#with the same expression. in every portrait of him ever

[historyartthings]

Description of the primary documents:

Image 9/document 1:

a book of hours. Thomas Becket's name is erased from the calendar of saint's days

Image 10/document 2:

Cromwell's arms in the book of heralds after his fall. 'X's show where they've been crossed out

Image 21/document 3:

'questions to be axid of thomas cromell'

in henry viii's hand, the heading to a list of questions regarding the Cleves marriage

Image 26/document 4:

Cromwell's letter to the king from the tower

Image 28/document 5:

His parliamentary attainder

[amultitideofdrops]

Thinking Julian and art...

Thinking about how drawing was his favourite activity as a young child. Going through reams of paper, the feel of letting his hand swirl around the page and making colours and lines, delighting in showing his parents and having them smile and laugh over the scrawls that are meant to represent their family. Because it's all very in line with how a 2 year old should draw.

Julian gets older, and his classmates start to make circles for heads, with dots and a wonky smile and long sticks that are meant to be legs. They start holding pencils with their fingers where he still fists a crayon. But it's okay his hands don't seem to move with the same control they do, because Julian still loves drawing. He particularly loves colour because it shows how everything feels even if it doesn't show how it looks to everyone else. His teacher asks them to draw themselves and he rushes to get every blue and purple he can and melds them together in a jumping spiral. His teacher tells him it's nice, but not in the same way she points to the other children's and says how good their ears are, or that the hair colour looks just the same.

His Mum starts to sit by him when he draws, pushing him to copy the squares and triangles from the sheet brought home from school.

Kukalaka rips, and Julian finds the best warm yellow to fix his hurt, even as Mum purses her lips and says it's supposed to match.

His teacher calls his parents in, talking to them gravely and pointing to a curling painted paper, explaining how Julian didn't listen to the assignment, and instead of pets in the garden at home, he hadn't tried and kept drawing the same blobs. Julian stares out the window, the defense that they weren't the same because the dog waved into a brown spiral, and the cat was a smooth dash of it, sticks in his throat.

His parents won't look at his drawings anymore, only telling him he needs to try. And Julian feels the shape of it change and press down on him.

The next meeting with his teacher follows, this time sweet and concerned as she points to the new self portrait, with Julian this time all Sharp edges in black and red.

Adigeon prime happens. Amsha excitedly brings some supplies to the hospital room--a real sketchbook and nicer artists pens then he was ever allowed - and asks him to draw something.

Kukalaka, observing from a shelf too high for him to reach, becomes his subject. And Julian can see every important detail to his shape and his hands follows it on pattern. On the paper becomes a perfect replication of exactly how Kukalaka sits in this moment. His parents are delighted, saying how talented he is. How wonderful his art is now. Julian stares at it well into the night, each pencil stroke, trying to understand where the flaw is because the Kukalaka in the drawing is wrong.

He tries again, usually by an adults prompting, to draw. But now it's a chore, a party trick like he's a machine taking a photograph. The thrill of pulling out something that only existed in his head and putting it to paper is gone, and there's a loss he can't verbalise until he runs his fingers over the yellow thread in Kukalaka.

Years later on Ds9 he Garak and Ziyal discuss art. Or rather, they listen to Ziyal excitedly talk about expressing herself in every medium she can get her hands on. Garak admits a modest ability, demonstrating a cartoon like style on the PADD between them. When they ask Julian he finds himself pausing, pen almost going to automatically trace Ds9 on the PADD, before letting it idly doodle across the screen in a soothing way.

"Ah, I've never had the talent for art you see."

[monotonesmile]

Damian Wayne Headcanons

————————————————————————————————

[General Headcanons:]

Damian knows a lot of languages so he can and will use them to confuse his siblings (and once on Bruce. Note: This did not work, Bruce started speaking the same language.) in arguments. He will fully switch to a completely different dialect in the middle of a sentence, he’ll go from English to fluent Latin.

Damian definitely isn’t a touchy-feely person or a praising man, so he usually expresses himself through quality time or acts of service. He does care, he’s just had the aspect of “showing emotions is weakness” so beaten into him that he’s just doing everything subconsciously.

I feel like Damian does take time out of his day to actually hang out with his siblings, whether by (begrudgingly) going out with Dick or hanging out with Jason in one of the many libraries in the manor in silence. He does want to be around his siblings, he just won’t admit it as stated before.

Damian is always happy whenever he gets to have authentic food from where he was raised before arriving at Wayne Manor, it makes him smile a bit when Alfred makes it for him, even if it has to be changed a little due to his vegetarianism.

Damian, as Robin, is both a strike first, ask questions later type but also a strategist at the same time. Nobody understands how.

[Romantic Headcanons:]

When it comes down to romantic relationships though, he will definitely not be any different in the first few months of dating, he’ll be cold and blunt as ever but there is a hint of softness to everything he does, plus you’ll find honestly beautiful portraits and drawings in your bag or room at times.

After a few months of dating he’ll let you actually hold his hand in public, although he definitely doesn’t look happy about it (he’s happy, he just has a resting bitch face).

Damian definitely doesn’t tell you about his night life as Robin for a long while, he’s afraid you’d look at him differently and be scared off by it. It takes him probably more than a year, maybe even two, to actually tell you of his secret identity, and even longer to tell you about his true past with the League of Assassins for the same reasons he was afraid to tell you about his life as Robin.

He absolutely has petnames for you in different languages.

If his multitude of pets love you, you’ve just become absolute wife/husband/spouse material in his eyes, especially if you also love animals.

Damian is low key really sweet towards his partner, but it really doesn’t look like that from an outside perspective, from someone else’s POV, Damian looks uninterested and cold towards you, but you can see the small things, the way his thumb runs across your knuckles as you hold hands and how he is keeping his eyes on you.

Damian would be hella embarrassed if you traced any of his scars, it is absolutely one of the best ways to get him to shut up or blush brighter than a tomato.

Damian likes listening to your heartbeat, it’s like he’s reminding himself that you’re real and actually with him. He’s afraid of losing the people he loves and cares for so he does certain things to remind himself that it’s all real.

To leave off on a soft note, Damian’s kisses are always soft and sweet, like he’s savoring every moment of it, he always involuntarily smiles into kisses as well.

[siriuslovebot]

˖ ࣪⭑˖ ࣪𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒚 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑 ➸ 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒖𝒔 𝒍𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒏˖ ࣪⭑ ˖ ࣪

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑺 𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑬𝑫: more remus x mouse please!!! i adore them!!

𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺: mentions of insecurity, post full moon remus is a little snappy, the nickname 'mouse', insomnia, crying (this is all quite lighthearted i promise)

𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀: after remus snaps at the reader one day, some insecurities in their relationship come up.

𝑨/𝑵: hi loves! after the massive outpouring of love i had on mouse, i received this request and knew i absolutely had to write more of remus & mouse. this is written in the same universe, so to speak, but can be read as a standalone if you like. this one isn't nearly as long as the last, but it's just a little something that i wanted to write. if you'd like to see more of this pairing, just let me know and i would be happy to oblige!! as far as the warnings go, there's no real angst or anything just some insecurity on the reader's part. if that bothers you then please skip this one! as always, i hope you enjoy!

𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑻: 1.9k 𓂃♡₊⭑

·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺

a slot of light slips through the curtains across the room, the faint moonlight shining directly over your eyes. a tiny huff leaves your lips as you flip the other way; sleep has escaped you for the past hour. you’d awoken, heart pounding, from a nightmare, and have been awake ever since. it’s a wonder you haven’t woken marlene or lily with your quiet grumbling and frustrated sighs. 

you curl into your bed, entangling your body in the duvet as you stare at the wall of your dorm. your eyes trace the cracks in the stone, the dim light illuminating their details just enough to distract you. you attempt to count them, hoping maybe it will help lull you to sleep. after what feels like hours, you give up. another annoyed grunt leaves your lips as you flop onto your back to stare at the canopy above your bed.

the problem is: you’ve been suffering from this insomnia for the past week now. ever since the last full moon, you’ve been worried sick. of course you’re used to dealing with remus’s touchy moods around the full moon; you’ve seen how short he can get with other people, how he becomes quieter and more reserved, how he sleeps more than usual. still, he’d never been that way with you, even when he was clearly at the end of his rope mentally and emotionally.

earlier in the week, you’d been excited to share the lesson he missed that morning in care of magical creatures. professor kettleburn covered mokes, displaying their remarkable ability to shrink themselves to near invisibility. it wasn’t unusual for remus to ask you what he missed in class– so you thought it’d be fine to volunteer the information. unfortunately, it seemed he was still on edge after his latest transformation.

you’d taken a seat on the end of his bed, placing a hand on his leg. you greeted him softly, knowing how exhausted he usually felt. he laid there, arm covering his eyes, and said nothing. you took this as an opportunity to begin speaking. there was no response from him for a moment, before he moved his arm, blinking his bleary eyes as he barely sat up.

a sickly-looking expression occupied his features. his sleeve rose a bit and you noticed another fresh wound.

“can you please just… leave me alone?” he said, voice cold, before collapsing back onto the bed. he shook your hand away from his leg and curled into himself.

“are you okay, rem?”

“go. away.” his words were punctuated sharply, turning almost venomous. you flinched, your entire morale crumbling to dust beneath the weight of his words. 

your stomach churned, and you cleared your throat. “o–okay,” you mumbled. you were out of his dorm in a flash, your feet carrying you as fast as possible downstairs.

“hey, y/n–” sirius tried to catch your sleeve, but you pushed past him, out of the portrait hole without a word. the tears were brimming already, your throat tightening as you made every effort to get as far away from everyone as possible. you hated how much it could upset you; remus was not mean, and you knew that. he would never hurt your feelings on purpose, and you knew better than to bother him when he wasn’t feeling well. still, it stung. 

even worse, you weren’t brave enough to bring it up when he finally returned to classes as normal. as he sat down beside you at breakfast, you wondered if he even remembered it at all. he greeted you amicably and bumped his knee against yours as he settled into his seat. but he didn’t wrap his hand around yours like normal. he wasn’t leaning in to whisper his witty remarks while the others were distracted. remus is not an obviously affectionate man in the first place, but you have grown used to him showing his fondness for you in quiet ways. brushing your hair behind your ear, carrying your books to class, holding doors open for you. 

now, moping in your bed, you feel even worse about everything. since that morning, you worried that you annoyed him to the point that he didn’t want you anymore. maybe he just preferred you as a friend. that idea hurt even more. blinking, you try to push the thought out of your head. alas, you are nothing if not an overthinker, and the pestering thought will not go away. your one remedy is exactly the person you don’t want to face. 

you realise you are in a predicament; being so obstinate, you don’t want to scurry off to remus’s dorm and pour your heart out after feeling so slighted. on the other hand, you’re afraid that your newfound relationship could fizzle out right beneath your nose. you’ve always heard that communication is key, but revealing your anxieties to remus feels too vulnerable. almost foolish. 

ultimately, you decide to choke down your pride. the floor is cold beneath your feet as you slip out of bed. you force your limbs to move across the room, tip-toeing to the door. you wince as a stirring noise comes from across the room, then the sound of marlene’s hoarse voice.

“y/n? y’okay?” her words are slurred with sleep, muffled by her pillow.

“fine, marls. go back to sleep.”

she does just that, her breathing falling back into its steady rhythm. you slip through the small gap in the door, padding downstairs as quietly as possible. 

by the time your feet hit the stairs up to the boys dormitories, you’re starting to question your decision. it’s stupid, you think. there’s no way remus would snub you on purpose; surely he would just up and say it if he was no longer interested… right? 

it takes every ounce of willpower in your body to force yourself up the stairs. you take them one at a time, breathing deeply to ease the growing anticipation. it’s a wonder no one can hear your pulse quickening, your shaky breaths. standing at the door, you stare at it for a second. you can turn around this second and pretend you were never there. but wouldn’t it only make things worse?

a second passes, and you raise your hand to knock. you stop yourself. it would be rude to knock at this hour; you’d wake all four of the boys slumbering peacefully inside. instead, you hope not to wake anyone as you gently push the door open, peering inside. four forms occupy their beds, their silhouettes rising and falling gently with each breath. the light from outside the window barely illuminates the room enough for you to creep around the mess on the floor. you grit your teeth as one of them mumbles in their sleep; your eyes find james’s form, rolling over lazily in bed. he’s still sleeping, thankfully.

you step over a pile of books on the way to remus’s bed, and try not to startle him. it seems you already have, as his sleepy voice comes muffled from his bed.

“y/n? is something wrong?” 

the sound of him calling you y/n sends a pang through you. as much as you complained about being called ‘mouse,’ it made you feel special whenever remus used your childish nickname. 

“can’t sleep,” you mumble stupidly, your knee bumping into the edge of his bed. “sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“of course y’did,” he says, voice thick with sleep. “y’weren’t coming in here just to stare at me…” he turns over, his bleary eyes finding yours in the darkness. he lifts the duvet, scooting over to make a spot for you. you climb onto the bed, but hesitate before laying beside him.

“what’s wrong?” he reaches for you, long fingers wrapping around your wrist. his thumb traces the inside of your wrist, gentle against the skin. he doesn’t tug you down, which you would appreciate if it weren’t for the full view he was getting of your upset face. 

“are you mad at me?” this whisper is quieter than the last one, if possible. your eyes shine with tears, and remus’s face falls into a heavy frown. 

“what are you talking about, m’little mouse?” 

your heart seems as if it’s going to explode for a second; you force your gaze away from his face. you can’t stand to watch the way his brows pull together, the way his lips drag down into a frown, the concern softening his warm eyes. a lump the size of the castle has grown in your throat, and you want to hide your face more than anything. 

“i just–well, after the last full moon, it just… seemed like you didn’t want to see me anymore. i know it’s a lot to deal with, and i shouldn’t have bothered you–”

“hey,” remus cuts you off, his voice soft. little choking breaths and sobs are interrupting your words, and tears cloud your vision to the point that you can barely see him in the darkness. “you never bother me. c’mere…” he sits up, pulling you into his embrace. he’s warm, his scent enveloping you in a blanket of comfort. it’s astounding just how much he’s soothed you already, your crying quickly calming to dull hiccoughs. 

“so you’re not mad?” you breathe, your face tucked into his neck.

he laughs quietly. the sound is barely audible, but you feel the rumble of his chest. “no, mouse.” his lips press against your temple, and you melt into him. you close your eyes, feeling more restful than you have in days. “‘m sorry i was short with you.” he holds you close, cradling your head as you finish calming down.

“can i stay here with you?” you ask, after what feels like forever. you look up at him hopefully, face flushing at the adoring look in his eyes. 

“‘course y’can,” he says, moving over even though there’s plenty of room for you already. “poor mouse, you look exhausted.” he brushes your hair out of your face, and you nod weakly.

“i haven’t slept properly for days,” you mutter, tucking yourself into his side as you settle beneath the duvet. one of your hands slips under the hem of his shirt, his skin warm against yours. 

“i wish you would’ve said something sooner.”

“i know. i just–” you huff “--i was embarrassed. i didn’t want to scare you off.”

there’s his laugh again, sweet and sleepy. your stomach does a flip.

“oh, it’d be hard to scare me off after i saw you turn into a mouse–”

“rem!” you say, voice sharp despite the quiet. his stomach rumbles with light laughter, and you shake your head.

“okay, sorry,” he says, grinning. “let’s not wake the guys up. think sirius’ll have my head for disturbing his beauty sleep.”

you mumble your agreement, closing your eyes. it’s about time you got at least a few hours of good sleep. the room is quiet for a second, just slow breathing.

then, from james’s corner of the room: “what about my beauty sleep, moony?” 

there’s an eruption of giggles from your bed, and you bury your face into remus’s neck to stifle the sound. 

“sorry, prongs,” remus says, sheepish.

“yeah, yeah, you old sap. go to sleep, or i’m recounting this whole thing to sirius in the morning.”

