#mely writes fanfiction

[melynen]

Lucky Bastard - 00Q - G

Q stares.

Bond, the object of his half fascinated, half horrified concern, preens.

“What’d you do?” Q eventually breathes.

“Jumped out of a moving train,” Bond replies, as though it’s a perfectly logical response. His lover’s clothes are torn and bloody, yet somehow he has no open wounds on his body, no gaping holes that need patching. Lucky bastard, Q thinks wonderingly.

“Using Monroe’s bodyguard as a shield,” Bond continues.

Well, that explains it. It’s all fun and games until someone loses their blood, and their life.

“Did you also lose your gun?” Q asks.

Bond’s silence is answer enough.

Written for Word Count Table’s prompt ‘100’.

[ego-meliorem-esse]

Stormy Eyes

The 7-year-old looking boy with boundless energy, stood atop the hill, looking down at the small church where a somber funeral was taking place. In his small hand, Alfred clutched a single flower, a blue daisy. The daisy, a simple tribute to his best friend, Davie. Alfred had returned from London with excitement, eager to share his discoveries and stories, only to discover the devastating news of Davie's passing. His young heart ached, and the weight of grief hung heavily upon him.

Throughout his short life, Alfred had always been a whirlwind of activity, his mind racing from one thought to another, his body in constant motion. His father, Arthur, had observed these tendencies with a watchful eye, understanding that his son's boundless enthusiasm often came with moments of restlessness and broken vases.

As Arthur approached his young son, he saw the boy's restless fidgeting, his hands twisting the flower stem, and his gaze darting in all directions. He knew with how much enthusiasm and excitement Alfred carried and took care of the flower on his long journey to Boston. So, having Alfred bend and break the stem was a certain cause for concern. He recognized his boys fidgeting and what it stood for. An understanding that had developed over years of being Alfred's father and mentor.

"Alfred," Arthur said sternly, yet without a hint of annoyance. His voice carrying the weight of centuries of history and responsibility. Arthur looked down from the hill to the quaint church where a crowd of silhouettes gathered, and with an almost inaudible "Ah." understood the weight of the situation. He looked down at his son, his eyes softened with concern. "I'm sorry lad."

Alfred's response was not in words but in frantic fidgeting. His young mind was trapped in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, rendering him staring down at the destroyed flower stem he seemed to cherish only a few hours before.

Seeing his son's distress, Arthur's concern deepened. He slowly kneeled down, reached out and gently held Alfred's face in his hands, physically anchoring the restless child and forcing their eyes to meet.

"Alfred," Arthur said firmly once again, his voice breaking through the chaos in Alfred's mind. "Focus, my son. You must."

Alfred's tear-filled eyes finally met his father's, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Arthur could see his son's eyes trying to suppress more tears from welling up. The effort was unsuccessful, because as soon as Alfred took a breath, all the supressed tears fell all at once. Through all that his boy didn't make a single sound.

Arthur's words continued, his voice carrying the weight of wistom obtained by blood and violence. "My boy, your life will be a lonely but fulfilling one. You will meet many people, nations, enemies and friends along the way. Each one will leave a mark on your heart, just as your friend here did." Arthur didn't dare look away at the funeral for the friend he just mentioned in fear of loosing Alfred to his own mind once again.

Arthur's voice almost quivered as he spoke of Alfred's lost friend. "Remember them, Alfred. Remember them all, and carry their memories with you. Your existence, my dear boy, is both a solitary journey and a shared one. You are not alone in this world of nations."

He paused, his grip on Alfred's face unwavering. "Your restless spirit is a part of who you are, Alfred, and it's a gift. Use it to carry the torch for those who have gone before us and for those who will come after. You have the strength within you to focus when it truly matters. Because, my son, when you do, miracles will happen."

He released his son and instead of going back to fidget with the plant, Alfred stood still and kept looking at his father.

As the funeral procession continued below, father and son remained standing on that grassy hill. Arthur's words seemed to echo back and forth in the young boys mind, his ocean eyes finally resembling calm waters. In that moment Arthur was reminded of stormy nights at sea and the calm morning that followed.

He was always good at sailing through the storm.

[90sbee]

The patrol is over

Leon S. Kennedy x Ashley Graham

2k words. Also on ao3

As Leon and Ashley await for the helicopter to take them to safety, Leon is slowly spiralling, full of concern still. It is then that a ghost from his past decides to visit him.

What can I say, I had this idea already and then I saw Leshley Week... It was like the perfect excuse to write and post this one. Also this fic is quite silly but, hey, I love writing Leon's pov. Also @lightning-hawke is a sweetheart and she made sure that this was readable. Everybody please thank you to this brave soldier who had to face my 3am delusional writing.

Content: All Leon's pov, angsty and sad but also. Cathartic. Ash is asleep the whole time cos baby needed a nap after all that. Spooning, protective!Leon.

Warnings: Hallucinations, anxiety. Mention of guns, knives, zombies. Sleep deprivation. And I think that's it? Yeah, this is actually SFW, for once, haha.

It’s been three hours. Maybe four. Perhaps five.

Leon can’t sleep. He has tried it, though, but his body is still running on adrenaline and anxiety and he doubts that he will actually get some rest today.

Whatever. He has had it worse.

Ashley is passed out on the bed, curled up into herself, softly snoring. Leon blinks, trying to keep his eyes open. Even if his body is exhausted, his mind is still rushing through all the different scenarios in which this could still go wrong, heart rattling inside his chest.

What if Luis was wrong? What if the Plagas is still inside them? What if he ends up falling asleep, body going slump on this old chair and when he wakes up, he has hurt her?

God. Such idea gives him goosebumps, and he sits even farther from the bed.

What if instead, it is her? What if Ashley opens her eyes and tries to attack him?

Leon eyes the knife on the nightstand, the guns on the floor.

He knows he wouldn’t use any weapon against her, anyway. But if she hurt anyone, he’d be responsible.

God. Fuck responsibilities and guilt. It would’ve meant he had failed.

His blood runs cold then.

A failure. Assigned on what was, probably, the most important mission in his life. The president’s daughter involved, and what was supposed to be one of the top agents in the country, ruining everything. Returning a shadow of a woman, a timebomb.

Leon hides his face in his hands for a while, trying to catch his breath.

He knows he is spiralling.

He has to keep some faith: faith in Ashley, faith in Luis.

In himself, even if he is not used to it.

He looks at her, pursing his lips.

She breathes so calmly. Expression soft, features finally having some well-deserved rest. She is so gorgeous too. A soul too kind for him. He feels guilty for refusing to accept her proposal, though he is aware that being her bodyguard would have never actually been possible.

He blushes slightly, knowing that she at least wanted his company for a little longer. Maybe he is not so useless after all. She had also asked him to hold her to sleep, but he had simply shaken his head. “You’ll be fine, I promise. You’ll probably have a better rest taking up the whole bed”.

He sighs, crossing his arms. Leon is not sure how long it will take until the helicopter arrives. He hopes it is soon, because his head hurts and he feels hungry but he can’t leave her side and he definitely doesn’t trust the police officers next door.

No, scratch that.

He wishes the helicopter never arrives.

Because that means it is all over.

His gaze softens as he looks at her, feeling his heart pulling at its strings. For a moment, he considers it. A life with her. Visiting her at the White House. Maybe indeed fighting to accept the bodyguard position, his hand on her back as he keeps her safe once more, the sound of her laugh. The idea of getting acquainted with her shampoo brand, learning her favourite colour, kissing her forehead.

He is spiralling again, but this time in a more dangerous direction. Leon cracks his knuckles, yawning.

There is no point into wasting time thinking of all this. He can’t afford to lose footing in reality. And the reality is forcing him to remember that only a few hours they had both been fighting a Plagas, and he can’t be completely sure that the coast is clear. The mission isn’t over until she is back home, until they both reach American ground.

His foot starts hitting the floor quickly, as his headache gets even worse. He has to keep himself awake, he can’t lose focus.

At any given point Ashley could wake up and look at him with those soft doe eyes and ask anything, anything from him and, god, he’d give her the world, but first… But first he has to make sure that they’re both safe.

She’s make him feel like a worthy prince.

He can’t lose the princess for being careless.

He feels thirsty but he doesn’t even want to move his eyes away from her. His heart picks up when he thinks her chest stops moving up and down, but he realises it is his mind playing tricks on him as she sighs again.

Fuck. He is really losing his shit. He’s been trained for this crap. He barely sleeps anyway.

He curses in a whisper and looks down, grabs the water bottle next to his foot and sits down again.

That’s when he notices there is someone else in the room.

How? How would that be possible? There is no fucking way. It takes him just a second to fucking comprehend what is going on, but in an instant he has his knife on his fist, standing up as he approaches the figure, ready to attack the stranger.

The knife doesn’t hit anything.

Leon stills his movements then, realising that he recognises the face in front of him: the dirty-bloodied uniform, the stupid toothy smile, the look of hope in his eyes.

It’s him. The ghost of his younger version, the one from Raccoon City, stands before him.

“Fuck off,” Leon groans. He knows now that he is hallucinating. “Go away,” he pleads, in a growl, sitting down once more. His fucking head feels like about to explode.

“Buddy, I don’t think I’m going anywhere,” answers the more excitedly voice.

Leon considers replying, but he doesn’t want to wake Ashley up. The poor thing has already gone through too much, the least she needs at the moment is the man that is supposed to keep her safe having a full-on discussion with himself.

Fucking insane. He hides his face in his hands.

It’s not the first time it’s happened, that’s for sure. He’s gone through it all: hallucinations for being sleep-deprived, sleep paralysis after the most excruciating missions.

