to him before firing his new whistling birds and killing the troopers.

When they finally made it outside, they ran for the Crest, only to be stopped by Greef Karga and the Guild.

"Welcome back, Mando!" The older man said. "Now put the packages down."

"Step aside. I'm going to my ship." Mando held his blaster with one hand and the Child in the other. Elaine shrunk behind him, his cape draping over her.

Greef chuckled. "You give the bounties to us and perhaps I'll let you pass."

"The kids are coming with me."

"If you truly care about them, then you'll put them in the speeder and we'll discuss terms." Greef motioned to a speeder with a cart attached.

"How do I know I can trust you?" Mando asked.

Greef scoffed. "Because I'm your only hope."

Mando looked down at the Child in his arm, then down at Elaine who looked up at him worriedly. He then shot at Karga as the kids layed low in the speeder. "Drive!" He told the droid and it did just that. Elaine held the Child close to her as Mando shot at the various Bounty hunters.

"That's one impressive weapon!" Karga said trying to meditate.

"Here's what I'm gonna do." Mando said. "I'm gonna walk to my ship with the kids and you're gonna let it happen."

"No. How about this. We take the kids, and if you try to stop us, we kill you and strip your body for parts."

Elaine's breath faltered. She didn't want Mando to die and she definitely didn't want to go back to that place. Mando ducked down with her and looked at her. They were surrounded and had no way out. He couldn't bear to see the scared look in Elaine's eyes as she held the Child to her.

Just when they thought they were done for, Mandalorians began to come down from the sky and cover them.

"Get out of here!" Paz said as he fired his gun. "We'll hold them off!"

"You're going to have to relocate the Covert." Mando told him.

Paz nodded. "This is the Way."

"This is the Way." Mando took the kids and ran for his ship, but when he boarded, a voice from behind stopped him.

"Hold it, Mando." Karga told him. "I didn't want it to come to this. But then you broke the Code." Mando said nothing as he used the carbonite freezer to distract Karga and disappear into the mist. He shot at Karga and closed the door, allowing for them to get away.

As they began to leave the atmosphere, Mando watched a Mandalorian salute at him as he used a jet pack.

"I gotta get one of those." Mando said as he handed the Child the ball. 

Elaine shifted in her seat. "Thank you for saving us." She said softly.

Mando nodded. "This is the Way." He doubted she knew what it meant, but he said it nonetheless. He had saved two kids, but now he had two kids, one with mysterious powers, that he knew nothing about.​​​​​​​

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