“oh, please don’t,” you plead quietly.

there’s a grumble from across the room. then, “what are you gits up blabbering about?” it’s sirius, his voice gruff.

“nothing, pads,” says james. “going to sleep.”

you say nothing, cheeks burning as you settle down, curling against remus’s frame. sleep finally finds you, sweeping you off into a dreamless slumber.

[chilling-seavey]

Lessons in Lust and Other Illicit Desires (gr63) —TEN

↳ A/N Thank you all so much for the growing interest in LLOID! You're always more than welcome to leave comments or send in asks about the universe...your thoughts, questions, and anything else <3 I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

↳ Series Summary: Sensible, wise, and a hopeless dreamer, Rosaline was used to men not giving her a second glance. She soon discovered it was merely those mundane college boys who were nothing more than simply intimidated by her intellect. What she needed was a man — someone who could impart knowledge beyond the Classics and guide her in discovering her own confidence as a woman. The thrill of sneaking around with the ever-so-charmingly handsome Professor Russell was certainly a bonus.

↳ Pairings: OxfordProfessor!George Russell x Innocent!Student!OC, Max Verstappen x Charles Leclerc (background)

↳ Chapter Word Count: 5.6k

↳ Chapter Warnings: 18+, nsfw, borderline exhibitionism/risky, oral sex (m receiving), dirty talk (with very minor degradation if you squint), slight hair pulling, spit, it gets a little messy...

George was wearing pleated grey dress slacks that morning. The expensive fabric stretched down the mile-long trail of his legs in a pristine straight cut that landed just at the top of his polished black loafers. They fit him like they were tailored right to his body, moulding around the muscle of his thighs and around the curve of his ass, sitting precisely around his waist by a black leather belt with a silver buckle. Rosaline wondered if he was wearing another pair of Tommy Hilfiger boxer briefs underneath. 

He addressed the class with his usual gravitas, arms moving in broad strokes through the air of the lecture hall, piece of chalk in hand, the fabric of his tucked-in plain white button-up creasing and wrinkling with his every move. Rosaline’s eyes flickered between him and her laptop screen as she furiously typed her notes, desperate not to let the fact that she knew what he looked like under all those clothes distract her from her studies. 

The sudden poke of her arm had her startling, turning to the classmate beside her with an expression she tried not to make appear so guilty. She wasn’t even sure when he had appeared since the seat beside her had been empty since class had begun. Probably yet another careless student sauntering in late…and now asking to borrow a pencil like he couldn’t show up to university prepared. Rosaline tried not to appear visibly disgusted when she watched him absentmindedly chew on the end of her pencil as the lecture progressed. 

College boys, she thought as she focused back on Professor Russell and his enticing maturity, they really were all the same. 

Rosaline’s second class of the day was canceled which allowed her to finally be able to join Tabitha and Max for lunch. She found them in the New College dining hall, situated at the far end of one of the lengthy communal tables. Gold framed portraits of scholars and headmasters past peered down at them from the wood trimmed wall at the head of the great room, likely judging Max’s neverending critique of British cuisine. 

His grumpy ramblings were interrupted by Rosaline’s arrival as she set her tray down beside Tabitha with a clatter, muffled by the sounds of the lively dining hall that echoed the students’ chatter right up to the rafters of the impossibly high peaked ceilings. Tabitha shifted herself over a little to give her room. 

Rosaline took her seat with a tired sigh and a breathy, “Hey. What did I miss?”

Tabitha answered for them, her arms folded on the edge of the table as she nodded her head towards a frowning Max, “He’s throwing a fit over today’s menu.”

Max looked over at her with an even deeper frown, the furrow between his brows strengthening as he pressed, “I am not throwing a fit. I am simply stating the obvious that British food is the worst cuisine on planet Earth and this sad excuse for lunch is proof.”

Rosaline was quick on the defence as she opened her can of soda, “I doubt Dutch food is any better.”

Max’s head nearly whipped in her direction, eyebrows so high in disbelief at her statement that they were nearly clean off his forehead, and his index finger raised from the table top as he said seriously, “Actually—”

“Okay,” Tabitha laughed, strained and tired, and pushed Max’s tray closer to him as if to encourage him like a toddler, “you’ve been on this for fifteen minutes now, mate, can you please just shut up and eat?”

Max grumbled under his breath but picked up his fork. Rosaline contentedly dug into her own lunch; thankful for something more than a bagel with cream cheese that she normally would scarf down between her classes. In the brief moment of quiet amongst their trio, behind the white noise of the bustling dining hall, her mind wandered back to her morning class and Professor Russell in those slacks. 

It was still hard for her mind to process that she knew what he looked like under them; every arch and valley of his muscle, the hair of his thighs, the mouth-watering shape of his cock. The sounds he made when she touched him still echoed in her mind even four days later. The worst part about this whole ordeal was not being able to talk to him outside of their scheduled office hours, not being able to throw herself over the rows of the lecture hall to kiss him when he spoke a particularly beautiful line of prose. Oh, God, his lips were so incredibly—

“Hello?” Max’s hand was suddenly in her line of vision as he tapped his fingertips against the table top in front of her to get her attention.

Rosaline looked up at him and then over at Tabitha, realizing both had been staring at her expectantly. She mumbled a sheepish, “Sorry.”

Max repeated himself, “I said: I can’t believe you made us wait until today to update us on how your night with the rich kid went.”

Tabitha spoke up, “To which I said: Charles isn’t here. We can’t get updates without him.”

“Sure, we can.” Max waved off her concern, “I’ll update him tonight.”

While Max picked at his subpar lunch, Rosaline updated her two friends on the goings-on from Friday night. As always, she kept the identity of her lover a secret, but spoke down to almost every other detail what had transpired. The drinks, the kissing, the exploring…making him come. She kept her voice low so as to not have her voice be carried through the peaked ceilings and to every other student in the dining hall, the trio leaning towards each other across the table as if in a top secret meeting in broad daylight. 

Rosaline found herself rambling on about how she couldn’t stop thinking about Friday night, how she craved him more than ever before. It was a feeling unlike any other; all encompassing and infuriatingly unquenchable. She hadn’t done much of anything yet but the sureness she felt in wanting more made it feel like she was already miles ahead of where she was. 

Max had a simple solution, delivered with his usual deadpan expression of sincerity, “Go and surprise him then.”

Rosaline was taken aback for a moment, blinking at him, before finally, “Just like that? What if he doesn’t want it?”

“He’s a guy, is he not?” Max pressed like it was obvious, “He’s gonna want it.”

It wasn’t like Rosaline to so willingly accept Max’s unwarranted advice but maybe it was the lust that was still hot in her veins that had her thinking that he might have had a point. What did she have to lose?

At 1pm sharp the very next day, Rosaline knocked on the frosted glass of Professor Russell’s office door. She held her usual file folder in her arm, housing another short story written in haste the night before for his eyes only. She stood for the few seconds it took for the door to open anxiously anticipating their meeting and the progression she hoped it would take thanks to the meticulous plan she had crafted from Max’s little idea. 

The door swung open, and to Rosaline's surprise, it wasn’t George on the other side. Instead, there stood a man slightly shorter than him, donning an awkwardly obvious half-bald, half-grey wig and a poor imitation of a Shakespearean costume—right down to the puffy breeches, tall white socks, and heeled black boots.

Rosaline blinked at him, momentarily speechless.

“Good morrow, fair maiden,” he announced in a theatrical tone that sounded oddly more Australian than British, despite his best efforts. With a sweeping bow, he bent at the waist, arm draped across his chest, completing the ridiculous image.

Rosaline didn’t know what to say, staring wide eyed at him.

“Daniel.”

Rosaline’s eyes flicked past the strange man to find George standing behind his desk, smoothie bottle in hand, an unimpressed expression on his face. 

“Please stop traumatizing my pupil.”

The unfamiliar man stood up straight again and turned to George with a playful huff and a finicky readjustment of his fake salt and pepper wig. Despite his feigned exasperation, his face housed a wide toothy grin framed by a tidy and very real salt and pepper beard. In a voice that was solely Australian and no longer housing that horrid attempt at an old-timey British accent, he chided his friend with a, “Ah, come on, mate. All in good fun.”

With a pointed glance in the direction of Daniel, George then turned to Rosaline and gestured her in with a calm smile, “Come on in, Miss Kent.” 

Rosaline—who had not anticipated someone else in the room and thus was incredibly caught off guard—shuffled past Daniel and took a few steps farther into the office. She naturally gravitated towards George with her folder clutched protectively to her chest.

“Is it the breeches?” Daniel looked down to the puffy pants he was wearing, pinching the excess material between thumb and forefinger and giving it a little ruffle, “Are they intimidating?”

“They’re ridiculous.” George corrected him smoothly with a peak of his brow, setting his smoothie bottle back on his desk, “Don’t you have a class to teach about now?”

Daniel lifted his arm up to check his watch, “Mm, I have a few minutes to spare but I should probably head out. I have things to set up still.”

“Alright. I’ll see you around, Danny.” George waved him off, lifting his smoothie bottle from his desk again.

Daniel pulled another dramatic bow, one pointed boot crossed behind the other and everything, “I will bid you both adieu.” 

And then he was straightening up with a beaming grin at his own hilarity and turning for the door.

“Close the door behind you, Shakespeare.” George called after him, his voice light and amused and only slightly exasperated. 

In silent agreement, the office door was shut but they could still hear Daniel’s boisterous laughter fading down the hallway, his loud voice greeting some other faculty as they passed by. George smiled to his desk and took a sip of smoothie before capping it and setting it back on his desk as he settled in his chair. 

Rosaline must have still looked a little dumbfounded and a little confused as George explained to her casually, “Daniel teaches History of the English Language. Apparently it’s his Shakespearean English lecture today…hence the ridiculous getup.” 

“I see.” Rosaline chuckled softly.

“But enough about him,” George folded his hands together on the top of his desk and looked up at her still standing on the other side. He gestured to her usual seat across from him, “shall we get started?”

He was so good at pretending nothing was going on; so easy to fall into the routine of professionalism in these meetings. Rosaline appreciated his dedication to his craft but, at the same time, as a woman, she yearned to see him outside of their Oxford bubble. Friday night was a taste of what it would be like. She wanted more. She had to somehow tell him that she wanted more. 

“Well,” she cleared her throat and looked down at the folder still clutched to her chest, “I actually brought a short piece of writing for you to review today, if that’s alright.”

“Oh, of course.” George agreed, leaning back from his desk to relax into his chair more comfortably and he held out his hand towards her to accept the pages. 

The smile he offered her as she passed over the thin stack made her heart skip. He rested back in his chair and opened the blue file folder to reveal the first page, always meticulously laid out in a proper MLA title page format with her name, date, and his name as recipient. Rosaline pulled over one of the chairs to sit beside him. He didn’t bat an eye; their closeness was familiar now. 

George turned to the next page, immediately put into the heart of the smut within the very first line. His eyebrows raised in surprise at the content but his eyes didn’t leave the page, finishing the first paragraph before glancing over at her with a sly smile.

“Someone’s been busy.” he noted playfully.

Rosaline merely shrugged, leaning towards him with a matching bashful smile, “I’ve just been feeling inspired…since Friday.” 

“Mmm.” George offered a half nod as he looked back to the open file folder in his hand to continue to read. Without tearing his eyes away from the narrative, he moved forward to rest the pages down on top of his desk. Rosaline moved with him, scooting her chair a little closer too. 

She just stared at his profile for a moment as he read, his chin in his hand, fingers resting against his lips, elbow balanced on the arm of his desk chair. His eyes flitted across the page in consistent strokes chalked full of concentration and, when he flipped the page to the next one, he continued right where he left off. Rosaline drifted her gaze from his handsome face to his angular jawline and, finally, down to the collar of his pressed button up shirt. He was wearing a tie that day—he didn’t often—and she caught herself staring at the way he hugged his thick neck snugly.

Max’s words echoed in the back of her mind: “He’s gonna want it.”

Rosaline leaned closer and, in a fit of bravery, pressed her lips to the line of his jaw in a soft kiss. She could feel his surprise intake of breath at her action—and maybe it was her imagination but she could have sworn he shivered a little too. 

“Rosaline.” George nearly purred, a small breathy chuckle laced in his tone.

“What?” she replied sweetly, pressing another kiss just under his ear. 

“Mm, are you trying to take advantage of me here?” he teased, dropping his hand to rest on her knee as he turned his head to look at her. 

The look in his eyes was intoxicating; full of desire. She leaned in again, this time to press a kiss to his lips. George reciprocated almost right away, pushing back against her kiss with need of his own, his hand moving to cradle her face. Their lips met and parted in practiced ease, the office welcoming the quiet sounds of their kisses, Rosaline growing more and more familiar and comfortable every time they found themselves in such a position.

“Okay,” George chuckled warmly after a few seconds, pausing just long enough between thoughts to kiss her once more, “that’s enough.”

Rosaline licked away her smile and watched him turn back to her writing still laying open on his desk. His hand lingered on her knee. 

Her eyes skimmed down his body as he sat beside her in his office chair, the crisp ironed material of his slacks hugging his thighs tight and almost pulled snugly over his groin, creased and drawing her eye in. The same thoughts from the previous day returned to her, thoughts of his body and what she knew he looked like beneath those classy and expensive clothes and, specifically, how much she wanted to get him out of them again. 

Without a word, she slowly slipped off her chair and sank to her knees on the floor in front of him, hidden slightly by the shadow of his desk. 

George’s eyebrows raised astronomically and he sat back from his desk in shock at her unanticipated move, “Rosaline.”

She smiled sweetly up at him, resting her hands on his thighs as she situated herself between them. 

“Rosaline, darling—” George stammered, a nervous laugh slipping from his lips as his eyes flicked over to his closed office door. But the feeling of her hand resting purposefully against the front of his slacks had him looking back down at her with a shaky warn, “Rose-”

Her palm rubbed slowly over the front of his pants, her eyes focused upwards at his face, asking an innocent, “What?”

George let out a heavy sigh through his nose, slouching back in his chair a little more as his eyes dropped to her hand. He didn’t answer her at first, as if he were torn between right and wrong for an uncountable time since they had solidified their agreement. But he didn’t need to say anything because Rosaline could feel him getting hard under her hand. She would never outwardly admit it but Max was so right.

Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip to bite back her smile as her fingers started working at the buckle of his belt, unpinning it and sliding the leather out. George didn’t protest, merely shifting his chair to get more comfortable and giving her room to do as she pleased. Rosaline watched carefully as she unbuttoned his slacks and tugged the little zipper down, rising up onto her knees a little more to see.

George tuttted as he lowered a hand from the edge of his desk to gently stroke her hair, “You want to explore a little more? Friday wasn’t enough for you?”

Rosaline’s gaze flicked up to his face with a bashful smile and a shake of her head, “No.”

“We shouldn’t do this here though, darling.” George reminded her in a breath that sounded entirely unconvincing, “Too many variables…”

Instead of being deterred by his warning, she tugged open his fly some more and then pulled down the front of his underwear. He didn’t make any move to stop her. With a careful hand, Rosaline reached in to carefully pull his dick out all the way, her gentle fingertips on the shaft feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her touch and the way he was stiffening up little by little. 

Her eyes—wide and wondering—were locked on him, her tongue darting out to dampen her lips. George stroked her hair again, his other hand resting aimlessly on his desk, his attention easily having moved from her short story to her the moment she dropped to her knees in front of him, hidden away salaciously under the shadow of his desk. Rosaline gently moved her fingertips up the length of his cock and back down. 

“Darling…” he exhaled, his body succumbing to her ghostly touch against his will. 

He stiffened up even more under her barely-there touches until he was entirely hard, his dick standing up from his body and pesteringly needy for more. With a strained huff, George shifted in his desk chair again, hips faintly rising off the seat barely a millimeter before reconfiguring. Rosaline watched his every movement in near awe. Then, in some sort of lust-stemmed bravery, encouraged by his lack of stopping her, she reached into his slacks again and gently lifted out his balls too. 