Most of the times it’s not even monsters, or zombies. Most times it’s people he knew: Annette, Ada a couple of times too. Last time it was Marvin, his body bloody and his eyes white as he swears he could hear his cries of pain still.

He wonders if maybe Luis will join as well, sometime, another painful reminder of his failures.

But himself? This was new.

“What the fuck do you want?” he mumbles. It Is stupid, Leon knows that. But perhaps by talking to this ghost of himself he could get rid of it faster, make sure he can go back to guard Ashley.

“Heh, I think it is obvious what you want,” the high-pitched voice replies. Leon looks up a moment, seeing the rookie sitting on the floor next to the bed, pointing at Ashley.

“Very funny,” Leon groans.

“What? Are you gonna deny it? I’m literally you.”

“Just, shut up.”

Surprisingly, that works. When Leon looks up once more, the figure isn’t there. He yawns, rubbing his temple. Maybe he is gone, for real. Maybe his mind will stop playing tricks on him now. He resumes his watch, his whole attention directed towards Ashley.

He is not even sure what time it is now, but he hopes it won’t be too long. At this point, he is being more of a nuisance than an actual help, a real protection for her. He knows he will have to sleep soon.

Not yet, though. Not fucking yet. He has to fucking hold on, try to keep it together.

“Hey, maybe you should get some actual sleep,” the voice suddenly interrupts him, now coming from next to him.

Leon almost stumbles from his chair, heart racing.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he half-shouts, and immediately purses his lips, embarrassed.

The rookie, the fucking rookie, sitting down next to him.

“Sorry, just trying to help,” he mumbles.

Leon shakes his head. He doesn’t want to say anything else. He is sure he almost woke Ashley up. He decides to acknowledge this presence, since it is becoming quite clear that it is not leaving for now.

“What do you want? Don’t fucking say Ashley, I swear to God,” he whispers, ashamed.

“Well, you’re the one that should know that. Your brain is literally hallucinating me at this point.”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. I can’t sleep yet,” he replies, crossing his arm as he stands up, trying to walk around the room a little, forcing his body not to pass out.

“You look incredibly nervous, dude,” his younger version chuckles, seemingly amused.

“I’m not.”

“Why are you walking around, then?”

“Well, someone has to make sure the president’s daughter doesn’t die on my watch. I’d say that’s some pretty big responsibility,” his heart is about to get out of his chest, and he is sweating.

The headache is now deeper, more annoying.

“She is safe now, Jesus Christ. Give yourself some credit, man.”

“She is not,” Leon suddenly replies.

“She is. Don’t you trust Luis? Do you think he would have lied to you?”

That does stop him in his tracks. Perhaps the rookie has a point. Leon nods, slowly. In the darkness of the room, he looks at his arms. The veins are normal still. He hasn’t had any weird visions since they got the Plagas expelled.

Well, except for the unpleasant vision that his own mind conjures. Maybe even more annoying than Lord Saddler’s ones.

He doesn’t acknowledge the rookie, though, but he comes back to sit on the chair.

“How many hours has it been now?” this ghost insists.

“I dunno.”

“You do know.”

God. He didn’t remember his younger voice being that annoying. Leon inhales, trying to calm himself down.

“Five hours,” he replies after a moment.

“If any of you were still infected, don’t you think the Plagas would have acted up by now? Also, Lord Saddled is dead now. There is no one controlling the Plagas now. All the Ganado died, remember?”

Leon hates that the little kid is right.

“I guess that’s true,” Leon admits.

The rookie laughs.

“She is fine. You don’t need to keep watching over her like a creep. I mean, not that we are being creepy…”

Leon interrupts himself: “Just go to the point, man”.

The rookie looks up at him, glittering eyes full of hope and a gentle small on his face.

“Look, I thought I was the rookie here, but you’re being a whole amateur now,” he stands up, in silence. “The patrol is over, rookie”.

Leon looks at himself. That shadow of himself, too full of hope and of light. He blinks, still processing the rookie’s words… His own words, echoing from and inside his head.

The patrol is over.

Fuck.

He slumps on the chair, eyes welling up with tears. For a moment, he lets himself cry in silence, under the soft sound of Ashley’s breathing. He breaks down a little, feels pity for himself, as well as relief. He dries off his tears with his palm, trying not to be too much of a mess in case she wakes up. He should be strong still. He needs to be.

By now, the headache is unbearable and his eyes hurt, a combination of exhaustion and the tears. But he knows it’s true: they’re both safe. He saved her. Ashley is safe. And even if he can’t have her, if this story ends in a few hours, he can still breathe without regrets. He can even make sure that their last memories together are something pleasant, something nice and comforting.

Leon tries to calm his breathing. He looks up, still curious as to whether the old presence is still there, but not anymore.

No more ghosts in the room. Just Ashley and him now.

With heavy steps he moves towards the bed, dizzy by now. He lies down on the bed and allows himself to breathe against Ashley’s shoulder, timidly holding her from behind. He grips her body close to his, knowing this is the only and last time he’ll have this chance. And even if she is half-asleep, Ashley sighs, content on her sleep, as Leon closes his eyes, finally allowing himself to rest.

The patrol is over and so is their story. But for a while, they can still lie close together, in the dark. Both finally safe, at last.

My brain actually wanted to be mean and make it Marvin instead of Rookie Leon but you know what. I don't need to break my heart like that SO much. Let Leon be angry at himself, it's fun, lol.

[melis-writes]

You're Still My Brother [Godfather Part II AU].

Read on AO3. | Fanfic Masterlist | Fic and Prompt Requests Info.

18+, explicit oneshot.

Death is clipping at Fredo Corleone's heels and there's only one way out of Havana tonight. With chaos ensuing from the rebels and the kiss of death sealing Fredo's fate from Michael, Fredo's heart gives in. Helpless, desperate and terrified of his brother, Michael manipulates his Fredo's good nature into trusting him and leaving Cuba together. Hyman Roth and Johnny Ola are dead, or so Michael has Fredo believe in but Michael has no intention of letting Fredo leave Cuba alive.

[WARNINGS]: Heavy angst / Character death / Strangulation / Fratricide / Hurt with no comfort.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE]: From one of my favourite, angsty scenes from The Godfather Part II, here comes an AU oneshot I came up with in one sitting tonight with Fredo actually leaving Havana with Michael…💔 I had always wondered what would have happened in Fredo got into that car with Michael, how he would be convinced, what Michael would say and what would come next. 🥺 Playing on emotionally manipulative strings and lies in this AU, I've made Michael seal Fredo's fate differently. This is my first Godfather oneshot/fic that isn't X Reader, romance or smut related!! 🤭💕 I definitely plan to write more as they come amidst updating my multi-chapter fics! Heavy, HEAVY angst in this oneshot with all tags/warnings applying, just a heads up!! 👀🫡

Panic. Mass confusion. Violence answers the questions of the innocent, the confused, and the helpless. Michael’s amongst them, but not one of them.

Aside from the rebels leaving nothing but destruction and the ensuing chaos in their wake around the vicinity, Michael remains to be among the very scattered few who neither fear nor react to the violence surrounding them.

Seemingly coordinated enough on New Year’s Eve, Michael’s more than well aware of the threat the rebels have been posing at all times.

It was enough to see rebels give their own lives in order to take one of the police officers in front of Michael’s eyes to convince him the rebels would take any opportunity to spill blood and fight back even if cornered regardless of the consequences.

Despite the ongoing panic, Michael knows he is in no true danger nor is he a target of the rebels just as he knows the party is over and he has outstayed his welcome as have all the guests at the president’s party.

Michael slipped through the packs of crowds rushing out onto the street and did so without attracting unnecessary attention, but the same couldn’t be said for his brother.

Fredo pushed through anyone and everyone who got in front of him the moment before the onset of the violence began.

Fredo was already running for his life with fear swelling in his heart because of Michael; the truth of his betrayal was never as clever as any lie Fredo could tell Michael or any way Fredo could pretend he didn’t cause an attempted assassination on Michael’s life.

The darkness in Michael’s heart confirmed the death wish he bestowed upon his brother by sealing the kiss of death over Fredo.

Now, no explanation, no apology, and no justification can exist in this world where Michael may exercise mercy or forgiveness over his own brother.

As death itself follows at Fredo’s heels, his only escape is to flee Havana but hiding elsewhere in Cuba will spare his life longer so as long as Fredo doesn’t return to where Michael has eyes and ears in the United States.

With tears stinging his eyes and whimpers of fear escaping his trembling lips, Fredo’s breath quivers as he sprints out of the presidential palace; taking as many twists and turns as he can.

But it’s only a matter of mere moments before the planned attack takes place at the same time; its sole benefit helping Fredo blend in with the rest of the outpouring crowd seconds later.

Michael’s chauffeur never strayed far from the presidential palace; parked just a few meters away from the side of the building with intentions to take Michael and Fredo to the airport to catch their private jet later on this evening.

Standing by the vehicle now, Michael keeps the passenger door open with one hand over its rim as he looks out for any signs of his brother amidst the terrified crowds.

Fredo has no choice but to slow down the steps of the presidential palace when he spots the rioting rebels, seeing no prying eyes over him.

Among dozens of other black and white suits, Fredo is almost impossible to spot—mirroring the same body language as other rushing guests.

The vehicles of the rebels arrived in a circle around the presidential palace, honking incessantly and powering the noise and hollering of its drivers and the other rebels.

Rebels armed with bats and clubs swing at the pillars of the presidential palace and the windows of nearby guest vehicles, only causing further alarm.

Swallowing hard, Fredo stumbles down one of the steps and frantically looks around him to find some route of escape—seeing some guests have already gotten into taxis and nearby vehicles.

 “Argh—” Fredo grunts out in surprise as a couple accidentally bumps into him—ramming their shoulders into his back.

Fredo almost trips down the next set of stairs before him, catching his balance before Michael’s eyes land on his brother just across from him in his line of sight now.

“Fredo!” Michael calls out from afar, shrouded in the darkness where he stands away from streetlights or any direction crowds run toward.

Fredo freezes in his tracks, feeling his muscles instantly tense up from nothing but utter horror at the sight of his brother; pure fear triggering Fredo’s fight or flight response.

Fredo’s fear of his own brother has intensified and tripled in a matter of moments back in the presidential palace to the point where Fredo trembles in Michael’s presence and practically feels nauseous being under his brother’s gaze.

Fredo’s eyes widen as his mouth runs dry, eyeing his brother’s body language for immediate resentment and hostility.

“Come on!” Michael gestures out with his hand towards him; only appearing as a concerned brother insistent on helping his brother and escaping together.

Nothing over Michael’s expression or tone of voice resembles the putrid hatred that promised death to Fredo minutes back at the presidential palace.

Refusing, Fredo begins to slowly turn around but keeps his eyes on his brother as his body screams for Fredo to move away.

“It’s the only way out of here tonight,” Michael hollers back, noticing Fredo beginning to pull away. “Roth is dead!”

Naturally, the fate Michael planned and anticipated for Hyman Roth has failed unbeknownst to him but with Fredo’s betrayal stemming from Hyman Roth and Johnny Ola, it appears to be very convincing and tempting.

Still, the fear Fredo feels towards his own brother is all the more overpowering and there’s not a shred of trust nor hope left in Fredo to believe in Michael’s words.

Michael extends out his hand, seeing his words having no effect on his brother. “FREDO!”

Fredo forces himself to keep moving—staggering through the remaining crowd down the steps but with his head still turned towards Michael as if Fredo expects him to follow or lunge after him.

“Fredo, come with me!” Michael raises his voice above the noise of the crowds; seeing his brother is about to run off entirely. “You’re still my brother!”

Fredo’s just begun to rush off again into the crowd but stops at Michael’s words—the most convincing above all, promising they’re still family.

“Fredo!” Michael takes a step further, beginning to move in Fredo’s direction and away from the vehicle. “FREDO!”

Sensing no harm or ill intention from Michael amongst danger and chaos, Fredo’s good nature does not lie to him but coaxes his heart to trust in Michael and escape out of Havana with his brother.

In Michael now, Fredo wants to see his brother’s emotional vulnerability; despite everything, family ties and bonds never break, despite everything, Michael would want no harm to come to Fredo and certainly not here.

“You’re still my brother!”

Fredo turns back around to Michael and swears to himself he can see a pleading look in Michael’s eyes, past the shadows that keep him almost completely concealed.

Tears spring from Fredo’s eyes as he runs toward his brother, unaware he’s accepting his damned fate but giving his trust, love, and belief in safety to Michael.

Michael steps aside to let Fredo into the passenger seat, moving to the other side of the vehicle to get in for himself.

Fredo scurries inside and slams the car door behind him; a pitiful state of worry and exhaustion over him compared to Michael who still remains composed and calm.

Michael does the same, needing to give no signal or word to his chauffeur who immediately begins to drive off in the opposite direction of the presidential palace.

For a moment as Michael’s preoccupied with looking towards the chauffeur and windshield to see what’s ahead of him, neither he nor Fredo say a word to each other nor make eye contact.

Fredo peeks out the window to see hoards of people pushing into the US Embassy and pleading with the guards by the gate for safety; everyone fending for themselves in desperate hopelessness.

Fredo even spots a private jet beginning to take off as others help their family onto nearby boats and ships eager to get off the dock.

As the vehicle continues to move and navigate around the rebels and crowds with ease, Fredo flinches at the sight of the rebels setting nearby garbage cans on fire and rushing into the presidential palace itself.

With all of this occurring in mere seconds as the violence worsens and fires spread to smashed-in vehicles and broken goods from inside the presidential palace, Michael’s eyes land on his brother inside the car once again.

Fredo catches Michael’s gaze, looking as pale as a ghost with worry crossing his eyes as the vehicle now begins to slow through crowds clamoring at every angle.

Michael’s chauffeur keeps his composure, honking again and again as he continues to drive.

Michael knits his brows, gazing out both windows and somewhat concerned himself not about the damage the rebels continue to do, but what can come from the panicking and desperate mobs of people surrounding the car.

“O-Oh my God,” Fredo shudders as the vehicle finally begins to pick up its speed and separate from the crowds.

In a split second, Michael makes eye contact with the chauffeur through the rearview mirror, signaling a change in the destination; one out of sight with no one to hear anyone’s helpless screams.

Fredo doesn’t notice, nervously sitting next to Michael and looking down to see his fingers trembling uncontrollably in his lap just from Michael’s presence.

“We’re almost out,” Michael finally speaks; his voice calm and soothing enough for Fredo to believe it.

Fredo keeps his eyes on the road, refusing to relax and snap out of his alarmed state until the car drives much further down the road and Fredo’s unable to hear the rebellion behind him.

“The plane—” Fredo stammers, swallowing. “Are we getting out of here?”

“We are,” Michael reaffirms as the chauffeur takes a different turn to drive upon the side of the road where Fredo’s door faces the ocean. “Fredo—” Michael looks at his brother, “it’s fine. It’s over now.”

Fredo gives a glum nod, attempting to relax in his seat. “I don’t know what to say, Mikey. I…”

Fredo’s voice trails off as the car comes to a slow halt by the ocean; the chauffeur avoids looking towards the rearview mirror or making eye contact with either Michael or Fredo.

“I d-don’t…” Fredo’s voice cracks as he attempts to speak again, looking helplessly at his brother.

Michael faces Fredo whose almost too emotional to even realize the car has stopped on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

“Mikey,” Fredo breathes out—his throat tightening as hot tears stream down his cheeks. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

“Fredo,” Michael turns his body towards his brother, watching Fredo weep softly and break down in front of him.

“You have to u-understand, Mikey,” Fredo pleads—emotion straining in his voice, “I w-was caught in the middle. I didn’t agree—I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t know it would end up like this—I didn’t know it was gonna be a hit or anything.”

As Michael stares into his brother’s eyes, his grow colder and Fredo’s words ring out to him with no meaning, no justification nor anything worth believing for the man in front of Michael is no longer his brother but a betrayer, a traitor and a stranger bearing the same last name.

Michael gives a small nod to Fredo as if he’s understanding of it all and figured as much for himself, but the chauffeur hits a small button over his door which immediately causes all of the doors to lock.

“Michael—” Fredo croaks, flinching from fear and looking towards his passenger door in alarm.

“Fredo, look at me. Look at me.” Michael detracts Fredo’s attention from reaching out to attempt to open his passenger door—facing his brother directly again. “Listen to me.”

“I d-don’t want anything to happen to you, Mikey,” Fredo blubbers, sobbing.

“Look at me,” Michael cups his brother’s face with both hands, feeling Fredo’s warm tears against his palm. “I know. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Never, ever,” Fredo gives his head a little shake, clutching onto the fabric of Michael’s trousers with a shaky hand. “Y-you’re my brother, my brother—”

“I know,” Michael repeats again, eerily calm compared to Fredo’s distraught state on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.

“I c-could never live it down,” Fredo hiccups, his knuckles turning white from how hard he grips Michael’s trousers.

“And you don’t have to,” Michael replies, wiping a stray tear away from Fredo’s cheek.

“I’m s-scared, Mikey, when you look at me like that—”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Fredo,” Michael lies, “you know that. Wouldn’t I leave you to your fate there if that’s what I wanted?”

“Y-yeah, I guess—” Fredo smiles weakly at Michael, comforted by his brother’s lies. “I love you, Mikey. I j-just want you to know that.”

Shallow, empty words with no meaning that register nothing to Michael. He chooses to ignore them, unshaken by what’s to come next.

“I know,” Michael kisses Fredo’s forehead, slowly moving his hands down to Fredo’s neck.

Fredo’s eyes snap open in terror as Michael wraps his hands around his throat firmly just moments after. “Mikey—"

“Goodbye, Fredo,” Michael immediately begins to exhort force over Fredo’s throat—crushing his esophagus.

Fredo wheezes and whimpers, but can get barely anything other than a whine out. He attempts to thrash out at Michael with his hands but Michael tilts his body back while pinning Fredo onto the car seat to avoid his grip.

Kicking at Michael in the twisted position his body is in doesn’t help nor does kicking at the chauffeur’s car seat who gazes out the window to watch the waves of the sea; completely ignoring the murder ongoing in the back seat.

Fredo’s lungs burn, begging for air as Michael squeezes and applies as much pressure and might as he can with his hands to Fredo’s throat—watching Fredo’s helpless movements slowly coming to a stop.

Wide-eyed and terrified as the life and strength choke out of him, Fredo stares at Michael who remains to be much more physically strong and fit than his brother.

The cold, lifeless expression on Michael’s face doesn’t change throughout as the color drains out of Fredo’s face as Michael continues to strangle him; his grip far too overbearing and tight to squirm out of.

Just a few moments in of helplessly trying to pry Michael’s fingers off his throat, Fredo feels his life slipping away and falls unconscious seconds after.

Michael doesn’t stop there. To ensure his brother’s death once and for all in front of his own eyes, he clutches Fredo’s head in his hands and with one sharp swerve of his hands and arms, snaps his brother's neck.

A sickening crack can be heard out before Michael lets go of Fredo’s lifeless body plopping back down onto the car seat.