George let out some surprise noise that sounded like he tried to cover it up by a breath. His hand tangled into her hair just a little. His thumb caressed the base of her scalp and her eyelids fluttered at the feeling. With a hum, she slowly moved her fingertips over the length of his cock a few more times, barely touching him, before her hand drifted lower to graze over the flesh of his balls. Dotted in coarse brown hair, her fingers traced the shape of them, taking note of every shudder of his breath. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her every move. He wasn’t stopping her.

Rosaline shifted on her knees in front of him, leaning a little closer towards his lap. Her eyes never wavered from his cock right in front of her, angled out of his open slacks and so deliciously hard. Her heart was racing, feeling like the room was spinning with how badly she wanted this. With one more lick to her lips, she dropped her tongue out and ever so cautiously, pressed the tip of her tongue to the tip of his dick. 

George took in a sharp gasp in surprise, legs flinching slightly on either side of her, huffing out a strained, “Rose-”

The foreskin was still pulled over the soft pink tip, leaving only the slit of his cock peeking out the top. Her eyes were trained in on it, the thrill filling her veins, desperate to get more of a reaction out of him. She leaned down again, giving him another barely-there lap of her tongue over the thin protective flesh over his dick. 

“Holy shit, baby.” George exhaled, “Are you sure you want to—”

Rosaline leaned in again for another little lick, then another, and then dragged the flat of her tongue right over the slit in his cock before sitting back on her haunches again. She licked her lips, trying to taste the ever so faint salty taste of precum that her tongue had touched. It was not a lot—only the tiniest amount—but enough that she could taste something. It was thrilling. Her hands caressed his parted thighs over the fabric of his slacks, eyes trained in on his dick and balls pulled from his open fly. 

When she leaned back in tentatively for another little lick, his dick involuntarily twitched away from her mouth almost instinctively, as if her teasing had been far too much to bear. She glanced up at him in surprise but then they both shared light, breathy laughter. George’s hips flexed slightly as if chasing her touch.

With a cautious hand, Rosaline reached out to take his dick in a gentle but sure grasp so it couldn’t flinch away when she leaned in again to give it another testing lick. When she pulled back, a small string of spit connected her tongue to the tip and it broke almost as quickly as it was formed. George pet her hair again, comfortably lounged in his office chair and letting her explore as she pleased. It was their agreement, afterall. 

Rosaline started to gently move her hand downwards, carefully pulling back the thin foreskin away from the smooth head of his dick. She could feel her mouth watering at the sight of it, a pathetic ache growing inside her, an ever-present need to discover everything he had to offer. So she leaned in again, gingerly dragging her tongue along the underside of the head in another testing lick.

George pulled in a tight breath and his fingers tangled into the roots of her hair at the back of her head. When she glanced up at him after another little lick, she soared with pride at the sight of his long eyelashes fluttering over lust-blown eyes. His bottom lip was momentarily caught by his perfectly straight teeth as he stared down at her and when he released it, it was a slightly pinker shade that made him all the more alluring. 

Rosaline kept those sweet little kitten licks to the tip, just underneath, along the slit, until he was almost squirming in his chair. His hips discreetly pushed up against her hand, chasing more of the warm wetness of her tongue…her mouth. She knew he’d never push her for it and that everything she did was of her own free will even if his natural instinct to chase that pleasure was causing his body to move towards her. He was offering himself up to her. 

Her hand stroked him slowly, moving with the ease of his foreskin beneath her soft palm, and she spoke to him in an angelic voice, “Don’t you want to keep reading?”

George blinked at her for a moment, his eyes hazy, trying to recall what she was talking about for a moment. Then, his brain waves finally connected and he glanced over to the top of his desk where her short story was left open, his mouth forming a soft ‘o’. He cleared his throat, shifted a little, “Right, of course.”

As he focused his attention back on her salacious story she had written for him, Rosaline kept up the timid strokes of her hand and those incredibly taunting kitten licks. But, this distraction she offered him was enough to allow her a moment to gather her racing mind into a coherent thought. Finally, she leaned down towards his lap once more and wrapped her lips around the head of his cock. 

George flinched so hard in surprise he almost knocked his knee on the underside of his desk, gasping out a tight, “Jesus—”

Rosaline kept her lips around him, her eyes raising up to his just as he looked down at her with unmissable shock all over his face. The look in her eyes was so unintentionally innocent, staring up at him with his cock in her mouth like she had no idea what she was doing. On the contrary, she had written plenty enough to know exactly what she was doing. 

To hell with reading, George’s entire attention shifted down to her instead as his body slouched down a little more in his office chair to spread his legs wider to welcome her closer. Rosaline, with a watering mouth, leaned in and sank lower down his dick with her tongue gliding along the underside before pulling back just as slowly. Tentatively, testingly. The shudder of his breath had her heart soaring. 

She lowered her hands down to the hardwood floor to help steady herself as she let her mouth do the work, starting to find a cautious pace up and down along the length of his cock. George had one hand resting atop his desk and his other resting on the arm of his chair, clutching onto the leather as if to hold himself back from doing something to brash in the face of lust. She could feel his eyes on him and for a moment she kept hers closed as if meeting his gaze would be too much to bear in such a situation. 

“Ohh, my God, Rose—”

George’s thick voice was like heaven to her, forcing a moan from her throat to vibrate around the shaft of his dick where her lips were wrapped. His hand dropped from his desk to rake through her hair, pulling some of the strands away from her face to grasp back in his fist, sharing in her sounds of pleasure with a shaky groan of his own. 

Her eyes finally raised to his, her insides swirling with lust as she watched the pleasured expression on his handsome face; the heaviness of his lashes, the flush on his cheeks, the tightness of his jaw between panted breaths past swollen lips. As if by its own mind, her mouth moved faster, bobbing her head into his lap a little more insistently. 

George tightened his hand in her hair, staring down at her and the way her face was in his lap, his cock snug in the warm wet confines of her mouth. Her movements were fueled by physical inexperience, unfamiliar in the motions with just a bit of teeth getting in the way, but with an underlying knowledge of exactly what to do like she was doing it by the book. A clever girl, well read and well written in all the most salacious of texts. 

“That’s it, darling,” George all but purred, his voice as rich as velvet, hip hips ever so faintly bucking up towards her mouth, “Ohh, yeah, that’s it.”

Rosaline lifted a hand to rest on his leg, fingers pressing into the flesh of his thigh, while her other wrapped her thumb and forefinger around the base of his dick. She kept her eyes up his body and trained in on his face as she kept going, her mouth only growing wetter as she drooled around him and the lewd sound of every down-push of her mouth filled the air around them. 

“Look at you…” George exhaled, guiding her motions by his hand in his hair, “Beautiful girl on her knees…knowing just how to suck dick…don’t you, my delightful little contradiction?”

Rosaline’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment as the heat that burned within her sent an unbelievable ache right between her legs. She pulled off his dick with a small whine that she hadn’t even realized was brewing in her throat, spit trailing from her lips and connecting her to the head of his cock. Her eyes felt heavy, dreamy, her mind hazy and almost out-of-body. She licked her lips free of spit but only pursed them as George guided the head of his cock along her cupid’s bow, back and forth. 

She blinked up at him from her spot on her knees between his legs, opening her mouth and sticking out her tongue to let him rub his dick all over her. George groaned low in his chest, watching her just sit there and take it even as he smeared her spit and his pre-cum over her lips and cheeks.

“Look at you,” he repeated breathily, “such beautiful eyes behind those pretty glasses…fuck, I want to cum all over those glasses…cum all over your face.”

Rosaline audibly withered, clenching her thighs together on the floor in front of him, absolutely drunk on lust. She had never felt so erotically pathetic before; completely void of thoughts except just wanting his dick back in her mouth, to give him what he wanted, to make him come as much as he wanted. 

Before she could, however, a sharp knock sounded at the office door, followed by its immediate opening—too quick for George to react. Rosaline froze, still on her knees, mercifully shielded by the large walnut desk, her heart hammering. George barely had time to shove his chair forward, concealing the fact that his entire cock and balls were out of his pulled open trousers, before Daniel strode in, fully dressed in his Shakespeare costume, utterly unfazed.

“Hey, Georgie.” Daniel greeted him casually, the door closing behind him as he surveyed the room, seeing that it appeared George was now alone, “Sorry to bother you. You’re done with your meeting with your mentee already?”

George cleared his throat and tried to look as casual as he could as he shuffled the loose pages of Rosaline’s erotica across his desk to hide them back in the file folder, “Yep. Yeah, she’s not here.”

“Clearly.” Daniel snorted, traipsing closer to help himself to the single remaining chair across from his desk. He stated, “Fast meeting. You’re that good of a mentor, huh? Just in and out.”

With a snap of his fingers to finish his lighthearted point, Daniel let out a laugh.

George’s laugh sounded almost painfully strained but perhaps that was just because Rosaline knew he was hiding something. He was hiding her. In desperate need to help Daniel with whatever he wanted that made him just let himself into his office, George asked, “So what do you want?”

“Ah, nothing particular, mate. Just wanted to chat. My class loved my Shakespeare getup, by the way. Was a complete show-shopper, really.” 

“That’s great, Danny.” George replied, fiddling with his pen in his hand as if to make it look like he had been doing something important.

While Daniel went on about how his lecture had gone—entirely clueless as to what had been going on milliseconds before he barged in—Rosaline could see George’s leg bouncing restlessly under his desk from where she was frozen. She barely breathed, barely moved, still tucked half under the large desk right beside George’s chair. Her knees were starting to burn from how she was kneeling on the wood floors in one spot for so long, an uncomfortable ache radiating up into her thighs.

Moving as cautiously as she could, she set her hands behind her on the wood floor to shift off her knees and onto her bum. The old floorboards creaked under her movements. She froze and glanced up at George. He didn’t acknowledge her, simply shifting a little in his chair to play it off like it was him who caused the sound. Perhaps Daniel was too busy talking to even realize anyway. They couldn’t be too careful. 

When Daniel had finished his story about his class and George had responded with required pleasantries to make him feel heard, George followed it up with a, “Always lovely to chat, mate, but I am swamped right now.” 

He shuffled a few papers on his desk to sell it a little more, fiddling with his pen in his fingers. 

“Alright, I get it. How could I forget; you always put your work first before anything or anyone else.” Daniel sighed dramatically, although there was no real heat behind his tone. The old chair creaked slightly as he rose out of it. “Are we still on for tonight though? Drinks and the Bills game at mine?”

George let out almost a reluctant sigh.

Daniel jumped right in again, “You can’t cancel on me! You’re coming.”

“One of these days can we watch proper football?” 

“Mate, what are you on about? You can’t—” said Daniel, his voice nothing short of exasperated as he let out a huff, “We are not having this conversation again. Just come over, alright? 8pm.”

“Okay, yes, okay.” George relented.

“8pm!”

“8pm. Got it. Thanks so much.”

The office door closed with a click. George physically and audibly eased into a heavy sigh, his head dropping back against his chair for a moment, raising a hand to press against his heart. Rosaline shifted in place still hidden behind his desk, peering up at him from the grimey floor.

“Holy shit.” she breathed out in relief. 

“Okay, that was too close.” said George seriously, pushing the chair away from his desk a little so he could tuck his now pathetically soft dick back in his trousers and zip them up, “We can’t keep doing this on campus. The library was close enough but this?”

Rosaline’s racing heart and her veins filled with cortisol had her agreeing without argument from the floor.

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[dioslesbianwife]

ur headcanons are BANGERSSSSSS as always!!!!

what about the jofoes with an artist partner who loves to draw them? :3c

THANK UUU, that means za warudo to me! (im sorry i had to). here are the headcannons and i hope you enjoy!

Dio

Absolutely adores being the subject of your art- after all, perfection should be immortalized.

"You're truly fortunate to have me as your muse," he remarks smugly, though there's genuine satisfaction in his voice.

He enjoys watching you work, lounging nearby with a book, occasionally glancing up to see the progress.

The first time you showed him a portrait of himself, his expression softened ever so slightly. "You’ve captured my magnificence perfectly."

He'd want to hang your work in prominent places in his house, not just as decoration but as a reminder to himself of how deeply you're captivated by him.

Kars

Finds your creative process fascinating, especially your ability to translate his form onto canvas or paper.

"Your mortal hands produce something so enduring," he muses, watching as you capture the sharp lines of his face.

He silently appreciates how meticulous you are in your craft, as precision is something he respects deeply.

If you ever painted something abstract inspired by him, he’d spend an unreasonable amount of time analyzing it, trying to find meaning.

He secretly treasures your work, though he’d probably not openly admit how much it moves and affects him.

Santana

Santana watches you work with silent curiosity, fascinated by how your hands translate his form onto paper.

"Why do you choose to do this?" he asks softly, not out of disdain but genuine wonder.

He remains completely still (to the point it almost looks like he’s turned to stone again), making it easy for you to capture his likeness.

When you show him the finished piece, he might give you a rare, soft smile. "It is... remarkable."

He keeps the artwork carefully, considering it a precious connection between your worlds.

Esidisi

Is patient when you ask him to sit for a portrait, though he’s prone to fidgeting and moving around.

"Is this how you want me to model? Should I look fiercer?" he teases, flexing his muscles dramatically.

Despite this, he’s genuinely touched that you find inspiration in him.

When he sees the finished piece, his eyes shine with warmth. "Ah, you've made me look even better than I imagined"

He'd proudly display your work, calling it a masterpiece whenever anyone asks. He sees you as nothing less than a professional when it comes to your art.

Wamuu

Wamuu sits perfectly still when you sketch or paint him, treating it like a show of a warrior’s discipline.

"Is this position acceptable?" he asks earnestly, willing to follow your every direction.

He admires your dedication, understanding the importance of honing one's craft.

When you reveal the final piece, he bows respectfully. "You honor me with your skill."

Wamuu keeps your artwork as a personal treasure, seeing it as a symbol of your bond. He’ll look at it whenever you’re not around as a reminder of your connection.

Kira

Kira is flattered but also nervous about being your subject. "You find... me worthy of your art?" he asks, a bit bewildered.

He watches you work with quiet fascination, appreciating your meticulous attention to detail.

"Your dedication reminds me of my own pursuits," he admits quietly.

He secretly cherishes the first portrait you made of him, keeping it hidden away where no one else can see it.

If you ever gifted him a sketch, he'd handle it with the same care as his beloved hand models. Speaking of, if you draw some hands for him, he’d treasure them forever.

Diavolo

Diavolo is suspicious at first- he wonders why you'd want to immortalize him in art.

"What do you see in me that's worth painting?" he asks, his voice low and guarded.

When he finally allows it, he watches you with an intensity that makes it hard to concentrate. Borderline glaring.

He’s quietly moved by the finished product, though he struggles to express his feelings. "You’ve captured more than I care to display."

He'd keep your work in a private space, away from anyone else's eyes. Your artworks of him are very private to him.

Doppio

Doppio is both thrilled and nervous when you ask to draw him. "Really? You want me to be your muse?"

He fidgets a lot while posing but does his best to stay still. "Am I doing okay?"

When you show him the finished piece, his eyes light up. "That's amazing, I didn’t think I could look so nice."

He keeps your sketches tucked away carefully, glancing at them whenever he needs a confidence boost.

"Boss will love this too," he mutters to himself proudly.

Enrico Pucci

Pucci is intrigued by your devotion to art and how you see him as worthy of being captured on canvas.

"God grants us gifts, and yours is remarkable," he says thoughtfully.

He sits still with a serene expression, making it easy for you to work.

When you present the final piece, he smiles faintly. "You have seen something within me that I scarcely recognize myself."

He considers your art sacred and would never let harm come to it.

Funny Valentine

Valentine is genuinely honored by your desire to paint or draw him. "It is a privilege to be your muse," he says sincerely.

He sits patiently, regal and composed, appreciating the care you take in your work.