Michael breathes in deeply, staring at the corpse of his brother next to him with no reaction; only the relief he’s felt and continues to feel upon having his enemies assassinated.

Not a shred of remorse, guilt, or regret clouds Michael’s judgment or chokes his thoughts.

Michael reaches towards Fredo’s passenger door as the chauffeur unlocks it without looking back; nothing goes through Michael’s mind as he pushes open the door to kick his brother’s corpse out.

Fredo’s body tumbles out of the vehicle and off the ledge leading straight into the ocean on this side of the road.

From the sound of loud traffic afar and waves crashing upon the shore, Michael doesn’t hear Fredo’s body drop into the water nor does he bother to watch it sink.

Instead, Michael sits back in the vehicle and shuts the door as his chauffeur begins driving again, pretending as if nothing happened.

In the chauffeur’s best interest, nothing did happen and he only picked up Michael from the presidential palace. The chauffeur never saw Fredo or even heard that name; the chauffeur isn’t even aware Mr. Corleone had a brother.

“To the airport, Mr. Corleone?” The chauffeur spoke for the first time since Michael got into the vehicle.

“Yes,” Michael confirms, “I have a private flight to catch to Lake Tahoe.”

[theclod3215]

I don’t usually write or even post what I write, and I’m more likely to leave a fic alone for years but!! I decided I would post my fic here nonetheless

Summary:

Mélie meant it to be a quick grab and go job.

She swears.

It's not her fault that the way too hot daughter of the resident lord found her stealing and decided to help her. And it's definitely not her fault that said way too hot daughter asked her to come back. Though perhaps it is her fault that she did go back. ...multiple times.

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: A Plague Tale (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Mélie/Amicia de Rune, Arthur & Mélie (A Plague Tale), Amicia de Rune & Hugo de Rune Characters: Mélie (A Plague Tale), Amicia de Rune, Arthur (A Plague Tale), Hugo de Rune, Robert de Rune, Béatrice de Rune, Laurentius (A Plague Tale) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, alternate universe - no rats, Useless Lesbians, POV Third Person

[loryn-art]

Me : Damn... I have so many drabbles to write, like very short scenes that won't fit in my main stories, I should create a new subject on AO3 and post them there, should take a week or so...

Also Me : Okay is a +3000 words story still a drabble ?

*Sigh* Here we go again...

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

Can you write a fanfiction/bullet points or whatever makes you comfortable of Comte comforting a crying female MC? Thank you for your time. 💙☔️

This one is a bit (a lot 🤡) late, but hopefully it still brings some belated comfort to a wounded heart. Take care!! 💜

For whatever reason anything I write for Ikevamp always becomes half found family trope hours, so please pardon the wayward premise--

Below a cut because it's long!

When I hadn't emerged from my room before noon, Sebastian knocked--three quick raps--against my door. 

I sat up in bed, setting my book aside. I'd done the bare minimum by then, thankfully: washed my face, made my bed, dressed in a nightgown with an appropriate robe for company. It was about all I could manage before deflating into a lethargic heap.

“Meli?” Curious slate eyes searched for me.

“Present,” I raised my hand, grinning sheepishly.

“Are you all right?” 

Did I look pale? My head was killing me. And it was nothing compared to the ache from the waist down.

“In a manner of speaking,” I grimaced, “I’m sorry I was MIA all morning, I’m really not feeling well.”

He marched out and returned with a First Aid kit, and I gestured with flustered hands to stop him. “Whoa whoa, not quite like that. You don’t need to bring that weapon in here.”

One sharp eyebrow arched, side eyeing me dubiously. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

“Phrasing,” I scrunched my features, before sighing. “It’s uh…a particularly female problem, if you catch my drift.”

He looked like he was about to say something smart again, until understanding dawned on his face. “Oh.”

“Yeah…I’ll keep the gruesome details to myself. Could I trouble you for some soup, though? I don't think I can keep much else down.”

He smiled, closing the First Aid kit with a crisp flip of the latch. “You’ll owe me one.”

“You can lord it over me as much as you want when I don’t feel like I’m about to snap in two.”

He frowned, skeptical again. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

“Oh don’t worry, every so often this stupid thing clocks me out mercilessly. It never lasts, it just sucks for the first few days.” I waved him away.

He nodded then, and I hoped the passé inflection would be enough to ease his mind.

What I didn’t expect was the entire rest of the afternoon.

“Meli?” A muffled voice came from the other side of my door about an hour later. 

Was that? “Vincent?”

“May I come in?”

“Of course,” I laughed a little at how cautious he sounded, as if Vincent could be a bother to anyone.

White blonde hair poked past the threshold, wide eyes taking me in. I laughed again, unable to help myself. “Don’t worry, I promise I’m not contagious.”

His smile waned, but he stepped inside and approached the foot of the bed. “That’s not what I’m worried about. How are you feeling?”

I couldn’t help the way my features softened. There were so few people I had ever met with such a pure heart, but sometimes it worried me. He should look after himself more. “Just fine,” I smiled easily, patting the bed to let him know he could sit if he wanted. “Is something on your mind?”

A little color found his cheeks and he shook his head, “Mm-mm, I’m glad to see you’re doing okay. I’m heading out to town today with Theo to explore some prospective venues for art displays. Would you like us to bring anything back for you?”

I was…frankly a little shocked that he thought of me. “Sure,” I grinned, “An invitation, when you’ve finalized the time and place.”

He gazed at me intently, before resolve made that baby face solidify with determination. “I promise.” He nodded once, firm.

“Even when you’re sick, you’re the only person in this house who knows how to appreciate real talent.” Theo swaggered in as if we’d conjured him by the mere mention of the display. “This is all it takes to keep you down and out, hondje?”

“Remind me to sucker punch you when I’m better.”

“I’m busy enlightening the world about the greatest artist who ever lived, remember it yourself.”

“Dat is genoeg, Theo,” Vincent glanced at him, and it made Theo sulk and look away.

I giggled, unable to help it. “Don’t worry, Vincent, I’m happy you both stopped by. Don’t let me keep you from your errands today.”

Vincent seemed to hesitate, and it was at that moment when Dazai walked right through the open door with an apologetic Napoleon behind him.

“I tried to stop him, but he was surprisingly adamant about bringing it over himself. Sebastian gave him an earful,” Napoleon snickered, “How are you holding up, noyer?”

“Like I’m going to throw up all over him,” I couldn’t help myself as they all looked at me with wide eyes, but the exaggeration didn’t fool Dazai. He continued on, unperturbed as always when he was marching to his own drum.

Everybody chuckled when they realized I was just trying to deter his enthusiasm.

“Open wide, Toshiko-chan,” Dazai crooned, trying to guide a spoonful of soup to my lips. “Say ahh--”

Theo had him in a headlock in the next few seconds, scowling fiercely. “Give it a rest, dwaas, she’s not an invalid.”

Theo hoisted him away and waved, and Dazai surprisingly left without a fuss as Vincent scolded his brother for resorting to physicalities. 

“He wasn’t the only one worried, you know,” Napoleon remarked, voice much quieter than usual--and I sensed it was because he was revealing some poorly guarded secrets. 

“Ah, I’d visit them both if I could, but I’m afraid I’m a bit compromised at the minute.”

Napoleon seemed shocked to hear this bit of news, alarm clear as he approached me and looked for the signs of harm. I suppose Sebastian didn’t go into the gory details, for once. “What…?”

I smiled broadly, “Don’t worry, I’ll be right as rain soon--enough to spar with you without a problem.”

The confidence in my expression seemed to put him at ease somewhat, retreating back an appropriate distance. “Shall I extend the good tidings, then?”

“Of course, and tell Jeanne I expect to see entries in his diary regardless of whether or not I can teach him right now.”

Napoleon shook his head, and when I shot him a curious look he just shrugged, throwing his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Worry about yourself for the moment, noyer.”

I nodded solemnly, mock saluting, “Yes, monsieur, your will be done.”

“Well it’s good to see you have enough energy to joke, at least,” He crossed his arms, gesturing with his chin to the soup that was now at a proper temperature to consume. “Now eat before it gets cold.”

“The general,” I moaned with exaggerated woe as I reached for the bowl, “He’s relentless these days. Do you have any idea the last time I got to--”

“It’s a shame Shakespeare doesn’t have you perform for his little shows,” Napoleon was equal parts amused and exasperated as he moved to the door, “I never thought I’d meet somebody with more latent drama in their heart.”

“You really mean it?” I blinked rapidly and made doe eyes at him, and he rolled his in return.

“Get some rest, nunuche.”

When the door finally shut again I closed my eyes, willing the dull throb in my head to ease off. I tried to focus on the soup, hoping it would help me relax. It was only then that I noticed Sebastian had served it with a cold glass of oolong, and I sighed, suddenly grateful for his powers of observation. Hopefully it would help keep the food down--I didn’t want to throw up for real.

I took my time, eating slowly to thwart the nausea and stared at the ceiling. I wasn’t really expecting everyone to trickle in like that, but it was…a nice change. Back home, nobody ever knew I was sick because I didn’t tell them. I needed to work; there had been no time for rest and no safe haven to heal. I considered that for a moment, that for once I didn’t feel I had to push myself to my limits to deserve some respite. 

The empty bowl stared back at me as I finished the last spoonful, the gold flowers inlaid in the china a reminder; it seemed I had yet more to thank him for.

I was braiding my hair absently--marveling that it was long enough for that now--when a single knock sounded, more wooden even than the door. 

I found myself grinning before I could help it, “Come on in, Jeanne.” Wiry and lean, he marched inside and crossed over to my bedside, Mozart on his heels--though he looked cautious. I smiled wryly, “And welcome, Mozart. Don’t worry, I won’t get you sick--I promise.”

“As if anybody cares about that,” he sniffed, though I could see his shoulders visibly lower and I withheld laughter. 

Jeanne got up close, examining me with eyes that missed nothing. “You look pale, mademoiselle.”

“At ease, soldat. It’s an old fight, I’ll be just fine.” 

I was glad for the bravado, since it felt like my uterus was ready to pop right out of my abdomen, my entire lower half swollen.

“I still expect you to study while I’m recuperating,” I tapped his nose with the tip of my finger, and he leaned back as if he only just noticed how close he was.

Mozart sighed, “See? I told you she’d be fine. She even has enough energy to play school mistress.”

“I could play it with you too, Mozart.” I raised my brows, glancing at him. 

He threw me a disgusted look, “Don’t be ridiculous. Only you two would do something so outlandish.”

Jeanne looked unable to follow, “But Arthur said that a woman who teaches you your letters is your mistress.”

Mozart and I grimaced, in agreement here. 

“Don’t listen to Arthur.”

“Forget everything he says, in one ear out the other.”

“But…”

“Don’t forget about the shop, Jeanne, we were just stopping by.”

Jeanne’s violet eye widened, “Ah, that’s right. Be strong, mademoiselle.”

“You won’t be getting rid of me that easily.”

Mozart smirked, “Don’t we know it.”

“I’m perfectly well enough to get feathers in your hair, you silly little composer.” I lifted the pillow beside me and mimed chucking it at him.

I was stunned to see Mozart stick his pink tongue out at me, smiling as he followed Jeanne out the door.

“That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, Mozart.” I could hear Jeanne’s muffled disapproval. 

“She knows better than to believe something like that anyway.”

Warmth overflowed in my heart, and when I glanced over at my bedside table I was shocked to see that it was nearly evening; I likely had all the visits to thank for time passing so quickly.

“You still alive in here, cara mia?” The giant Italian entered without preamble, a stark and frankly hilarious contrast to the nervous Isaac behind him. 

“For you? No.”

“You always knew how to break a man’s heart.” I closed my eyes as the smell of cigarillos reached me, the rich and smoky scent oddly comforting. If it wasn’t for the fact that it would be misconstrued, I resisted the urge to ask for a hug. He could make for a decent heat pad at his size. He sat mere inches from me unceremoniously--Leonardo was never one for personal space--leaning in and evaluating me with those amber eyes. The color always made me squirm a little, conjuring their parallel image in the house every time.

“We thought we’d bring you some cake,” it was only then that I noticed Isaac was carrying a tray, chocolate cheesecake drizzled with raspberry and coated in dark chocolate adornments. “We can’t take all the credit though, Vincent and Theo brought some for everyone.”

Trust Vincent to insist on a gesture like this. So that's what his determination had been about, finding a way to offer me something without fanfare. And, well, it was no secret I loved chocolate.

I kept my eyes on my lap, willing the slight film over my vision to dry and disappear. I knew Leonardo would never let me live it down if he noticed. That's probably why he came with Isaac in the first place.

I cleared my throat a little, "Thanks for bringing it all the way here, Isaac."

Isaac fiddled with his hair, tugging on the strands shyly. "D-don't worry about it. It's the least we could do, considering all you've done for us."

I accepted the tray and settled it in my lap, taking up the fork. "I can't eat it while you stare at me, Leo."

"Oh well."

"Correction, I won't eat it if you keep staring at me."

"I'm just enjoying the rare sight. House feels strange without you stomping and bustling around. The floorboards must be awfully lonely."

"You make me sound like an elephant."

"Well--"

"All right, come here so I can cough all over you--"

"But Sebastian already told us it wasn't contagious..." Isaac interjected.

"He lied," and I was about to continue when Isaac sighed.

It suddenly occurred to me that Sebastian probably sent Isaac along to make sure we didn't argue for the rest of the night.

"You two never change," his smile was conflicted, but fond.

"Ah, sorry," I leaned back, trying to relax.

"Bickering is healthy where we come from," Leonardo guffawed.

"Oh dear, an oncoming sneeze--" I mimed reaching over to sully his sleeve.

They both lingered a little as I finished my slice, making small talk until they seemed to silently agree to let me rest and take back both trays to the kitchen. I figured I'd be turning in for the night shortly after when I heard rapid footsteps crossing the hall about an hour later. It was nearly nine o'clock, who…?

"Meli?" 

I knew that baritone anywhere, though there was an atypical urgency to his murmur.

"Come in, Comte."

There was a gust of air as the door twisted open, gold eyes zeroing in on the source of my voice. When they landed on me there was alarm clear in every line of his body, and he seemed to take a deep breath. He smiled, but something about it was wan--it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Bad day?" I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him so wrung out as he made his way over to me.

He averted his gaze to my bedside table, "Something like that." He shook his head before reaching a hand up to my forehead. 

I bit the inside of my lip to keep from leaning in, the heady scent of him distracting. All of a sudden I felt like a little kid with my favorite stuffed animal again; I just wanted to curl up against him and close my eyes.

I laughed awkwardly, "Did, um, Sebastian not tell you?"

He seemed genuinely confused. "Tell me?"

"It's ah, not exactly an 'illness', per say…"

"Then what…?"

I glanced at my lap, then looked away. 

"Oh. Oh, I see," he hefted the chair against the wall and placed it next to the bed, unhooking his tie and rubbing a thumb under his jaw. "Well that's a relief."

"That makes one of us," I grinned, unable to help myself.

I wondered if I looked as sparkly as I felt when he finally managed a small smile.

"Did you just get home?"

"I'm afraid so, I was a bit buried in meetings and errands today."

Not surprising, he had been rather busy of late. "And you raced over here? Don't be silly, you should go to your own room and rest. I've been well tended to, I promise."

There was something akin to a dry smirk on his face, and it was puzzling enough to give me pause. What did that look mean?

"Everyone’s so demoralized it nearly frightened a century of life out of me," he admitted and laughed in earnest, taking one of my hands in his own gently. Color stained my cheeks, and I cursed how it gave me away. “I had to come see for myself.”

"Drama queens," I muttered, mortified. I willed my palms not to sweat and embarrass me even further.

"It just goes to show how much they care about you," Comte offered me a pearly grin, and I couldn't manage to meet his eyes. So much for the headache going away, I could practically hear a pulse in my head just trying to make eye contact with him. "The house doesn't feel quite right without you." 

Throughout the day I'd been wracking my brain to figure out what their little visits reminded me of, and in that split second it hit me like a train. Oh my god…they were like a bunch of children worried about their sick mother. Bringing trinkets and food, looking for any opportunity to help. Even Vincent perfectly fit the role of the oldest independent son, all insistence on being the adult for the day.

I squeezed his fingers just enough to convey my meaning. "They're very sweet," I bit my tongue against the rest. Wonder where they could have gotten that from. “But really, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Comte was unmoved. Did I really look that bad? His eyes sought out mine, gazing for a long moment. Instinctively I knew he was looking for something there, and if I looked away it would only make him more anxious--but it also made me so self-conscious. 

“What can I do?” 

His quiet voice, imploring all of a sudden, startled me. “Huh?”

“Everybody seems to have beaten me to the punch today,” there was a rueful touch to his smile that I didn’t quite understand. Almost…bitter? “Anything that would make you feel better, it’s yours.”

“You don’t have to--” I hedged, embarrassed.

“I insist.” He was smiling, but I knew that tone. There was no brooking argument when he got like this.

“Can I have a moment to think? Nothing really comes to mind immediately.”

This seemed to pacify him, and he leaned back to grab his long coat, folding it over and placing it on my lap over the blankets. I smoothed the fabric over with my hands, thumbing the collar absently. What was it about everything he did that conveyed so much warmth? Like my very heart was being enfolded in care and affection. I stared at it as he poked around the book on my bedside table, content to be awash in his colors. Despite feeling terrible and exhausted beyond belief, something inside me started to unravel and relax.

When I noticed him out of my peripheral vision, I suddenly knew what I wanted to ask.

My fingers curled around the bed spread, not wanting to wrinkle his nice coat. “I think I know what I want to ask now.”

“Oh?” he looked over, setting the book aside. He gave me his full attention, and I hoped he would attribute the blush that crept into my face from the scrutiny to illness. “Let’s hear it.”

“Would you read to me? Just for a little while. And only if you want to.” The words came out haltingly, and I already regretted that I’d spoken them aloud. Christ I felt so childish, surely he would think I was ridiculous. 

There was a moment of silence, as I contemplated crawling into a hole to waste away in peace. This is exactly why periods were evil. They made me reveal things that I wouldn’t have said at gunpoint.

“...What would you like me to read?”

He was serious, expression inquisitive. I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing. 

I hugged the pillow next to me for courage, refusing to meet his eyes. “...Would it be too childish to ask for a fairy tale?”

“Any particular one in mind?”

“...Rapunzel, if we have it.”

He nodded, “Rapunzel it is. I’ll be back shortly.”

When he was out the door on the hunt for a book of fairy tales, I shoved my face in the pillow and groaned. Well, so much for living that one down. I’d be the gossip of the mansion for the next five years let alone weeks.

I fidgeted and tried to read what I already had with me, but the pages might as well have been in another language for all that I managed to retain. I’d been interested in learning about recovered knowledge and expertise that had been lost to the ages, scouring old texts for tidbits of information and wisdom. The notepad on my bedside attested to all the curiosities I’d gathered up to that point, but the thought that I was troubling Comte was enough to leave me unable to work anything out.