"You have captured not only my likeness but my very spirit," he praises when he sees the finished piece.

He ensures your art is framed and displayed prominently, calling it a display of your talent.

"Your devotion to your craft is as admirable as your heart." (he might even have you do his presidential portrait if you want).

Diego Brando

Diego is immediately intrigued by the idea of being your subject. "Well, of course you'd want to paint me. I’m practically perfect."

He enjoys the attention, posing dramatically just to mess with you.

"Make sure you get my jawline right," he teases with a smirk.

When he sees the finished piece, his arrogance falters. "You really captured me."

He keeps your work proudly, seeing it as proof of your admiration for him.

Tooru

Tooru grins when you tell him you want to paint him. "Wow, I must be pretty special to you?"

He flirts half the time you're working, making it hard to concentrate. "You sure you don’t want me to take my shirt off? For artistic accuracy?"

While you’re painting he’s making you listen to music from his playlist. Hope you like Elvis.

"This is amazing," he says softly when he sees the final product. "No one’s ever done something like this for me before."

He keeps the painting or drawing safe, showing it off to anyone who'll listen.

[stellarnightstalk]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐕𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐀 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞!

pt. 1

I think I took a little too long to upload

The smell of ink and paper enters your nostrils, the balled-up sheets scattered around your mattress as you keep writing in your journal, or, her journal.

To cure the boredom you've been attempting to write down ideas to get him to divorce you, but always end up with scribbled pages or the paper balls you have around you. You placed the bottom of the fountain pen on your pursed lips in thought, and started writing.

Idea number 14: Beg him so much to divorce you to the point he just feels pity and accepts.

Idea number 15: Murder him and keep the insurance mo— “Yeah, no.” You tear the page apart and crumple it into a ball. Standing up from the mattress, you walk to the fireplace that you have installed in your bedroom and toss the paper ball into the blaze. "Can't risk being framed for something I only thought of doing."

Two weeks have passed since the conversation you had with Cedric. The king's daughter had already made herself comfortable in the estate about a week ago. Ever since then, you've made it your mission to avoid any problems between the two protagonists.

But, in addition to the heroine living with you, ever since you asked for a divorce, he has taken the liberty of “not neglecting you” and has attempted to arrange that every single day the both of you meet up in the garden for some quality tea time. An hour, every day. Which made the whole situation more difficult than it had to be. So naturally you refused him, which in return made him bring you expensive jewelry and dresses every day, the room was practically piling up.

You felt yourself trip on a diamond necklace that you had forgotten you had thrown on the floor and you fell head first on the cold ground with a yelp. Speak of the devil. Standing up from the floor, you grabbed onto your forehead and hissed, “Shit, that burns.” You glared at the necklace below your feet, angrily clutching the expensive item and stomping toward a window. You unlocked it, flinging it across who knows where. “Stop sending me gifts that aren’t money!”

“Gah!” A startled yelp echoed. Peering outside, you caught a glimpse of a messenger boy rubbing the back of his head, then you quickly closed the window. “Oops,” It probably didn't hurt that much. You made your way to the bed and retrieved the journal, flipping to the very first page. There revealed handwriting that clearly wasn't yours, the cursive letters written neatly and precise, with each letter flowing smoothly into the next. The villainess used to write a lot in this journal, seems like she didn't have anyone to speak to. It’s mostly just angry banter, as you'd expect from a villainess.

A piece of paper peeked out from one of the pages, out of curiosity you pulled it out and were met with a small portrait of the villainess. She looked young, probably in her teens. Her face was serious, expressing how she obviously didn't want to be there. Quite adorable. You flipped the tiny image, checking if there was a date on the backside. Instead, there was writing.

You still hold the same expression to this day. Don't forget to write letters, I'm here if you ever need me. - With Love, I.A

"IA? What kind of code name is that?" If you remember correctly, the villainess never had any friends, so whoever wrote this letter is beyond your knowledge. Could this be a background character? It doesn't seem that important if he was acquainted with the villainess. But the words stuck with you—could you ask this person for help? They did say they're here if you ever need them. But you don't even know who they are. Did the villainess trust this stranger?

Someone knocked on your door gently. “Your Grace?” You quickly hid the journal under the bed, grabbing all the paper balls in your arms and throwing them into the furnace to dispose of them fast. Out of breath, you sat on the bed, “Um… Your Grace?” The person repeated and you cleared your throat. “Come in.” You straightened your posture, as if you had just woke up.

The door gently opened, revealing a young maid. She bowed, her light brown bangs were covering her eyes. You hadn’t been in this place for long, but you think you knew all the people that worked here. She was new, you were sure of it. But why does she look so familiar?

“Good evening, Your Grace. The Duke has sent me after you for tea time,” she said with a slight tremble. Gosh, of course. “Tell him I won’t be there.” You stood up, striding to a luxurious vanity next to your bed, you looked at the mirror and touched your face. You never get used to the face. Changing your stare to the maid you noticed her narrowing her eyes from your gaze. You raised an eyebrow, “I'm sure that won't be a problem.” She gripped the handle, “Well, um, the thing is—”

She opened the door completely, revealing a variety of boxes stacked on top of each other. “He instructed me that if you disagreed, to hand over all of these.” You deadpanned. Of course, he’d do the same shit. “Should I… Bring it in?” She asked nervously but you raised a hand, rubbing your temple with the other. “No, there’s no need.” You sighed, getting to your feet and walking towards her, “Take me to my husband.” You mentally cringed at your words. “Of course, Your Grace!” She made her way around the boxes and placed her hands in front of her, accompanying you to Cedric, but you couldn't shake off the feeling that you recognized her.

“I have a question for you,” you started, making her slightly flinch at your words, ”What is your question, Your Grace?” She gulped, it looked like she was nervous. You're sure by that reaction that the rumors of the villainess had reached her ears, they all enjoy gossiping. “What is your name?”

“My name?” She tilted her head, confused by the sudden question but then she shook her head, terrified once more. “Apologies. My name is Edith,” She managed to stutter out.

Edith? That was the name of the villainess's most loyal maid. You examined her from top to bottom, earning a gulp from her. She was nothing like the novel described, she was squirmish and timid, while in the novel she was serious and brazen, which was the reason the villainess was interested in her. No wonder you didn't recognize her, she's a completely different character. But how?

“Which residence did you come from?” You decided to keep prying her with questions, if she was the villainess's most loyal servant you’d like to get her on your side. The correct answer on her part is that she came from a residence that the Duke conquered and that she was practically born to be a servant her whole life.

“I came with Her Highness, Your Grace.”

What? No, she didn't. You've read that novel like five times you practically have all the details memorized. There's no way in hell that she came with the princess, she still has the rights of a commoner. Since she hasn't been crowned, she didn't come with maids, she got appointed them after. Did you forget? Are you slowly losing your old memories, including the novel?

You bit your nails anxiously. One thing is for the course of the plot to be changed because of your actions since you reincarnated, but the land the Duke conquered was long before you came here. You couldn't have changed it because you weren't even there to alter it, it should have been like the story described it to be.

“Are you… Sure?” She looked at you perplexed, the question was dumb, and you knew that, but maybe she heard you wrong. “Um, yes, Your Grace.” Her voice cracked, so she cleared her throat, “I'm positive I came with the princess, I was with her in the carriage on her way here.” You shouldn't have been!

“You two must be close for you to ride in the same carriage as her.” Deny, deny! You thought, instead she looked away sheepishly. “Well, me and Ann— I mean, the princess and I have been close since childhood.” Childhood? You don't have a childhood! Edith was born into work and didn't have time for friends, which was why she kept to herself.

This situation was worse than you had anticipated. Edith was a significant asset to the villainess, and you needed her to be by your side. You opened your mouth to speak, but stopped when you realized that you had arrived at your destination. The place you were in was a greenhouse that belonged to the Duke. It was beautiful from the outside, and you wouldn't be surprised if it was just as stunning on the inside. Cedric always spent his time here; it was his safe place, but he never let the villainess enter. What had changed now?

Edith opened the gates of the greenhouse and went inside, you followed suit, taking in the view. The flowers looked beautiful, it was apparent that they were being taken care of very well. As you looked around your eyes were met with Cedric, his signature serious expression on his face made you sigh in response. It looks like he didn't notice you were here yet.

“Duke Ironheart, the Duchess has arrived.” Said Edith, bowing with a slight tremble. His head turned to you quickly, you swore you heard a slight crack when he did. Cedric cleared his throat before speaking, “Good, you may leave us be. Stand outside with the others.” He said to Edith, which she in return quickly nodded and walked at a fast pace outside the greenhouse.

Before you could say anything, he spoke up, extending his hand at the chair in front of him. “Have a seat.”

You gulped in an attempt to get rid of an anxious lump. “Right, of course.”

——➻

Grabbing the teacup in front of you, you sipped it carefully. As you did, an overwhelming taste of bitterness invaded your mouth, making you cough at the unexpected flavor as you placed the teacup down.

“This tea,” You began, clearing your throat, “is it a new blend? I've never tried it.” You looked at the male in front of you. “Is it not to your liking?”Cedric spoke.

“It’s a bit bitter but nothing I can’t handle.” You replied to the man, grabbing the teacup to sip from it once more. He stared at you and suddenly clasped the top of your teacup, slightly bumping his gloved knuckles into your nose. The hell?

“I reckoned you liked this kind of tea.” He took the tea from you and sipped it himself. His eye twitched. “My mistake. It appears that it is too bitter for the intended taste.” He glared beside him, making the maids flinch and look the other way, then he looked back at you. “Do not force yourself to drink something you dislike. Throw a tantrum as you did, or anything.” He declared sternly, which made it seem like he was ordering you to do it. He says that so easily but whenever the villainess threw tantrums he’d always put her on probation or give her the silent treatment.

“Take the tea away, fetch something less bitter.” He said to the maids without a look, pointing at your cups. They took it, eagerly nodding and going their merry way. You watched them leave the garden with a sigh, “Your Grace, I was just fine with the previous tea.” Your words came out with a twinge of irritation, he simply crossed his arms.

“You don't address me by my name anymore.” He said, changing the subject. “Is that a problem?” You feign innocence, tilting your head to display your confusion. A hum could be heard from him due to your response, making you shift uncomfortably in your seat. The exchange ended there.

As you both sat beneath the shade of a weeping willow, the space between you two was now crammed with an uncomfortable silence. You tapped your finger on the table anxiously, looking towards the flowers on your left. Does the duke have a staring problem? You've been sensing his gaze ever since the maids left as if he's analyzing your soul or something.

"The flowers are in full bloom," you said, just to break the uncomfortable stillness. “It looks quite beautiful.” He hummed at your words, "You've noticed," he said with a subtle smile, which surprised you. "How could I not?" you chuckled, stopping when you felt his piercing gaze once more. "You weren't one to notice these kinds of things." Damn, you forgot about that. "I suppose I'm catching a glimpse of the more beautiful things in life." He gazed at the flowers and then at you. He stayed like that for a few seconds. "I suppose I am too," Cedric responded and you gave him an awkward smile, and once more, there was now uneasy silence.

As you glanced sideways, a cluster of vibrant daffodils caught your attention. You weren't lying when you said that the sight of the flowers was beautiful, especially against the environment of spring.

“The King is planning to hold a grand ball,” Cedric spoke up, choosing to break the silence, which came across as out of character for him. “Is that so?” You answered back with a hum, crossing your legs. “You will attend, of course. It would be unseemly for the Duchess to absent herself from such an important event.”

Right, the villainess was known for skipping out on balls that she thought held no interest for her. And when she did go, she’d always somehow be the center of attention, in considerably nasty ways.

Now that you recall, in the novel, the princess was exceptionally skilled and was able to learn etiquette at a fast pace, but since she was raised as a commoner she didn't know how to read or write, which caused her to stay for longer. Thus Cedric stepped in to help her, and she was able to learn quickly as well, which caught his attention more and made him develop deeper feelings of curiosity. Since the kingdom did not know yet of the princess's existence he decided to organize a ball to introduce his heir to the throne, which would also be her coming-of-age ceremony.

“Is there a specific reason for the decision?” You questioned him, seeking closure if your suspicions were correct. Your eagerness to continue the conversation appears to please him.

“The Princess has learned sufficiently.” He explained, earning a look from you, intrigued. He held a subtle smile when you did. “His Majesty has made the decision to ultimately make it known of his heir, it is also the Princess’s coming of age as well. He has sent us an invitation to attend.” So you were right. When he concluded his words, he handed you the invitation, which you snatched quickly. It held a golden lion engraved on its side, confirmation that it was sent from the royal household.

The grand ball exists as a monumental scene from the novel, that’s where the villainess tosses wine on the princess’s gown because Cedric asked her to dance instead of the villainess. When questioned, she cried out that the princess was a harlot who sought to steal her husband. Which resulted in Cedric lashing out at the villainess and taking the teary-eyed heroine to the royal garden. This is where they have a moment to exchange their feelings in silence, when the cold-hearted duke finally learns to trust another.

“When is it taking place?” You questioned, switching your stare from the invitation to him, placing the envelope on the table. “In three days.” He simply said, resting his cheek on his hand.

Your eyes widened, In three days? It’s only been a week. In that time the princess hasn't even learned how to read, let alone write. Cedric noticed your reluctance to speak, “Is that a problem?” He questioned, raising an eyebrow. “No, not at all. Just a bit surprised is all.” “Why so surprised?” Why so many questions? You mentally scowled. “It’s only been a week since the princess has been staying in the dukedom, yet she's already leaving.”

It’s just too sudden, you don't think you're mentally prepared. Maybe you could call in sick? Knowing Cedric he’ll probably call a thousand physicians and when he finds out you were lying he’ll put you on probation in the same ways he did to the villainess, or even worse, execute you for daring to disrespect him.

“I am the one who recommended the king to do it as momentarily as possible.” So you can cut off my head sooner?! “May I ask why you suggested that?” You asked sincerely, holding the ball in two days means that the princess will leave earlier than intended. That's not supposed to happen.

Some really important scenes were supposed to happen before the ball. The random count who was trying to court the female lead hasn't been introduced, which means he hasn't had confusing feelings of jealousy yet. That's why he asked the princess for a dance at the ball instead of the villainess. Or the slip-and-catch trope where she slipped while walking and landed on his massive chest creating unresolved tension for 3 whole pages.

Could it be that the plot is moving on faster than intended? Or not even happening at all?

He gazed at you with a blank stare for a moment without uttering a word. His expression became murky as he crossed his arms and leaned his head back onto the chair. “No particular reason.”

“Why? Are you jealous?” He questioned with a tilt of his head, his gaze boring into you. You deadpanned.

"What? No, of course not. Why would I be?" you replied bluntly. “It brings me joy that the princess has been able to learn quickly actually.” You smiled, “She must be a very clever lady.” Too clever, can't she slow it down a bit? You're trying to get you both a happy ending.

“You haven't met her, yet you are here praising her.” The furrowed eyebrows he had caught your attention. “Is there a problem with me complimenting the princess?” In the novel, Cedric is a very jealous man. But does he really feel jealous of another woman complimenting the female lead too? Weirdo.

“No, forget I said anything.” Gladly. And for the third time, again, silence. But it was for the better, you didn't want to speak for longer than you had to. This conversation was long enough for you to ignore him for about two weeks, it's draining to speak in such a royal matter, you always confuse your words.

But it made you anxious, the silence. Almost like he was scheming something, planning your execution right in front of you without your knowledge. What you would give just to have a look inside his mind, to know what he's pondering. Couldn't the villainess have powers? They debuffed her character just for the protagonist's plot armor.

Cedric was about to speak, but he was interrupted by the opening gates of the garden, which you assumed were the maids bringing out the newly brewed tea. "Thank you for the tea," You declared, making yourself more comfortable in the seat. "You're free to excuse yourself." You added, then changed your gaze to look at the person in front of you.