Mercifully, he had returned as promised without much delay, a book on fairy tales in tow as he closed the door gingerly. When I spied the name Grimm on the spine, I laughed a little. “Good to know it’ll be a version I recognize.”

He indulged me. “I’m just glad it wasn’t buried somewhere in that mess Leonardo calls a room.”

I snickered at the jab as he removed the jacket of his suit, leaving him in his waistcoat and dress shirt. I pretended I hadn’t noticed, waiting patiently for him to start. I forgot that Sebastian had left a pitcher of water behind after he shooed Leonardo and Isaac out of the room, and I gestured to the desk across from him.

“Seb left me some water, but please help yourself.”

He poured a glass before settling in earnest, rolling his shoulders. I glanced here and there to gauge his disposition, a little perplexed. He didn’t look like he was waiting for the moment he could slip away, he looked prepared to spend the better part of the night. Surely he wouldn’t, he had more important things to attend to than me and he’d barely gotten any rest.

“Ready?” He looked to me, waiting.

I sat up straighter, “Go for it,” I prompted.

Though we started there, he ended up reading several since they were pretty short--expectation in his eyes when he looked up from the book to flip to the next one. I got caught up in his momentum all too easily, his even voice more soothing than I cared to admit. Or maybe it was the fact that I could tell he didn’t begrudge me this, or seemed to think it was silly. I was lulled and warm and comforted, which was more than I could say in nearly three decades of life. I tried to remember every little detail of the moment; the soft light of the lamps, the warmth of his coat, the gentle scent of him, the balm of his voice. Something to keep close to my heart when I’d be forced to leave his side someday and return to my own time like the stranger I was.

Tears burned in my eyes, baffling me. I swallowed thickly, and took a deep breath as surreptitiously as possible. I didn’t want to ruin this balance between us, this closely guarded secret of mine wasn’t worth making him dread coming home every day.

When we’d gone through all the ones I liked, he closed the book and set it on the bedside table. He was pensive, rubbing his palms together absently. I knew that look, so I spoke first.

“You can ask whatever it is you’re wondering,” I laughed, “I don’t mind.”

He seemed a little surprised that I’d noticed, before leaning back in his chair. “I guess I was wondering why you chose fairy tales, of all things. I did say anything you wanted.”

I covered my face with my hands, “Yeah, I know it was childish. Sorry.”

Patient hands drew mine away from my face, “That’s not what I meant.”

I shot him a dour look. "Jewelry is expensive. So are dresses."

"That's not what I meant either. Although that's an idea…"

I ignored his expectant look. “Oh,” I blinked, “Then what did you mean?"

“Why fairy tales?” His head tilted just so, trying to find answers in my impassive face as he gestured to the book on my bedside table.

“Well,” My eyes darted away, nervous. “It’s not really a short answer, and you’ve probably heard it before. I don’t want to bore you.”

“Would you tell me, all the same?”

Usually he’d be the type to change the subject and take the discordant note in stride, content to play smooth conversationalist. I wondered briefly what brought this on, but I didn’t have much time since he was looking for an answer. I tried to gather my thoughts.

“Fairy tales are the written--and in many cases--oral manifestations of human feeling and imagination.” I sat up a little, “They were told by the fireside, in sewing circles, to children who asked too many questions, whether appropriate or inopportune.” I gazed at the back of my hands, the faded burn that marred my left one. There was more grief in my smile than I would have liked, but I was too tired to entirely disguise what I was feeling. “Happy endings are afforded in situations where they seem unlikely and impossible. Justice exists and culls the selfishness of others. In some ways, they are time capsules of hope; buried, only to be found again by the weary in similar situations of entrapment or despair.”

“Sometimes they feel like a hand reached out across the ages, promising that we aren’t alone, not really. I guess it’s a nice feeling, to know that I’m not the only one who likes to dream.” 

It was only when I realized that the outline of his coat in my lap was indistinguishable, voice wobbly, that I scrubbed at my eyes with my sleeve. Stupid, I always spoke too much around him. He was quiet and still for a long time.

“But then, I have a bad habit of wanting things to make sense more than I probably should.” I shrugged, trying to lighten the mood. “They’re just stories, at the end of the day. Just a way to keep the mind occupied.”

He took the book back into his hands, gazing at it with different eyes. “I think that’s a beautiful way to think about it,” His fingers traced the embellished cover, still shining nearly a hundred years since it was published. "And very like you.”

“W-well, it’s just one way to think about it. Most people would probably say it’s a stretch.”

“I don’t think it is.” Even though I couldn’t meet his gaze, somehow I could tell his eyes were tender as they lingered on me. I was just relieved for the lack of disgust.

After that he stood up, gathering his suit jacket over his arm. “I suppose it’s time we allowed you to get some proper rest,” he leaned over to brush a kiss against my forehead. “I’ll make sure everyone keeps out until you’re feeling well, other than Sebastian. They don’t seem to be able to help themselves.”

I was entirely distracted by that split second of warmth against my forehead, lamenting how quickly it faded. Joy bubbled up in an endless cascade, and I tried to conceal how sated and giddy I felt on the inside. He was halfway across the room before I could manage to speak again.

“I was pretty surprised, I was so sure the sound of plague would send Mozart running for the hills.”

“I can think of very little that would keep us away, plague or not.” He chuckled, and shook his head as he reached for the door handle. “Rest well, Meli.”

“Good night, Comte.”

I was so lovestruck I didn’t notice he’d left his long coat behind, with me. I brushed my teeth and turned out the lights, pretending to get ready for bed--but really, I wanted enough time to pass to know for certain that he wasn’t coming back for it. Content to know it was mine for the night, I hugged the folded parcel close to my chest, sighing. If being by his side was out of my reach, then it was enough to know he cared.

[stardancerluv]

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#5

Umm dead.

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239 notes - Posted August 4, 2022

#4

Blossoming of a Shy Violet

Part 7

Summary: You dance out your feelings.

Warning/Note: This is a 18 & + chapter! lyrics from Led Zeppelin’s Whole Lotta Love in italics! Virgin!Fem!reader, squint & see dom!Eddie, voyeur!Eddie, mention of rings & belt, fingering, and sleeping together. First time writing Eddie like this..hope I did good! And…don’t forget enjoy!

“Alright! Good night, dad!” You called from the doorway of your room. Closing the door, you leaned heavily against it.

You were just a jumble of emotions. Blinking, you spotted his hoodie. Tears welled up, but you swallowed them down. You remembered how Chrissy had looked as she had preened and moved in front of Eddie. Maybe if you moved liked that, you could catch his eye too.

You don’t know what got into you, but you had an idea. Going over to it, you quickly stripped down to your panties. Your bra sat on top of the pile.

Then grabbing his hoodie, you slipped it on. You fluffed your hair. Bringing the edge to your nose, you inhaled deeply. You really loved that autumn scent of his. It managed to push the tears that had wanted to come. It further fueled your idea. Leaving it unzipped, you walked over to your mirror.

Seeing yourself like this made butterflies flap madly in your stomach. You ran your brush through your hair. So this is how girls looked wearing a boyfriend’s hoodie, you mused. If only you were Eddie’s girl. You shook your head from side to side, enough sadness.

Tilting your head from side to side, you had to admit you didn't look half bad. You turned on the radio. You smiled, your favorite Led Zeppelin song was on. You resisted the urge to turn it up.

…honey you need it

I'm gonna give you my love

I'm gonna give you my love

Want to whole lotta love

Want to whole lotta love

With a smile on your face, you began dancing around your room. Absently, you began imagine him in your mind’s eye. If only he could see you now. You swished your hips, you pretended to hid yourself. To play coy. These thoughts were making you flush. Your cheeks were so warm. You turned to your bed, in your mind’s eye you imagined if he was there watching you.

******

He was halfway back to the trailer when he stopped, the van rocked and his breaks squeaked. He decided one last time to try and reach you. Pulling a u-turn, he stopped a block from your house. Sticking close to the shadows, he made his way over to your house. There was only a single light on. That had to be your room.

He really hoped he had not made you uncomfortable. Why didn’t even you smile his way. He was worried, so worried. And this was very unlike him. No one shook him. You did.

He really hoped none of your neighbors were being nosey. It was a late. Taking a breath, he leaned over and peaked into the window. It certainly was yours!

He immediately looked away, he covered his mouth with his hands. His heart beat heavily and fast in his chest. He had to look again.

Looking again, he was completely entranced watching you. There you were, dancing around your room with only his hoodie and a pair of panties on. Damn, it was the hottest thing he had ever seen. The more you moved, the more he watched, and the faster his heart beat. He became incredibly aroused, he had to press a palm against himself. He needed to do something. Last thing he needed was to get arrested outside your window for lewd behavior.

It was too much, he almost choked as you crawled onto your bed. He was tapping on your window, before he even realized he was doing it.

He watched, that at the sudden sound you collapsed onto your bed. He repressed the urge to chuckle. You quickly gathered yourself and immediately wrapped the hoodie closer to you.

He gave you a sheepish smile, when you turn and saw him. He waved. Your surprised expression was actually the sweetest thing, he’d ever seen. But it did little to help his state.

“Are you going to let me in?” He finally mouthed to you.

You nodded. Eyeing the window, you finally undid the lock and opened the window.

“What are you doing here?” You hissed.

“Can I come in and explain?”

See the full post

269 notes - Posted July 24, 2022

#3

Umm wow… he looks so good!!!

272 notes - Posted August 15, 2022

#2

See the full post

349 notes - Posted September 7, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

See the full post

375 notes - Posted July 30, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[terrible-leviathan]

Ok so here's an update on my non existent love life:

This person that I'm friends with wants to like prank everyone but rn they're trying to move on from an unrequited crush they're having rn. So they're like asking me what prank they can do.