“Your Grace,” the maid bowed, her voice trembling slightly, a tray of tea resting in her hands. “Princess Annabeth has arrived. She has brewed you both some tea.”

Your eyes widened at the sight before you, the lady in front of you was in fact, a maid as you thought it had been, but she was accompanied by another. “Your Highness.” Spoke out Cedric, his stare now fully concentrated on the girl. “Good evening, Your Grace.” The young girl said with a radiant smile, the dimples on her cheek in full view. Her golden curls lay neatly on her face, confirming that she was the king's daughter since blonde hair was a sign of royal blood. Her emerald eyes looked directly at Cedric, and your eyes looked directly at her. The descriptions of her beauty in the novel were not exaggerated in the slightest.

Thump.

Grabbing onto your chest, you suddenly felt a familiar pang of jealousy. It was the same jealousy she had felt in the novel, shit. This must be the villainess's body reacting to her presence. You took a deep breath and tried to control yourself. This body had reactions that you couldn't control at all, when you reincarnated it didn't just come with her looks, it came with everything intact. Causing you to have out-of-control emotions, her emotions. This could be difficult to manage.

The female lead, Annabeth, was right in front of you, her hands behind her back. She looked like a young teenager, which made you remember that in the story she had just turned 18.

"I appreciate your help, Belda. You may excuse yourself," Annabeth said to the maid, whom you now know as Belda. “Of course.” She nodded, placing the tray on the table. Then made her way out of the room, closing the door with a bang, leaving the three of you alone. Cedric spoke up, not wasting a moment of silence.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were practicing your writing, as I had told you to do.” his words made Annabeth chuckle. You saw her tuck a curl behind her ear, placing her hands behind her back. “It’s my break time from practicing so that I can regain my focus,” She paused, slightly glancing at you. “In the meantime, I wanted for you two to try my new blend of tea.” She admitted, shifting her gaze from you to Cedric. Her eyes widened.

“I’m sorry, did I interrupt something? I can leave.” Annabeth said as she exchanged stares with the both of you. Cedric instantly spoke up, “Yes, actu—” Getting to your feet, you left his words unfinished, “Of course not, would you like to join us?” He looked at you with widened eyes, furrowing his eyebrows. ”I'm sure the princess has more significant things to do than tea.” He said it to you, but he was probably directing it to the princess as well. Damn, this slow-burn novel is burning good, too good. Fall in love already!

“She brewed us some tea, it's only natural to let her try some with us. It's proper manners," Cedric clenched his jaw at your words and then sighed. "Fine, as you wish." He ran his hands across his hair with a huff, crossing his arms afterward. Well, that was quick. You didn't even have to repeat it. You sat back down in content and patted the space beside you. His eyes narrowed at your gloved hand. "Take a seat, Your Highness. It's big enough for both of us.”

Annabeth raised her eyebrows, tightening her lips as she stared at the plush that lay below your hand. She looked as if she was lost in thought. “Your Highness?” You called out to her, which snapped her out of whatever thought she was in. “My apologies, yes, I'll sit. Thank you.” She gave a warm enigmatic smile. You squinted your eyes as a sudden radiant glow beamed around her. Damn, why is it so bright! She only just smiled!

“It’s no worries, no need to thank me.” You returned the smile, which resulted in a scoff from a neglected Cedric. Is he jealous or just annoyed? Maybe the plot is on its course after all, just differently.

“Allow me to serve you the tea I've brewed, my father sent me these tea leaves.” She said as she grabbed the teapot, standing up and pouring the tea for the three of you. Your cup being the last she poured. “I hope it’s to your liking.” She said with a smile directed at you. Cedric sneered and grabbed his cup, taking a sip, and so did you.

“Too sweet.” “It’s pretty good.” You and Cedric both looked at each other. It wasn’t a lie, the tea was good, just made your throat a bit itchy.

“I thought you weren't fawn of such sweet things.” He commented with a stern look, you gulped. “Change of heart?” You chuckle nervously. Damn, you forgot the villainess hated sweet things.

Annabeth covered her mouth and laughed, “Guess I put too much lemon verbena.” Cedric's eyes widen and he snatches your cup, throwing it on the ground. It shatters from the impact. You both look at him in shock and he slams his hands on the table, glaring at Annabeth. “What’s wrong, Your Grace?” She asked with furrowed brows, fidgeting with her hands.

“Are you trying to kill my wife?” Annabeth’s eyes widen and she looks at you, and then at him. “Wh-What do you mean? I would nev—” “Don’t lie to me!” He cuts her off, standing up abruptly, making her flinch.

“Cedric!” You called out, standing up and putting your hand in front of the princess, blocking her from him. He stares at you and raises his eyebrow, you see him gulp. “What do you mean kill me?” “How could you not—” He stops himself, staring at Annabeth and then at you. He grabs your wrist and with no word drags you out of the garden, leaving Annabeth behind. You try to object but to no avail. You look back for a split second to see the princess teary-eyed, and then the gates closed.

“Your Grace!” You call out to him, pulling your arm back from him, you two are already far from the garden. He turns around, “We need to get the doctor, quit resisting!” You cleared your throat, the itchiness of your throat was getting worse.

“Doctor? Why would I need a doct—” Before you finished, you suddenly got a pounding headache, making you wince and trip towards Cedric's chest. Now that you realize it, ever since you drank that tea you have been having difficulty breathing. You wheezed, your throat suddenly feeling much tighter than before. He grabbed your shoulders and you vaguely heard him yell something to the maids who were positioned outside. Resulting in them running to your side with terrified glances.

Your vision was getting blurry and you were sweating bullets. The hands that were on your shoulder gripped harder, making you wince. Your eyes were starting to get watery and itchy, you decided to close them to ease the pain for a bit.

And then there was silence.

from, your admirer

tags: @ohnoivefallen @julietdelamare @scotchhopin

credits:

neutral heart + star divider made by @cafekitsune

[yumeka-sxf]

Thoughts on Spy x Family: Family Portrait

I finally got around to reading the SxF light novel, Family Portrait...and I mean "finally" because it's literally been sitting in my shelf since it was first released in English back in December of last year! I was distracted by Code White and the SxF video game which came out around the same time, but even long after that, I was having trouble getting motivated to read it. For some reason, experiencing SxF in novel format instead of in anime/manga just didn't appeal to me, plus the fact that it's not written by Endo himself (these weird preferences of mine are also why I'm not into reading fanfics either). Don't get me wrong, in general I love reading stories in prose form too, but for a series like SxF that already has such an established visual identity, it doesn't feel as "authentic" to me if that makes any sense. But I did want to read it eventually, since it is an official part of SxF media and Endo did the illustrations and does acknowledge the book (he wrote a nice afterword at the end). So I finally sat down and read it in sections over the course of this week! I'll share my brief thoughts on each of the contained stories:

Novel Mission 1

Since this was the first story in the book, it took me a while to get used to experiencing the world of SxF in novel form. There were some things I felt would have been better conveyed in anime/manga, for example, one of the very first gags about Yor misinterpreting Anya's nature class as some sort of hardcore outdoor survival trip. As I was reading that part I was like "I get the joke, but it would have been funnier if I actually saw these images and the characters' expressions with Endo's comedic illustrations." It was also a bit jarring to hear the characters thoughts and feelings from third-person narration, but I got used to it. As for the story itself, it was Damianya focused, something I'm not particularly into, but I don't mind it either. I liked the rare, soft Damian moments, and the thing with the squirrel eating Anya's peanut trail was funny. I also liked the scene at the beginning where Loid and Yor feed Bond together while Anya watches.

Novel Mission 2

Oddly, this was my favorite of the stories! Of all the characters, I think the author nailed Yuri's unhinged thoughts the best - as I was reading, I couldn't help but hear every cringe thought in his voice, which is a good sign of how well the author gets the character! I actually chuckled at a few parts too, both from his insane Yor-obsessed and anti-Loid musings, as well as from his banter with Anya. The police interrogation scene was great and would be even better if it ever gets animated! I also found it interesting that this story has the first instance where we find out what Yuri thinks about Bond (that he's fat and useless - rude!) Also his first time hearing about Franky apparently...makes we wonder if Endo will make him feel the same way if these things ever come up in the manga.

Novel Mission 3

I liked this story a lot too! I think it worked the best in novel format out of all of them, probably because it was more focused on drama and emotions than comedy. It's ironic that the two official SxF stories that feature the deeper side of Franky's character - this one and the omake chapter from volume 13 - are both not even part of the main canon! Alessa would have definitely accepted Franky's job as an informant, but he felt that someone like her should only be surrounded by "beautiful things." The poor man really needs to see that inner beauty matters too, and he has that! I also think he should have swallowed his pride and told Loid the real reason why he wanted the disguise...not that it would have changed the outcome. Poor Franky.

Novel Mission 4

This was a cute Forger-focused story, but like the first one, I felt it had parts that would have been more effective in anime/manga form, for example, "hair monster" Yor and whatever hideous painting Felix ended up making! But despite that, it was still funny and cute. Though I do think the author went a tad overboard with Yor's flustered antics...they just kept going and going, lol. Also, like the movie, we have another scenario of Loid getting flung into the air by Yor but landing gracefully on his feet (though this instance was much tamer since she wasn't drunk and only pushed him instead of hit him). Again, maybe I would have appreciated the humor in this story better if I saw it in anime/manga with Endo's hilarious designs and expressions, but for what it was, it was enjoyable enough.

Short Novel

This extra short story would be perfect as a reintroduction story for a future anime season...maybe one day!

-----

Overall, the Family Portrait novel is a nice addition to the Spy x Family universe. Even though I feel the humor in the series is most effective in illustrated form, it's still nice to have more stories in the canon, especially ones that show new sides to the characters, like the Franky and Yuri stories. Like the movie, it's debatable if this novel should be considered true canon or not, but personally, I don't find anything in it that contradicts canon, at least not yet. So yeah, definitely check out the novel if you haven't already! 😁

[anticidic]

This Is How the Story of Us Ends

In his reckless act to neither lose Chuuya nor the Port Mafia, Dazai lost himself. 1313 words of angst — Beast!AU skk — minor depictions of violence

He had a front-row seat just like last time.

Just like last time.

A few months too soon at sixteen he was waving off five of the oddest people he had come to know but who became his friends in those same few months. It was a day of death, but he was not alone—familiar faces surrounded him then, and it felt like a cold but understanding hug from every Port Mafia agent, including Mori, attending the wake. That death was familiar, inescapable, but never got any easier.

And now six years too soon at twenty-two he was waving off the last person he thought made it out alive from his past. Chuuya now thought himself foolish for believing in Dazai. For believing in them.

“I think I might’ve found something worth living for, after all,” Dazai said then at fifteen. He was a gangly, annoying kid—the most annoying Chuuya had ever had the displeasure of meeting then—and it was…such a weird thing to say. They were fifteen years young and had the whole wide world ahead of them for the taking. There was plenty to live for. Especially when death had become a constant in their lives. Dazai was just weird.

Sixteen…seventeen…eighteen. Chuuya came to believe him. Things seemed to look up. Dazai’s words were utter nonsense back then, but Chuuya understood as the years went on. And then at that same eighteen, it was all downhill from there. He never got his partner back after Dazai took up the mantle as the next boss of the mafia. What was a distant dream to cling to as a ‘what-if’ of them became impossible. There was no getting back Dazai. The framed portrait of the man staring back at him surrounded by so, so many bouquets of lilies and roses was forever trapped in Chuuya’s past with everyone else.

“However, Chuuya, you have to believe me,” Dazai said then as he pulled out a knife and stabbed himself in the thigh. He winced through clenched teeth, his knees buckling. “To protect this world, I can’t lose either you, or the Port Mafia.”

What did he expect? What did anyone in this room expect? This kind of reality was saddening and infuriating all at once, but his present anger was so hushed and listless, he could barely sigh. Dazai was gone.

Chuuya’s fists carried anger, despair, chaos. Vandalizing his grave wouldn’t be enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

***

“It’s truly a shame, isn’t it?” Hirotsu gestured to the urn sitting on the desk. He looked only briefly with an expression of mixed pain and remorse. It was an overpowering source of misery, and Chuuya couldn’t blame him. All that was left to do was scatter the ashes over Dazai’s grave. “Too soon, I’d say. But I’ve been in this line of work long enough to know that everything is temporary. At least three bosses now have come and gone in the Port Mafia’s recent history, and I shudder to think—”

“Whatever you’re thinking, you can get it out of your head,” Chuuya said coolly. Unlike Hirotsu’s display of bravery, Chuuya couldn’t bear to look at the urn. It was disgustingly polished and a hideous white. Like some kind of beautiful vase that belonged at home and not here, draped in ancient sadness. “It’s nothing new to me. I’ve had to step up and be a leader before, I can do it again. Now is when the Port Mafia needs guidance and for me to step up more than ever. It’ll pass. Like all things do.”

He just didn’t expect it to be so soon. This day was inevitable, but too soon.

“You’ll die by my hands, got it?” Chuuya had said only a few weeks prior, shooting Dazai a pointed look. And then Dazai robbed him even of that. Dazai had taken everything from him and took it to his grave.

“I don’t question your authority as the new boss, I know and trust that you’ve become more than capable as a leader over the years. It’s just…” Hirotsu’s eyes wandered to the urn again and he seemed to flinch, as if the sight of it was physically painful. “It’s the circumstances by which Dazai-kun—er, the ex-boss—died. Assassination isn’t uncommon, it’s almost expected. His predecessor knew Dazai would come for his head sooner or later. I do think the last few years have been strange, though, to say the least. Why become a boss so young? And then to do what he did. It didn’t have to be the answer, but I also knew him as a boy, then a man, who possessed a powerful, scheming mind and never doubted his judgment.”

Dazai was a piece of shit, all right, but damn if Chuuya didn’t miss him. It was suddenly too quiet, too tense around headquarters now. Chuuya would walk down the halls and hear Dazai’s laughter flood them, boyish, still haunting him. Following Chuuya everywhere he went, even to his house and to bed. Straight into his nightmares.

He was also the last standing person of the past Chuuya clung to, and even that was gone now. All that remained were the memories of everyone he had lost. He was tallying up the deaths like they were points in a game, except Chuuya was a loser and the prize for losing was this wonderfully empty existence.

And Dazai couldn’t even look him in the eye and say goodbye.

“I still remember visiting the slums with him years ago when you two met, and the way you greeted us,” Hirotsu recalled fondly. He appeared lost in thought as he recalled that day when they were fifteen, as if secretly wishing to turn back time and do things differently but realizing that he was as powerless as everyone else.

Clicking his tongue in annoyance, Chuuya waved a hand and leaned back in his chair. Across his shoulders and down his body was the scarf that was now his. A symbol of authority, of pride, but all Chuuya felt was heavy in body, mind, and soul. He wore the remains of his ex-partner, ex-boss, ex-something and perhaps felt the same doom Dazai did in his final days. That he, too, would die someday. Soon. “Can it, gramps, I don’t want to hear about him anymore. He doesn’t exist. He’s dead to me; just another stain on the Port Mafia’s history. If you don’t have anything else you need to speak with me about, then you’re dismissed.”

Hirotsu met his gaze with a conflicted one that gave way to a tiny smile. He turned to leave, pausing by the double doors leading out when he said, “Take care, boss.”

Chuuya closed his eyes and released a shuddering breath. Dazai would never truly die so long as Chuuya carried a piece of him. He realized then that was all he was: a living soul not-quite-alive but not-quite-dead wearing the deaths of his friends and the people in his life on himself. From the hat given to him by a dead boss once worn by a dead spy, to the motorcycle he kept in good condition all these years. And now his scarf. He would never leave the past because he could not let it go.

The ashes. He still had one more thing to do. Maybe then Dazai would finally leave him alone and leave the world for good. So why did his ultimate wish of getting rid of Dazai feel so bad? His stomach twisted into knots and his throat suddenly went dry. He wanted this, so why did his eyes sting so badly?