So my dumb of fucking ass suggested, "hey why don't you try to fake date someone to prank them?" Like every fanfic that I have ever read.

Surprisingly they were very on board with this. But what I didn't expect was for ME to be the one to participate in this prank.

So now, I'm officially *slow jazz hands* in a slow burn fake/pretend relationship au fic

[vidjausers-fable]

I wanted to share my Fanfiction over on my Archive account. c: Of course, it is an OC story, but it will also have the orphans. I’m doing a combination of both. So far, I’ve got six chapters written and planned out and am basically just editing the first few. I know original characters aren’t liked by many, but I still loved this small character idea and had to implement it into this world. However, my main goal is for every character to get more “screen” time so so the readers can enjoy their favorite characters through more adventures.  

For anyone interested, here is the link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22994116/chapters/54975565

c; Thank you

[val-bananatine]

Sometimes writing a story be like this

[melynen]

Rating: T+

Ship: 00Q

Tags: pre-relationship, james bond being james bond, flirting

Word count: 500

[ego-meliorem-esse]

The Wooden Floor

1790, London

The grandeur of the manor's parlor enveloped Arthur as he drowned his sorrows in a sea of whisky. The room exuded an air of faded elegance, its walls adorned with ornate tapestries depicting scenes of triumph and loss. The soft glow of the flickering candles cast dancing shadows upon the antique furniture, adding a touch of melancholy to the atmosphere.

But amidst the haze of his own self-pity, Arthur caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision. His eyes flickered, the embers of irritation beginning to smolder within him. It was Matthew, standing in the hallway, his presence a stark reminder of the emptiness that had taken root in Arthur's life.

The resemblance between Matthew and his lifelong rival, Francis, was unmistakable. The wavy blond hair, the big, piercing blue eyes, even the curve of the jawline—it was a constant reminder of the betrayal that had shattered Arthur's world, his family. A surge of anger welled within him, threatening to consume him whole.

His life was taken away from him by idiotic people and thier foolish ideas. The only time in his life where he could with certainty have considered himself truly happy. Arthur didn't even realize that he wanted--even liked children up until he was left without his very own one.

As Arthur's mind churned with resentment and reflection, he inadvertently shifted his gaze back towards the hallway. There, Matthew still stood, a specter of unwelcome resemblance. The anger simmered beneath the surface, intensifying with each passing second. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone with his thoughts, to wallow in his own misery without the reminder of what he had lost and who he held responsible for it.

But Matthew persisted, lingering in the periphery of Arthur's consciousness like an unwanted specter. The ember of anger flared to life, engulfing Arthur's thoughts. How dare this boy intrude upon his solitude, upon the sanctuary he had built around his own pain?

With a heavy sigh, Arthur tore his gaze away from the almost empty hallway, desperate to reclaim his moment of solace. His thoughts swirled, a tempest of bitterness and regret. He tried to drown out the intruding presence, to focus solely on his own sorrow. But like a stubborn weed, Matthew's presence refused to be ignored.

And then, in a moment of heightened frustration, Arthur's eyes landed on Matthew once more. The boy, timid and unassuming, stood as a constant reminder of everything that had been taken from him. The anger surged within Arthur, a tempest of emotions ready to be unleashed.

Driven by the boiling tempest within, Arthur turned towards Matthew, his voice laced with a bitter edge.

"What do you want, boy!?"

Arthur spat, the words dripping with disdain and frustration. The question hung heavy in the air, echoing back and forth off the walls. A challenge to the boy who dared to intrude upon his sanctuary.

Arthur's eyes bore into Matthew's, his anger seething beneath the surface. He longed for the boy to retreat, to disappear into the shadows where he belonged. The weight of his own bitterness consumed him, blinding him to the fragile vulnerability that lay behind Matthew's timid gaze.

In that moment, the parlor seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Matthew's response. But the silence that followed was a stark reminder of the chasm that had formed between them—a chasm forged by anger, regret, and a stubborn refusal to bridge the divide and accept their situation. At least, Arthurs own refusal to face the situation.

Minutes turned into an eternity as Matthew lingered, torn between the desire to comfort and the fear he felt in his whole, yet still small, person. He had seen the toll that the loss of the colonies, Francis' aid to the revolution, and the absence of Alfred had taken on Arthur's spirit. The weight of history seemed to rest upon the man's weary shoulders, burdening him with regrets and shattered dreams.The weight of his own bitterness consuming him, blinding him to the fragile vulnerability that lay behind Matthew's timid gaze.

Matthew stood in the hallway, his eyes downcast, as Arthur's words hung in the air like a heavy fog. He could feel the weight of the anger in the room, pressing against his shoulders, threatening to crush him. His heart raced, his palms moist with nervous sweat. He had tried so hard to find the right words, to reach out to Arthur, but in that moment his English seemed more foreign to him than it actually was.

Slowly, Matthew raised his gaze, meeting Arthur's piercing eyes. He swallowed hard, his throat dry with apprehension. In his trembling voice, he managed to speak, his words stumbling and fractured.

"I... I am sorry, sir."

He said, his slight, nowhere near noticable anymore, French accent coloring his English. "I... did not mean to disturb you."

But the apology seemed to only fuel Arthur's simmering anger. The lines of his face tightened, his brows furrowed with disdain. The room seemed to shrink in on itself as Arthur's rage escalated, his frustration boiling over. It was as if every word Matthew uttered was a taunt, a reminder of the bitter memories that plagued Arthur's mind.

Unable to find the right words, Matthew's responses remained short and stilted. He wanted to bridge the gap, to connect with Arthur in some way, but the emotional barrier proved to be an insurmountable obstacle. The weight of Arthur's anger hung heavy in the air, suffocating any attempts at communication.

"Can I... help somehow ...sir?" Matthew tried. He really did, but the words didn't seem right. They didn't seem to be what Arthur wanted. And Matthew noticed this. The already visible anger on Arthurs face only seemed to sharpen. And the sharp point of the dagger that was his mentors anger was pointed directly at him.

"...Help?"

Silence. Arthur wasn't usually silent when angry. Whenever Alfred broke a vase, tore a painting or his own stovkings, it wasn't silence that followed. Arthur would be angry, but that anger was never acompanied by silence. The anger coming from Arthur was a newly familiar one to Matthew. After all, Alfred did make a mess quite a lot. And Matthew was tended to be there to witness the before and aftermath. The yelling and bickering and lecturing he was familiar with. And while he was frightened by it in the begining, the past decades had thought him that with Alfred, Arthur was only ever words and scolding. And while it was loud, it was something he could handle.

This was different. It felt different. As if the tension was building at a faster pace, almost clouding his vision. His flight response arose but he pushed it down to stare down at his mentors wooden flooring, trying to make himself as small as possible.

"If you need something... I can, euh, trying.... I could aider-help."

Arthur only stared at the mess that was the little français canadien.

"Sir."

The boy almost forgot to add. It didn't seem to better the situation or make the air around them less tense.

Matthew tried to find the words to answer the not-really-a-question but all he managed was broken english stuttering and the inclusion of French vocabulary whenever he couldn't remember the English equivalent. The boy was trying his best to express empathy for the man who tried his best to shun him back into the darkness and out of his sight.

This did not have the desired outcome. Matthews shift and lack of confidence in his expression brought Arthurs annoyance to a boiling point.

Why couldn't he just say what he needed to say to him and have it be over? Is it that difficult to just leave Arthur in peace and go back to whatever meaningless thing he was doing before he intruded upon his solitude. And why is it suddenly so difficult to muster up a simple English sentence? After all he has had almost no trouble with the language when Alfred was around and they decided what game they were going to play.

These thoughts came so suddenly to Arthur, almost like a whiplash. It further fueled his indignation. The grip on his fury looseing completely.

And then, in a fit of explosive rage, Arthur's grip tightened around the almost-empty whisky bottle. Without warning, he hurled it towards Matthew, the glass shattering against the wall with a sharp crash. Matthew instinctively flinched, his body recoiling from the shards that scattered across the floor. Fear gripped his heart, a mixture of shock and hurt etched across his face.

In that moment, Matthew knew he had to retreat. His flight instinct taking over. He turned on his heels, the sound of his hurried footsteps echoing through the hallway, up the stairs as he fled to the safety of his room. Fear and confusion swirled within him, mingling with the sting of the glass and the weight of Arthur's anger.

Arthur, frozen in the aftermath of his outburst, watched as Matthew disappeared from sight. Regret flooded his being, saturating his soul with a profound sense of loss. The gravity of his actions washed over him, the realization of his own cruelty crashing down like a tidal wave.

Grief and remorse welled up within Arthur, the weight of his choices heavy upon his shoulders. The room felt emptier now, the silence suffocating. He buried his face in his hands, his trembling fingers brushing against his temples. The walls of his once impenetrable fortress had crumbled, leaving him vulnerable and alone.

In the wake of the shattered glass, Arthur's anger dissipated, replaced by a profound sadness. He longed to go after Matthew, to apologize and bridge the gap that had grown between them. But his feet felt rooted to the floor, his back nailed to the armchair, his heart heavy with regret. The room, once a sanctuary, now felt haunted by the echoes of his own mistakes.

In the stillness of the parlor, Arthur's mind swirled with a whirlwind of emotions. He understood the depth of his own pain and how it had spilled over onto the innocent boy who stood as a constant reminder of his past. It was a bitter pill to swallow, a humbling realization of his own flawed humanity. Or rather, the lack of it.

Arthur put his head in his hands and stared at the same exact wooden flooring Matthew had a few minutes before. Before he fled. Before he fled from Arthur. In fear.

There were few times in his life, where Arthur wished for the flooring to split apart and engulf him along with every piece of furniture in the stuffy and much too big parlor. Yet there he sat, for the remainder of the night. Alive and whole. Much to his own dissapointment.

........

I told you! I told you I like making them suffer. I told you I like making Arthur the most dislikable and infuriating bastard mankind (or in this case Matthew) has ever seen! But also like, pls excuse my angsty, moody and dark shit. I wanted to make Matt cry. I did, I admit it. And what could hurt the boy more than Arthur after the loss of his firstborn.

So, ya kno, sorry :/

[melis-writes]

Hi Melis, how are you? First of all, thank you for satisfying our hunger for stories about Al's characters! Do you plan to write about Michael and Kay as they are in the original book/film? Maybe giving them a second chance to stay together? I'm in love with original character fanfiction but there isn't much online. You know Puzo's character traits so well that I think you could do a great job, better than "The Godfather" sequels. Think about it, please <3

Hello, sweet anon!! 🥰❤️ I'm doing well and I hope you are too! I DEFINITELY will be writing a fic for Michael x Kay the canon way! I think I want to add maybe two different endings; one that follows the canon book and one that follows the canon of the second film. We'll see! It's still being planned and in the works. 💖 As you guys know I absolutely adore Michael x Kay as my OTP so of course we need a fic for them!!

We'll definitely see a Michael x Kay fic soon! Bringing in all the fluff, angst, romance, and smut. 🥵🙌🏻

[loryn-art]

A Plague Tale : Fan fictions and other Projects main post :

AO3 page here !

Things have escalated quickly in my head about this fandom and I don’t know how long this is going on. I order to not get lost in my own chaotic ideas and plots, and to share them with you if you are interest in it, here is a my main list of all the upcoming projects I may or may not post with a short description.

I will try to keep this list updated as much as I can, (my brain being a lazy potato.)

DISCLAIMER : major spoils about the game in it, you’ve been warned.

Fanfictions :

A Plague Tale - Redemption : The Main story I’m actually working on. I said in a previous post I had a hard time choosing between two main stories, but I finally opted for the one with the more saddest/hurt/confort/angst potential (what a surprise). -> Lucas shot Hugo, seven years later Amicia and him have to work together again to protect a new Macula bearer. Ridiculous amount of OCs I can’t seriously halp - AmiciaxLucas - might never be finished because the more I think about it the more consistent and long the plot gets - Sophia is here of course and adulting like a boss. Rated M I guess for violence/explicit scenes. Lucas:endingverse. Read here !

A Flame Tale : Three parts fanfiction. I swore I wouldn’t write a sequel to this story because writing explicit scenes between teens sounds weird but I can’t get enough of those two idiots. Set in the Amicia:endingverse. Also it’s not just here for some silly romanced moments but also to share my idea of how and why Lucas left the house in the last part. COMPLETE

No name yet : Some short texts and one shots about an AU where the Plague was delayed for some years (I don’t know the reason yet, but I wanted the characters to be older, around +3 years- ) Amicia is 18 Lucas is 15 Hugo is 7. Guess who wants to write cheesy scenes between two characters secretly flirting when they’re not allowed to ? -> when a young noble girl, daughter of Lord De Rune falls in love with the town Alchemist’s apprentice, rumors spread like a plague.

No name yet : Modern story following the Ascendance main fict. Amicia is 17 year old high school teenager, Daughter of the town mayor and one of the most eminent scientist of the country. Her little brother she barely sees suffers from a mysterious illness, while more and more strange events are happening in the city, people disappear, laboratories are devastated, and her life will soon be tied with other characters, weirdly familiar... I don't know if I will ever write it but I'm really inspired for some comics/fanfarts. Not an AU, just kind reincarnation/ressemblance stuff.... not sure yet.

Comics/Fanarts :

- Some illustrations about the fan fictions above.

- A short comic setting in my main story, kind of a companion piece for it. Lucas is studying in an academy a few months after Amicia rejected him.(Lucas:ending) -> The other apprentices could bully him as much as they wanted, nothing was more painful than her furious eyes meeting his in his sleep or between the lines of his books, where he drew them during class lessons.

- Actually in a Modern-AU obsession, might draw some stuff about it too.

One Shot ficts : “The tales that don’t fit anywhere else”

2 - The lioness, the wolf and the raven, leaving the tower : Short scene right after Amicia and Lucas met Vaudin, on their way back. Is it possible for Vaudin to be even more detestable ?

3 - Setting while Amicia and Hugo are on their way to La Cuna, Beatrice/Lucas, because nothing can escape a mother eyes, mostly when she an alchemist.

1 - The vixen, the wolf and the burning city : What has been told in the narrow alleys of the city that night, stays in the narrow alleys of the city. - Lucas/Melie (Happens when Lucas and Melie are separated from the group at the end of Innocence)

4 - The boy and the arrow : When you have to pull an arrow out of your crush, while her little brother's been kidnapped by a crazy count, hunted by his soldiers right after your ship stranded, what a beautiful day. Happens right after the count attacked Sophia's ship. A dramatic reunion on the shore.

[amor-immortalem]

Meli the Runaway part 1

A/N: writing is so hard sometimes… but hey at least I managed to write about a new set of characters this time. I’m getting bored of writing for Mammon, Arella, and their family so I figured I’d switch to another family that had just about as many problems… Also I thought I gave a name for the step-mother but I can’t find it anywhere and I forgot what it originally was so I just gave her a new name.

Content warnings: none??? At least none I can think of anyway

“What do you mean I’m grounded?!? I didn’t do anything that wasn’t deserved!”

“Melissa, you threw your step-mother’s laptop out the window! How was that deserved?”

It’s a battleground right now in the Avatar of Wrath’s household. After an hours’ long meeting between the Lords of Hell and the soon-to-be-King of the Devildom about restarting the exchange program between the three realms, little had been accomplished leaving Satan in a rather foul mood upon his return home. It only worsened when the moment stepped through the door, his wife would come marching up to him in a huff. After hearing her explanation of the day’s events at home, the blonde demon finds himself marching up to his fifteen-year-old-daughter’s room for an explanation. That’s what led to the fight they’re in now.

“You have no idea how horrible she is to me when you’re not here!” Melissa exclaims, “She’s always running her mouth at me, disrespecting my things, she barges into my room without warning and expects me to do all the housework on my own while she sits on her ass on that stupid laptop all day.”

“That’s not true,” Satan says as he places his hands on his hips, “Hivites has been nothing but kind to you. The only one actively causing trouble is you. You lie and do anything to take the blame off of you.”

“Why am I the liar? Just because your bitch of a wife says so? If that’s the case, then yeah I’m the biggest fucking liar in this family!” The half-demon grinds her teeth.

Why can’t you just take my side for once? She wonders, why is it so hard to suspend your disbelief to see that the wife you chose to replace my mother is rotten?

“Since you admit it, I want you to go downstairs and apologize to Hivites.”

“I’d rather die than apologize for anything to her.”

At that Satan takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I’ll give you the night to think of what you’ll say, but you’re not getting out of apologizing to her. I would require the same of her if things were the other way around.”

The teen only clicks her tongue in annoyance as she rolls her brown eyes and her father turns and walks out as calmly as he can before another fight can develop between them.

Once he’s gone, Melissa shuts and locks her door before returning to her desk to resume writing the latest chapter in the fanfiction she was drafting. It all felt so unfair to her.

“What can I do to make you see? Why is any of this even happening? Is karma finally catching up with me and punishing me for what I did to Mom…?”

She bites her lip at the thought of it. Maybe things would be better if she left and never came back. Where would she even go? Sure, she has friends she could crash with but the point of running away would be to go somewhere her father wouldn’t be able to find her so easily.

“I guess I could go up to the human world- I’d have to trek through all the layers of Hell just to get there though… man, what a pain in the ass… anything would be better than staying here though…”

Meli gives the idea a little bit of thought. Even if she did get caught eventually, the idea of causing her father the headache of having to find her up there amuses the half-demon.

“Maybe running away will actually get him to pay better attention to what’s going on too… better get to packing…”

・・・〆・・・

“There finally done,” she lets out a tired sigh as she shoulders her bag.

It’s nearly midnight now as Meli slides open her window. She takes one look around her bedroom. She’d lived here ever since she could remember and the thought of leaving it- even if only until she got caught- caused a frown to cross her features.

“What am I doing?” She shakes her head, “I can’t chicken out now. I’m doing this to send a message. Backing out now would mean she’d be stuck having to apologize to her step-mother and that just wouldn’t do. “Well, here goes nothing.”

And with that, the teen leaps down from her bedroom window and takes off running.

・・・〆・・・

The next morning, Satan is up early. With everything that had been going on at home, he’d forgotten what a big day this was supposed to be. RAD would be resuming classes in a week so today was supposed to be his daughter’s move-in day to the House of Lamentation. Even more of a reason he should have her apologize to her step-mother before she goes- he doubts his child has any plans to come home on the weekends and school breaks like her cousins so making sure she didn’t leave on a bad note was at the top of his list..

The demon makes his way up to his daughter’s room and knocks on the door. He’s only slightly surprised when he doesn’t get an answer as she’s usually up by this time. Maybe she’s still upset with him? Or maybe she really is still asleep? He tries the door knob to see if its locked and when he finds that that’s the case, he utters a short spell designed to unlock doors and peeks his head in to check on her.

His green to yellow gradient eyes widen when he sees the empty bed and the neatness of her desk.

“That little- I can’t believe she snuck out of the house like that.” Satan only shakes his head in disbelief before pulling out his D.D.D. to phone his brothers in search of the missing teenager.

・・・〆・・・

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