“So much for finding something to live for, but you died unhappy, and you’ll never find peace now.”

In his reckless act to neither lose Chuuya nor the Port Mafia, Dazai lost himself.

[dearmrsawyer]

no year in review because it was all horrible really so instead i'm gonna take this chance to share a pile of incredible soc fics because they gave me somewhere else to be

these are all amazing stories and they made me feel a variety of things, and i've been compelled to return to all of them more than once. there are honestly more but this was getting very long. all fic authors thank you so much for putting such beautiful things out into the world ✨

To Everything There Is A Season by @basicbard, @ace-kaz-brekker

When times on the farm get tough, Jesper decides to make use of the old temple in the woods. Almost coincidentally, he meets a strange boy in the same woods shortly after. Are his prayers truly being answered? And why does the stranger seem to know so much?

Incredibly incredibly lovely little mythical fic that i am so enchanted by, this is a type of story that i'm always looking for and when someone who shares your interest happens to create it that is a gift from god, frankly

out of the forest (into a home) by stillthestars

Wylan is adrift in the city; Jesper and the rest of the Crows take him in. Daemon AU.

I have read this fic so many times, every couple of months at least, and the comments are turned off so i can never tell the author how much I love what they've created and i literally lie awake at night haunted by this (i do mean literally).

A Shot in the Dark by alex_kade

The Crows are on a treasure hunt, but when Wylan gets seriously injured the mission becomes one of saving their friend. OR yet another fic where Wylan is the bravest of brave little toasters.

The first in my love affair with fics where Wylan gets shot lol. "bravest of brave little toasters" lives in my head rent free always.

A Measure of the Sum of Parts by @kindness-ricochets

Wylan is trying to improve Kerch and Jesper is trying to be happy with his life. After an accident he heads for the Little Palace to learn how to control his abilities, and Wylan uncovers yet another dark family secret. Reunions in Ravka, political machinations, and the beauty of a strange little family.

The other fic i am biologically compelled to reread every couple of months. So so many fics by this author touch me, but this one is seriously everything to me.

Musée des Beaux Arts by @oneofthewednesdays

Six portraits of life and death in Ketterdam featuring the interwoven stories of Wylan Van Eck and Kaz Brekker.

One of the best fics i've ever read in any fandom, an utterly perfect character analysis fic about the Wylan/Kaz parallels

the handmaid by MaudeAlise

It’s a relatively straightforward job: Jesper will pretend to be the handmaid to the withdrawn and sheltered Van Eck heir, and convince him to elope with another mercher. That’s all Jesper has to do on his end, and then the Crows will walk away with 45 million kruge. It’s a simple task. Or it would be, if not for the fact that there seems to be more to Wylan Van Eck than meets the eye, and Jesper can’t help but be intrigued—and maybe a bit charmed, too.

Me reading this fic channeling whatever energy those instagram romantasy readers possess, like ok i get the feeling you guys are trying to express i really get it now. what on earth could be better than Jesper employed to be Wylan's handmaid. maybe nothing? SO compelling

under a merciless white light by @feelinglikecleopatra

Jesper decides to grow out his hair.

one of the most moving fics i've ever read ever, idek how to express it

Love is War (And War is Hell) by @silverbirching

Jesper and Wylan face their biggest challenge as a couple to date: dealing with a houseguest. (and that houseguest has done war crimes)

WIP. Nothing could've prepared me for how completely smitten I would be with the concept of Jesper and Wylan taking care of a wounded Ivan. Like i'm head over heels for this fic, its hilarious and sweet and emotional, it is just way too delightful, i can't handle it

Flight of the Butterfly / Symbiosis by @jazzythursday

travel time between Shu Han and Ravka. Jesper wanders onto the deck of the Hummingbird at night, restless and looking for… something, and finds Wylan instead. Conversations about sensitive topics ensue, and even Crows need sleep.

my fav missing scene fic inspired by SAB!!!! I was DESPERATE for more time on that ship and this fic gave me everything i wanted. the characterisation in this fic is flawless

If you hold me without hurting me, you'll be the first who ever did by gglow

Jesper and Wylan's first times at the Van Eck mansion, because we all need closure.

i can't get enough of fics set immediately after CK exploring how Wylan and Jesper settle into the mansion, this might be my favourite one i've read, its just so tender

somewhere full of bright colours and beautiful sounds by @jackwolfes

A Marya Hendriks Van Eck character study, aka Marya adjusts to life back in Ketterdam.

So many fics by this author, but i think about this fic all of the time. Its the fic i've always wanted and its everything i could've hoped for.

We're Gonna Need a Bigger Pentagram by @emmy-everafter

Nina Zenik is a vet med student who's almost done with her clinical rotations… but she's also secretly a very powerful witch. When someone brings a cursed, injured werewolf into the animal hospital, Nina decides to try to save his life, despite the bitter hatred that exists between wolves and witches. She enlists the help of her housemates, Jesper (who's also a witch), Inej (who's fae), and Kaz (who may or may not be a vampire). But breaking this curse requires more than Nina bargained for, and time is running out. Can the Crows save the werewolf before it's too late? More importantly, can they do it under the nose of their all-too-human housemate, Wylan? And--perhaps the most important question of all--will Nina finally get some decent waffles?

PURE joy, just made me so happy??? extremely delightful, fun, also super touching. Just so so so rich. One of my fav AUs, making all the crows a different creature and then putting them in a house together, A+.

To Live in Color by @sixofcrowdaydreams

As a child Wylan Van Eck was told by his father that domestic labor is all he will ever accomplish since he cannot read. He’s grown up cleaning his own family’s home. It’s not easy work, but it’s gotten easier over the years. If only he wasn’t so lonely. But now that his father has remarried and a has a new heir on the way, Wylan has the suspicion that he won’t be kept around much longer, even to clean. So for once in Wylan’s life, he decides to live for himself. Just this once. He’ll attend the King’s Masquerade Ball whether his father wants him there or not. However, his plan the night of the masquerade goes sideways when he meets a handsome sharpshooter and the criminal crew he runs with carrying out a heist at the palace. Wesper Cinderella AU

one of those perfect storm fics where not only is the writing wonderful, the characterisation on point, but the story itself is just SO engrossing. this was heartbreaking and uplifting

The In-Between by @sparrowmoth

Born into a world where a highly stigmatized and exploited series of genetic mutations can completely strip you of your humanity, Wylan has known since childhood that something was different about him. The same something different that is said to have killed his mother. Now, abandoned by his father, and his world shrunk to a cage, he must decide if to accept his fate or risk everything to change it.

WIP. The.... worldbuilding..... magnifique. this fic has me exclaiming GOD at least once a chapter lol. I haven't read many hybrid fics in my time but i fear i am now spoiled and no one can live up to this

Crows of the Saintly Days by Allthebestpeopleare

A very chaotic Inej, Nina and Jesper go to Ketterdam University. Things start to get interesting when Nina catches the eye of a cute jock in psych class, a very shy and sweet Wylan stumbles into their friend group, and a past associate of Inej's makes more and more appearances.

Prob the longest fic i've ever read, but genuinely would not sacrifice a single word. Weaves textfic and prose, and altho imo textfic can be kinda vapid/ooc what starts out as v light fun spirals into a wonderfully well developed story that really deeply moved me, and i loved the style!

Blood in the Water by hopeisbloody

Kaz Brekker runs the Barrel, his Wraith, and his Sharpshooter at either side for eternity. Jesper Fahey, ten years into his immortality, still a fledgling at heart, feels lost, alone, empty. Kaz and Inej have each other, and they have had each other for centuries. Even in their inner circle, he’s excluded from the millennia of memories they share. Their rule is disrupted. Bodies appear, drowned, drained of blood. Wylan is back, but what for?

This is one of the coolest Wylan characterisations i've ever read, such an incredibly engrossing story, I literally could not stop reading

We Keep This Dream Together by @magicandpizza

An entirely self-indulgent, vaguely chaotic, mostly sweet Six of Crows coffee shop/university AU, based (largely) on my experiences of the UK university system. Mostly focused on Wesper, but with sides of Helnik and Kanej too.

The most comfort fic ever, its not technically a Christmas fic (altho it does appear in a chapter) but feels like a Christmas fic to me because it makes me feel a sense of warmth and comfort that time of year embodies

a path to normal by seimaisin

Home is a difficult concept for Wylan and his mother. Jesper makes it easier.

so delicate and lovely, another fic set in the direct aftermath of CK focused on Marya returning home, which i can never get enough of <3333

In a Full Life, All Hearts Break a Little by alcove_words

Two years after the end of Crooked Kingdom, Jesper finally visits Novyi Zem and the father and life he left behind. But he isn't alone; Wylan comes, as well, determined to be supportive. Neither of them expects it to be an easy trip, but Novyi Zem holds more for both of them than they are prepared for.

Selling my soul for all fics set in Novyi Zem, but this one...... so SO beautiful. So conversation-based but full of story, so BIG hearted, such unbelievably beautiful writing.

Of Bronze and Blaze by amagicbeyond

This is a Wesper-centric reimagining of Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdom, through the lens of the Shadow and Bones TV canon.

WIP. Oh my god????? Oh... my god. I don't even have words for this one, its just unbelievable

[viroine]

₊˚⊹౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ LOVE AND DEEPSPACE HCS

౨ৎ Xavier/!MC + Zayne/!MC + Rafayel/!MC + Sylus/!MC + Caleb/!MC (use of they/them pron! and mc's appearance is not mentioned).

౨ৎ In a moment of solitude and thought, the LADS men, get lost in the memory of your presence.

౨ৎ TWs: acrylic paint eating (If you've seen this post before, it's because I posted this before on my main acc)

Silence filled the void, dull eyes wandering into infinity. A subtle diamond shielded him, protecting him from the nonexistent surroundings.

Immobilized by sadness, small, sweet tears ran down his reddened eyes and pale cheeks. He was lost in the distance between himself and the void, eventually losing track of his path.

His back rested against the hard seat, cold hands gliding over the ship's keyboard. Every sound had been erased from his mind, leaving him completely alone with only his thoughts.

A broken, junked tape recorder forgotten within the structure that drifted through the darkness, just like its owner.

Above a worn photograph, an old scratched disc swayed gently. The man considered it the dearest thing he owned, the only thing that ever drew light into the nebula-blue of his eyes.

The passenger seat had known an old friend, but never the person in the photograph he admired so deeply.

Before him now, an immutable, irreparable choice, one he would regret until the end of his life.

“My queen, sorry if I ever disappointed you.”

It didn’t take long before the structure, too, was devoured by the void and joined the stars, brighter than ever before.

In hand, old expired coupons whose counted the years on every single fold and tear. that kept him company during the most monotonous evenings.

They were kept carefully hidden in the pockets of the cloth, afraid of losing the memory they carried.

Space and time collapsed beneath the weight of the winter, white lights illuminated his path, while the constant growing buzz isolated him completely from the crowd.

Distant memories made their way into his mind, and he couldn't help but let a slight smile tear the scene from his mind.

Light sighs left his reddened lips as he managed to recognize elements that had not yet been changed, while his mind impatiently searched for more resemblance of that specific needle that was hiding in the straw of faceless people.

Snow-covered buildings, structures of various kinds stood before him.

His eyes immersed in tiredness could do nothing but be dazzled by the dim lights of the restaurants that from the beginning were intended for him and the owner of those tickets.

A torn page, a hole in an empty canvas haunted him, the speakers kept playing the same composition on an endless loop.

Eyes dull, the light in his motley gaze had disappeared along with his muse.

Time had become almost immutable, the passing of day and night were just a mere nuisance, just time wasted waiting for nothing.

Only an image of them, a portrait, seemed to stand before him, a fragmented memory captured in one of the few canvases that had survived his wrath.

A broken brush between his fingers, eyebrows furrowed as he continued to stare at the milk-colored canvas, with a blank expression.

His heart seemed to have lost its pulse as he sat on the carved wooden stool, balancing himself on his bare heels against the floor.

Every brushstroke, painted with such vehemence, was sacred, untouchable, and it seemed to rebel against the white of the canvas.

He had promised himself he would stop.

But this, this was the only way to full the hollow space carved within him.

The only way to remember.

His fingers dipped with ease into the pigment, letting it slide between his fingers tips, smearing its path across the canva of his hands.

His hand traveled its path, until it reached his lips, cleaning the red that once reflected them.

His hands reached for his helmet, unhooking it from his head.

The night air masked the smog that had clogged his nostrils only moments before.

Far from his city, he stepped into an old park, the red leaves buried in darkness, only the dim glow of scattered street lamps guiding his path.

Dry leaves and soil crunched beneath his boots, each step slower than the last, like the tension in his limbs had finally begun to drain.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, dragging his sleeve across his skin.

And there, in the dirt, a flower. A single thing that seemed to steal all the color from its surroundings, demanding to be seen.

His red eyes regained a trace of their old shine, as a gentle smirk played on his lips.

His fingertips reached down to brush the petals, as if afraid they’d vanish beneath too much pressure.

An old memory, something he had never had a chance to forget, formed in his mind.

He hesitated only a moment before tearing the stem free, careful, and slipping the flower into his jacket pocket, right above his heart, before keeping on his way.

The light had just taken over the sky. The darkness was still there, but easily malleable with the light of the studio in the middle of the clouds.

But someone was already awake, before the arrival of the day.

His tablet, linked to the holo-display, continued to repeat the star’s words from old recordings, as if in a loop, a broken record.

His ears listened to the voice as if it were the first time, analyzing every single imperfection, as if enchanted.

His hand, locked in a tight grip around the metal medallion, continued to trace its relief—caressing it as if trying to memorize the pattern.

Old photographs, printed rather than digital, stood arranged before him like a private exhibit. All of them pictured the same subject.

His gaze, lost in each image, lingered in frozen stillness, shifting slightly only when these started to get blurry.

His messy hair hiding his penetrating gaze, after one of the many sleepless nights, the heartbeat ringing in his ears along with that voice

It was the only truth left of his life, the only memory he had left, the only subject he cared about and had to ensure he never forgot. The last fragment of his past, that he to guard like the emergency oxygen supply, his green apple.

[yoursinisforgiven]

I WANNA DRINK YOUR WORDS LIKE WINE ──

pairing: asriel x reader (pet)

cw: mentions of blood, direct mentions of sex, themes of obsession, mentions of death.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

You hadn’t meant to watch—stalk, some might say.

Though, was it really stalking if you lived in the same house? And could you even call Asriel’s manor a house? The very word suggested warmth, comfort, the presence of something akin to belonging. This place was neither of those things. It was vast, sprawling in a way that made you feel like an insect lost in an endless maze, swallowed by corridors that led to nowhere, doors that opened to rooms you had never seen before and would likely never see again.

There were places in this world so large they became liminal, where the air itself seemed weighted with something that did not belong to the living. Asriel’s estate was like that—too silent, too grand, a shrine to something unspoken. The very walls seemed burdened by history, memories clawing at their gilded edges. It made you anxious, the sheer scale of it, how you could walk and walk and never reach an end. And yet, upon very rare occasions, as if fate itself had guided your steps, you would stumble across her.

His mother.

In the six months of your stay with Asriel, you had been greeted by only a handful of people. The isolation was deliberate, carefully constructed, as though the world outside the estate had ceased to exist the moment you set foot in its halls. But there were still others who drifted in and out of his orbit, satellites to his sun, and in watching them, you found small glimpses into his world.

First, there was his personal assistant. A woman who carried herself like a ghost unsure if she was truly seen. The brunette of her hair was always tied in a messy bun atop her head, strands perpetually slipping free, as if even her own body resisted containment. Her presence was a whisper, her voice softer than the rustling of paper, and her gaze never quite met your own. Had she been different—more confident, more alluring, more interesting—perhaps you would have resented her. But Asriel had no interest in her. She was a fixture, nothing more than an extension of his will, and in trade, you had no anger for her.

Then there was Vic, his right-hand man. If Asriel was ice, Vic was fire, warm in a way that burned rather than comforted. He was too teasing, too familiar, an irritant and yet—useful. You hadn’t liked him, not truly, but you had enjoyed his presence for one reason alone: he made Asriel react. And that was all you craved, wasn’t it? Him. His voice, his gaze, the slight shifts in his expression that others might miss but you had trained yourself to catch. Asriel was fascinating in a way that no one else could be. Everything about him demanded attention.

The chef and a few maids made up the bottom of the social hierarchy, their presence fleeting, insignificant. They were the ones you saw most often, interacted with the most, and yet, they barely registered in your mind. You watched them the way a bored child might gaze at the sky, tracing the shapes of clouds without truly seeing them. They were nothing more than background noise, furniture in a house too grand to ever feel like home.

But his mother. She was different.

You had seen her only a handful of times, always from a distance. A shadow in the halls, an echo of perfume fading before you could place the scent. She moved like a woman out of time, her presence lingering just long enough to remind you she existed, but never long enough to be touched. And yet, as you watched her now, she was utterly still.

Her gaze was fixed on the painting before her—a portrait. You knew it well. You had walked past it countless times, felt its weight press against you even when you tried not to look. You didn’t need to ask anyone to know the portrait was of Asriel’s father. And yet, every time you passed it, your eyes lingered. Longer than they should have.

You hadn’t cared for the man. That was ridiculous—you told yourself. You couldn’t feel anything for a man you had never met. And yet, there was something in his face, in the structure of his jaw, in the way his eyes had been painted with a depth that suggested knowing. Something that unsettled you. Something that kept your gaze lingering when it had no reason to stay.

Asriel and his father looked deathly similar.

The thought sat heavy in your mind, an anchor in the sea of your restless thoughts. The resemblance was uncanny, almost unsettling. You wondered if Asriel ever stood here, staring at the portrait as you did now. If he ever saw himself in the lines of his father’s face. If he ever felt the weight of expectation press against him like a hand on his throat.

You didn’t realize you had been holding your breath until the woman moved.

Her footsteps echoed through the hallway, soft but certain. She didn’t look at you as she passed, didn’t acknowledge your presence in the slightest. And yet, as she walked away, you felt as though you had just witnessed something sacred. Something forbidden.

You let out a breath, slow and steady, and turned back to the painting.

The eyes of Asriel’s father stared back at you, unreadable.

And for a moment, you wondered if he, too, had once stood in this house feeling just as lost as you did now.

──

Spring had come and gone, slipping past like a whisper, unnoticed. Then summer followed, heavy and relentless, the air thick with heat that pressed against your skin, suffocating in its insistence. Fall was gentler, fleeting, a brief interlude before winter finally settled in.

You had never cared much for the turning of seasons. They had always been just another nuance of time passing, an inevitability, something that came and went without your notice.

That was, until Asriel.

It was under his care that you learned the cold suited you far more than the sweltering heat of summer. Winter was the only season in which he allowed you close.

It started simply, in small things. The way he let you linger near him, tolerated the way you sought his presence as though drawn by an unseen force. He would let you sit at his feet as he worked, his fingers idly running through your hair, a thoughtless gesture, but one that left you aching. Some nights, when the air was cold enough that even the walls of his grand estate could not keep the chill at bay, he would allow you in his bed—not for pleasure, not for anything so crude, but simply to be.

He was never a man of excess. Never indulgent, never careless. But in the winter, something softened in him, if only slightly.

And with time, when you had earned it, he gave you more.

The closest he could be to you, the only way he would allow himself to be.

There was no hunger in it. No frantic, breathless desperation.

Only something deeper.

It was in the way his hands traced your skin, slow and reverent, as though he were memorizing every inch of you, as though he feared the moment he let go, you might disappear. In the way he pressed against you, his warmth seeping into you, driving out the cold that had settled in your bones long before winter ever arrived.

There was a quiet sort of intensity in the way he held you—as if he was trying to make sense of you, as if he was trying to understand something neither of you could put into words.

For Asriel, it was control. It had always been control. Even now, even as he allowed himself this moment with you, he held himself with restraint so absolute it nearly broke you.

For you, it was something else entirely.

It was proof.

Proof that you were real, that you were here, that despite the vastness of the world and the emptiness you had carried for so long, there was something tangible in this.

You could feel it in the way his lips brushed against your throat, not in hunger, not in possession, but in something softer. In the way his fingers intertwined with yours, gripping so tightly, as though grounding himself as much as he was grounding you.

And when it was over, when silence fell over the room like a heavy snowfall, he did not turn away.

He did not pull back.

Instead, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing steady, grounding. A hand remained against your back, keeping you close as though reluctant to let the moment slip away entirely.

His grip tightened—just slightly. A silent acknowledgment. A quiet understanding.

The fire in the hearth crackled, casting flickering light across his features, illuminating the depth in his eyes, the weight he carried. He was unreadable, as he always was. And yet, here, in this moment, you felt him in a way words could never describe.

Not as a master.

Not as something untouchable, unreachable.

But as a man.

A man who allowed you closer than anyone else ever had.

And for now, in the stillness of winter’s night, it was enough.

──

Outside, the world had unraveled into a quiet kind of chaos.

Snow had fallen in relentless sheets throughout the night, layering upon itself in thick drifts, soft yet unyielding. It blanketed every surface, swallowed the earth beneath it, rendering the once-vast acres of Asriel’s estate into something uniform, untouched. It was as though nature had decided to wipe the slate clean, erasing the past with each flake, muffling the world into silence.

From where you sat, curled in the deep seat of the bayside window in Asriel’s study, it felt like watching the aftermath of something ancient. A cleansing. A rebirth.

You had claimed this spot months ago, a small corner of his world where you could sit and watch the estate stretch endlessly before you. The glass was cool beneath your fingers as you traced idle patterns against the condensation. The fire behind you crackled softly, a steady warmth against your back, licking at the air in gentle protest against the cold pressing in from outside.

The study smelled like cedarwood and aged paper, like something old, something that had seen lifetimes before you ever arrived. It was Asriel’s scent, too—subtle, refined, something that had settled into the very foundation of this place, seeping into the leather of his chair, the parchment of his documents. You inhaled it absentmindedly, as if it might somehow pull him closer.

But he was distant.

Even now, sitting at his desk, pouring over something in front of him, he felt far away.

He had been on the phone for a while. You hadn’t cared enough to listen closely, not at first, letting the low hum of his voice become background noise as you lost yourself in the snowfall. But certain words had pried their way into your consciousness.

Someone had died.

Calem. You believed that was his name.

It should not have mattered.

People died every day. Death was the only true constant in this world—indifferent, unrelenting, a hand that took without mercy and without hesitation. Everyone faded, in the end. Even those who thought themselves untouchable.

And yet, something in Asriel’s tone had shifted, just enough for you to notice. A fraction of a degree. A subtle weight pressing against the usual evenness of his voice.

You turned your gaze to him now.

He was still seated at his desk, fingers pressed lightly against the bridge of his nose, his other hand resting on a stack of papers, a signature half-written.

Then, as if he could feel your eyes on him, he lifted his head.

Your gazes met, and for a moment, nothing else existed.

His expression remained unreadable—neutral in the way only Asriel could manage, composed to the point of near perfection. But something flickered beneath the surface. Not grief, not exactly. Something else. A consideration, perhaps.

A pause in a mind that rarely ever paused.

Then, without warning, the corner of his mouth curved into the faintest smirk.

It was almost cruel, how effortlessly he could shift, how he could be on the phone speaking about death one moment and then look at you like that—as if the world hadn’t just taken something from him, as if he hadn’t just buried whatever reaction he might have had beneath layers of indifference.

And truthfully, it flustered you.

You shifted slightly where you sat, pressing your palms against the windowsill to ground yourself. The warmth of the fire suddenly felt too much against your back, an intrusive heat reminding you of how much you wanted to be closer to him, how much you craved something he only gave in fragments.

So you broke the silence.

“Can I ask you something?”

Your voice was quiet, but it cut through the space between you both like the edge of a blade.

He watched you, tilting his head slightly, as if weighing whether he should allow this.

“I can’t promise an answer.”

Of course. That was always the way of it.

You hesitated, then turned your gaze back toward the snow outside, watching the wind stir the drifts into phantom shapes that disappeared as quickly as they formed.

“What does it feel like?” you asked.

There was no need to clarify. You knew he would understand.

There was a long pause.

Then, slowly, Asriel leaned back in his chair, fingers interlacing as he regarded you with something almost akin to curiosity.

“You assume I feel anything at all,” he said at last, voice even, unaffected.

A well-rehearsed answer.

A practiced deflection.

You huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite anything at all.

“Liar.”

His lips twitched, but he did not refute you.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, eyes drifting to the fire, watching the way the embers shifted, glowing bright before settling back into their steady burn.

After what felt like a lifetime, he spoke.

“It’s like waiting for the cold to reach you,” he murmured. “You know it’s coming. You feel the air shifting, the warmth fading, and yet, when it finally touches you—*”

He paused.

”—it still surprises you.”

You watched him, heart pressing against your ribs in a way that felt too much like mourning.

You didn’t know who he was speaking of anymore.

Calem? His father? Someone else?

Or was it himself?

The thought lodged itself in your throat, sharp, painful, something you didn’t dare voice.

Instead, you asked, “And when it does?”

His gaze slid back to you, slow, deliberate.

“It takes everything,” he said simply.

The words settled between you, heavy, final.

And yet, despite that finality, you could feel the ache in them. The quiet admission buried beneath the carefully measured syllables.

He had lost things. Many things. Too many things.

And no matter how much power he wielded, no matter how tightly he held onto control, he would continue to lose.

Because that was the nature of all things, wasn’t it?

Nothing lasted.

Not the warmth of a fire. Not the feeling of skin against skin. Not even the illusion of invincibility.

One day, even Asriel would fade.

And perhaps, that was the cruelest truth of all.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The fire crackled behind you.

The snow continued to fall.

And between the two of you, in the space where words had always failed, something unspoken remained.

──

It was one of those nights again.

The kind where the world outside felt too much, where the air was too thick in your lungs, where the ache inside you had nowhere else to go but him.

Winter had surrendered to spring, its cruelty buried beneath the soil, softened by the gentle insistence of life pushing its way back into the world. The scent of blossoms clung to the edges of the estate, creeping in through the open balcony doors, carried on a breeze that was neither too warm nor too cold.

Mother Nature had moved on.

But you hadn’t.

The weight of the afternoon still clung to you, a wound that had not yet begun to heal.

Lilian’s party had stirred something raw inside you, something you had spent too long trying to ignore.

No, not the party.

Her.

It wasn’t hatred. You knew hatred well—it was sharp, consuming, a thing that burned hot and fast. But this was something else. Something slow and insidious.

Jealousy had no place in you—not when you had never allowed anyone to take what you wanted. Not when you could rip anything from this world as easily as drawing breath.

But there was one thing you could never take.

Asriel’s trust.

Maybe even something deeper than that.

That was the one thing that was beyond you, the one thing that could not be stolen, could not be forced. It had to be given.

And to her, he had given it freely.

His voice had been warm when he spoke to her—his usual cold restraint softened, his words lighter, effortless. It was unbearable to witness, that ease, that simplicity, when everything between you had been a battle, a war waged in glances and distance and the desperate pull toward something you could never seem to hold onto.

He had assured you, hadn’t he?

He had told you he liked you.

It had never even come close, close to what you truly craved.

And so now, when the weight of it became too much, when the emptiness threatened to devour you whole, you sought the only thing he could give you.

His body.

The feeling of him inside you, the slow, aching push of him filling the space that nothing else could. The way his hands gripped your hips, held you there, as if to remind himself you were real.

It was desperate without being frantic, intense without being rushed. Every movement was slow, deliberate, as if he was memorizing you.

As if this was the only way he knew how to give himself to you.

And for a while, this was enough.

For a while, the ache in your chest quieted, dulled beneath the press of his body against yours, beneath the warmth of him, beneath the way he let you take him in fully, completely.

But even as the pleasure crested and ebbed, even as your breath steadied and the room settled into silence, the ache remained.

Because you knew that soon—too soon—he would pull away.

He always did.

So before he could, before the inevitable distance returned, you reached for him.

Your claws pressed into his skin, too sharp, too deep, your grip tightening in a silent plea. You felt the slight hitch in his breath, the way his body tensed beneath your grasp. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, instead of retreating, he exhaled.

Slowly.

As if surrendering to this. To you.

You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, lips brushing over his pulse, feeling the steady rhythm beneath your mouth—warm, alive, utterly human.

And suddenly, that hunger returned.

Not for his body.

For more.

“Please,” you whispered against his skin, voice quiet, reverent.

He did not answer. But his hand curled against the back of your neck, fingers pressing into your skin in a way that said, Go on.

Your lips parted. Your fangs scraped against the tender flesh of his throat, a ghost of a threat, a silent question.

And still, he did not stop you.

So you bit.

The moment your fangs broke skin, his breath shuddered against you, his entire body going still beneath you. A sound—soft, barely there—escaped his lips, more exhale than voice, more reaction than control.

His blood spilled warm into your mouth, rich, intoxicating, sinking into your veins like fire.

It was him.

In his purest form.

You drank slowly, savoring every drop, every heartbeat that sent more of him into you. Your hand slid into his hair, gripping slightly, not to restrain him—he never fought you—but to keep him there.

With you.

His fingers twitched where they held you, his breathing uneven, the tension in his body not one of fear but something deeper, something darker.

This was the closest you would ever truly have him.

The closest he would ever allow you to be.

When you finally pulled back, your lips were stained dark, your breath shallow. His pulse still beat strong beneath your mouth, still steady, still his.

And you could not stop yourself.

“Do you love me?”

It came out as a whisper, but it might as well have been a scream.

His body stiffened.

For the first time, he hesitated.

The silence stretched long between you, thick and heavy.

Then, before you could break, before you could pull away, his hand found your face, tilting it up, forcing you to look at him.

His thumb brushed over your lips, smearing the last trace of his blood, his expression unreadable.

And then, slowly—so softly it hurt—he kissed you.

It was not rough.

Not demanding.

But lingering.

As if memorizing the taste of himself on your tongue.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven.

“Don’t ask me that.”

His voice was quiet.

Not a refusal.

Not a rejection.

But something far worse.

Something that sounded like an admission.

Something that felt like surrender.

And yet, he stayed.

His hand remained in your hair, his lips barely a breath away, his body still pressed against yours.

The world outside continued its dance.

The seasons would keep turning.

And maybe, just maybe, Asriel would stay just a little longer.

──

author's note: i accidentally deleted the ask but yes i will be continuing the vic x banshee series!

ps: im so sorry about how bad this came out, im currently working on another asriel fic as well, i didn't have much inspiration for this one :c

psps: thank you payton talbott 

tag list:

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

[urdreamydoodles]

A Warren Worthington III X gender neutral reader where they’re also a mutant with abilities like Superman? Childhood friends who bond together over having to hide their mutant abilities everyday, the reader loves his wings, they always talk about running away to find a better place for themselves, to finally be free to express themselves away from their strict families and when the day arrives— their first steps into the X-Mansion, they confess their feelings for one another

WHERE THE SKY IS WIDE — A Warren Worthington III One Shot

Pairing: Warren Worthington III (comics) x GenderNeutral!Reader

Description: You are Warren Worthington III's childhood friend, and one day you escape from your prisons together and confess your feelings.

Theme: Pure fluff and comfort

Words: 1700

Reply to anon: OMG yes, my first one shot request! Just so you know my dear readers, my favorite type of request is "one shot". I love my baby boy Warren.

The first time you saw Warren Worthington’s wings, they weren’t bathed in golden light or spread wide in defiance of the world that wanted them hidden. No, they were trembling. Half-open, half-furled, their silken-white feathers shaking in the moonlight, caught between the instinct to stretch and the fear of being seen. You knew that fear well. It sat in your chest like a stone, made your hands curl into fists when you walked through hallways lined with portraits of ancestors who would sooner disown you than see you as you truly were.

You stood there, at the edge of the Worthington estate’s grand garden, the cold biting at your skin, watching him try to fold his wings away as if they were something shameful.

“They’re beautiful,” you had whispered.

He had flinched at the sound of your voice. You had seen the war in his expression, the hesitation before his fingers twitched—then relaxed, as if daring himself to believe you.

“You think so?” His voice had been quiet, uncertain, so very different from the confident, charming mask he wore in school, in public, in the presence of people who only ever saw what he allowed them to see.

“I know so.”

And that was how it started.

●

Years passed, and secrecy became second nature to you both. You grew together in the careful shadows of expectation, your stolen moments carved out between the weight of your families’ demands and the ever-looming threat of discovery. Warren learned to tuck his wings beneath fine-tailored suits, to smile in a way that put people at ease, to pretend he was something softer, something human, something normal.

And you—well, you learned restraint. Learned to pull your strength into yourself, to move carefully, to never let the heat of your power rise too high, lest you accidentally make the world feel as fragile as it was in your hands. You had been made to feel like a monster for as long as you could remember, forced to contain yourself within limits set by those who would never understand you.

Warren understood.

Perhaps that was why you always found yourselves returning to this place—this quiet sanctuary where no one was watching, where the weight of expectations couldn’t reach you. The world outside demanded smallness, demanded obedience, but here, beneath the open sky, it was just the two of you.

“Do you ever think about running?” you asked once, lying in the grass beside him, staring up at the stars as if they held the answer.

Warren huffed a soft laugh. “Every single day.”

“What stops you?”

“The same thing that stops you.” He turned his head then, watching you with those piercing blue eyes, searching for something he already knew was there. “Fear. Obligation. A thousand reasons that shouldn’t matter but do.”

You exhaled, long and slow, feeling the ache of it settle in your chest. “If we left, where would we go?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Anywhere. Somewhere with wide skies and no walls. Somewhere we don’t have to hide.”

It was a foolish dream. You both knew it. But it was yours.

●

The night before Warren was set to leave for one of his father’s business events—a weeklong affair where he would be paraded around like a prized possession, a Worthington heir rather than a person—he found you waiting for him beneath the old oak tree in his backyard. The place you had claimed as your own when you were younger. The place where secrets had been exchanged in whispers and where, for fleeting moments, you had been allowed to be free.

He said nothing as he approached, his wings rustling as he let them stretch slightly, no longer bothering to fold them away in your presence.

You smiled. “Are you ready for a week of pretending?”

“I don’t think I ever stopped,” he admitted, dropping down beside you. “But you? You don’t belong in a cage, you know.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Neither do you.”

Warren looked away. “I think I do. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

Something in your chest tightened at the quiet resignation in his voice. You had seen Warren angry, defiant, reckless—but this was different. This was the exhaustion of someone who had spent a lifetime trying to fit himself into a world that had no space for him.

And you—you—understood that feeling better than anyone.

So you moved before you could think, before you could stop yourself, reaching out to brush your fingers against the soft curve of his wing.

Warren inhaled sharply, freezing beneath your touch.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you murmured.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, as if those words unraveled something deep inside him, something that had been held too tightly for too long.

“I know.”

●

The stars were fading into the first blush of dawn when you finally spoke again.

“One day,” you whispered, your voice barely carrying over the quiet rustling of the wind, “we’ll go. We’ll find that place where the sky is wide, where no one can tell us who we’re supposed to be.”

Warren’s fingers curled into the grass, his wings shifting ever so slightly, as if they wanted to lift him away from all of this.

“One day,” he agreed, so soft, so sure.

You didn’t know when that day would come, if it would come at all. But for now, for this moment, it was enough to know that he was beside you. That when the time came, when the weight of this world became too much, you wouldn’t have to face it alone.

And maybe—just maybe—that was love, even if neither of you had dared to say it yet.

●

The night you left, the world was silent.

No alarms, no shouts of protest, no final attempts to keep you bound in golden chains. Just the sound of your breath, steady and certain, and the quiet rustling of Warren’s wings as they stretched against the cool night air. You had spoken of this moment for years, whispered it like a sacred promise beneath moonlit skies. And now, here it was—no longer a dream, no longer a fantasy, but something real. Something tangible.

You glanced at Warren as he stood beside you, the dim glow of the streetlights casting his face in sharp relief. There was no hesitation in his expression, no flicker of doubt. He was ready. You both were.

With one last look at the world you were leaving behind, you stepped forward.

And you didn’t look back.

●

The X-Mansion wasn’t what you expected.

You had imagined something grand, something imposing, something that carried the weight of the legends whispered about the X-Men. And in many ways, it was. The sprawling estate, the towering windows, the sheer presence of the place—it all spoke of power, of history, of something greater than yourselves.

But it was also something else. It was warmth. It was home.

The moment you crossed the threshold, a strange kind of peace settled into your bones. Here, Warren didn’t have to hide his wings beneath expensive suits and forced smiles. Here, you didn’t have to cage yourself, didn’t have to measure your every movement for fear of being too much.

For the first time in your life, you could simply be.

Charles Xavier had welcomed you with a knowing smile, his gaze understanding in a way that made your chest ache. “You’ve both been running for a long time,” he had said, his voice kind, unwavering. “Rest. There is no need to run anymore.”

And so you stayed.

●

Days passed in a blur of new faces, new routines, new freedoms that still felt too fragile to be real. You watched Warren shed his old self like a second skin, watched as the weight that had clung to his shoulders for years began to fade. He flew more now—not in secrecy, not in stolen moments of defiance, but freely, openly, the way he was always meant to.

You had never seen anything more beautiful.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, you found him on the mansion’s rooftop, his wings stretched wide against the fading light. He was lost in thought, the golden glow catching in his hair, painting him in shades of fire and divinity.

You stepped closer, quiet but not unnoticed. Warren turned at the sound of your approach, his lips curving into a soft smile.

“Getting tired of all this yet?” you teased, tilting your head.

He exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. “Not even close.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, the kind that spoke of years spent knowing one another, of unspoken words that no longer needed to be said. And yet—there was something left. Something unfinished.

You took a breath. “Do you ever think about that night?”

Warren’s gaze flickered to yours, searching, understanding. “Every day.”

You swallowed, feeling the weight of it press against your ribs. “We made a promise to each other.”

“I know.” His voice was softer now, like the brush of wind against your skin. “And I meant it.”

The space between you felt impossibly small, charged with something unspoken, something that had always been there, waiting. Your fingers twitched at your sides. His wings shifted, feathers rustling in the quiet.

“I was never running from something,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I was running to something. To you.”

For a moment, there was nothing. Just the sound of the wind, the distant hum of the mansion, the rapid beating of your own heart.

Then Warren moved.

It was slow, deliberate—his hand finding yours, his fingers tangling with your own as if they had always belonged there. His other hand lifted, brushing against your cheek, hesitant but sure.

“You were never alone in that,” he murmured.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was right. Like the answer to a question you had both been asking for far too long. Like the final piece clicking into place.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “We made it,” he whispered.

You smiled. “We did.”

And for the first time, you believed it.

[the-kr8tor]

Katy…. For the 1 year anniversary

Garlic cloves and 💧

Vampire hobie and some angst

Vampire hobie and a human where other vampires find out hes in love with a human (maybe they cause him to purposely goes mad, to where he will attack and be the cause for rs death. Possibly?)

Then when he snaps out of it, he realize what hes done. To the person he fell in love with (can totally see him trying to make R into a vampire while sobbing choking out apologies while trying to get them back) 😭

I dont know i thought youd like this possibly, you have full control over the ending or how anything goes or could go. Some of its just a small ideas to give your brain maybe to help give you ideas for how you want to go. But i know you love angst and you are amazing at it

First thing i requested for your Apothecary. Do whatever you want with this idea. Just knew itd give a lot of angst potential for our favorite punk

Hehehhehe vampire! Hobie angst 👀 thank you for requesting, bestie!!

Pairing: Vampire! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except her clothing), TW death, CW blood and gore, CW violence, vampire AU, Angst.

Katy's one year celebration 🎉

Blood coats his tongue like a thin film of gore and death. It sticks to his fangs, red dripping off his unhinged maw where his fellow immortals’ crimson flows out like your own blood spilling from the numerous bites marring your precious skin. Skin he used to hold and love, skin that is now littered with specks of rubies as if a constellation of stars has touched you in your dying breath.

He heaves in place, adrenaline coursing through his veins like the raging rapids. Sharp claws still red and dripping, rage filled eyes roaming around the violence he did not start but had to finish.

Hobie never thought that he'd be betrayed by his immortal kind that he has spent centuries with. Vampires they used to call friends, even family. He never thought that being called upon by a trusted friend would result in you lying in your own pool of blood in the same house he left you, in the same dress he last saw you in, in the same floors he danced on with you holding on to him as he glides you around the home he once built for you.

Home, it doesn't look like it now. The oak walls that you've painstakingly painted that resemble tree branches stretching across the abode like a warm embrace are now coated in every shade of red. Numerous portraits of your life with him now lay scattered by his feet, glass crunching under his footsteps like dry autumn leaves. The pretty candles that you always light on the same hour every night are nothing but wax melted upon the ashen skin of fellow vampires. His hands are coated in the same ashes, grey amidst dark red, dark red among his skin, skin that he thought he has washed away from a millennia of sin— skin that he thought was worthy of your sacred touch.

As he walks closer to your limp body, his eyes bore into the river of red left in your wake. His expression is akin to an empty, apocalyptic look— dangerous, yet, a tragedy lies underneath his wine red eyes. He's starting to hate his eyes now that you lay in a pool of the same colour. You used to tell him that his eyes were like the purest of crimson, similar to a stirling ruby no king or emperor could ever possess. With your words he vowed to keep you close to him until your skin has etched into his own, until his own ribs rip apart to embrace you and take you into his very being. Now that he gingerly holds you close to his chest, he should've done that to protect you better, now it's too late as you gasp, fending off death itself from taking your soul before you could say goodbye.

Your eyes no longer show the light he once admired, light akin to the sun that would burn and turn him into ash— but he could not stop looking at them, even if it could possibly be his demise, because it'll be worth it to feel the righteous sun kiss his skin once again.

“‘m sorry,” Hobie cried as his tears from his own blood dripped down across your cold cheeks. “I can still fix this.” With a shaky inhale, he feels mortal when your freezing hand taps his long dead heart. You don't speak nor blink at him. He wishes you could but with your life seeping out of you, it's impossible for you to do so. He feels it, how your life is being drained from the numerous bites along your body. He also wishes he doesn't feel you slip away. “Please, l–let me bring you back.”

With your last strength, you curl your lips to a soft, weak smile. Hand weakly gripping his shirt, mouth mouthing the words— “not your fault.”

Hobie chokes on a sob, shaking his head, he cannot, will not let you go. You're the only person who truly knows him, the only person who has seen the real him that he hasn't shown to anyone since he was turned. He loves you, and he'll continue to love you until his dying breath, whenever that may be. Ten years from now, twenty, a hundred— he'd love you until he steps out of the shadows and back into the light of the sun that reminds him of your eyes.

He feels your heart slow down, the blood rushing out of your veins are like drums in his ears. Opening his jaw, fangs in full show, you let out your very last mortal breath.

But he's too late, you have no blood left, drained until the last drop. No spark of life left to be brought back to earth with. Without a flicker of light, there's no embers to set fire to. Yet, he still tries in despair. Teeth sinking into you, a hungry bear to a corpse of a rabbit, he bites and sips into nothingness. Not even a glimmer, a hope lighting a fire in you brought by the kiss of death— nothing, absolutely nothing can bring you back to life. He cries, sobs wracking his body, a hurricane of emotions flooding through him that he has never felt in his immortal life until now.

Calling your name, he cradles your cold body, hand behind your head, lips upon your neck. He doesn't bite this time, he knows better. But if it does work, will you hate him for it?

The door creaks open, a familiar face he just saw a few hours ago enters the sheer violence Hobie left in his vengeance. His face contorts into sorrow but it quickly turns contorts to disappointment.

“You should've listened.” He utters, mouth dripping with venomous words. “Was she worth it? Breaking our law?”

Hobie slowly glances at the man without leaving your side. His once pure ruby eyes have turned into a flurry of bright red fury. “She was.” His claws dig into your lifeless body, lips shaking from sheer anger.

“I still cannot understand you.” He scoffs, “and you even tried to turn her. You're a fucking disgrace.”

Hobie slowly brings you back down, carefully laying you and closing your lifeless eyes. He looks at the man, someone he used to call a friend, someone he once trusted. Vampire blood and ash coats his very being, staining his soul, but they don't compare to your blood on his hands.

“Then I'll make you understand.” With a pounce, Hobie will drench his hands in more ichor until it's enough for him.

[v-iroine]

₊˚⊹౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ LOVE AND DEEPSPACE HCS

Chap: In your remembrance.

✿ Xavier/!MC + Zayne/!MC + Rafayel/!MC + Sylus/!MC + Caleb/!MC (use of they/them pron! and mc's appearance is not mentioned).

ꕀ In a moment of solitude and thought, the LADS men, get lost in the memory of your presence ... ✿ (sound track) -> Music link assigned to each of them.

✿ tw: swallowing of acrylic paint (not to do at home).

✿ Author's note: these HC do not take place in the same timeline as the game, so before and after the encounter with MC. Sorry if some characters seem OOC, it's been ages since I wrote HCs (pls have mercy on Caleb, his head is fucked up in a good way?).

✿ (sound track)

Silence filled the void, dull eyes wandering into infinity. A subtle diamond shielded him, protecting him from the nonexistent surroundings.

Immobilized by sadness, small, sweet tears ran down his reddened eyes and pale cheeks. He was lost in the distance between himself and the void, eventually losing track of his path.

His back rested against the hard seat, cold hands gliding over the ship's keyboard. Every sound had been erased from his mind, leaving him completely alone with only his thoughts.

A broken, junked tape recorder forgotten within the structure that drifted through the darkness, just like its owner.

Above a worn photograph, an old scratched disc swayed gently. The man considered it the dearest thing he owned, the only thing that ever drew light into the nebula-blue of his eyes.

The passenger seat had known an old friend, but never the person in the photograph he admired so deeply.

Before him now, an immutable, irreparable choice, one he would regret until the end of his life.

“My queen, sorry if I ever disappointed you.”

It didn’t take long before the structure, too, was devoured by the void and joined the stars, brighter than ever before.

✿ (sound track)

In hand, old expired coupons whose counted the years on every single fold and tear. that kept him company during the most monotonous evenings.

They were kept carefully hidden in the pockets of the cloth, afraid of losing the memory they carried.

Space and time collapsed beneath the weight of the winter, white lights illuminated his path, while the constant growing buzz isolated him completely from the crowd.

Distant memories made their way into his mind, and he couldn't help but let a slight smile tear the scene from his mind.

Light sighs left his reddened lips as he managed to recognize elements that had not yet been changed, while his mind impatiently searched for more resemblance of that specific needle that was hiding in the straw of faceless people.

Snow-covered buildings, structures of various kinds stood before him.

His eyes immersed in tiredness could do nothing but be dazzled by the dim lights of the restaurants that from the beginning were intended for him and the owner of those tickets.

✿ (sound track)

A torn page, a hole in an empty canvas haunted him, the speakers kept playing the same composition on an endless loop.

Eyes dull, the light in his motley gaze had disappeared along with his muse.

Time had become almost immutable, the passing of day and night were just a mere nuisance, just time wasted waiting for nothing.

Only an image of them, a portrait, seemed to stand before him, a fragmented memory captured in one of the few canvases that had survived his wrath.

A broken brush between his fingers, eyebrows furrowed as he continued to stare at the milk-colored canvas, with a blank expression.

His heart seemed to have lost its pulse as he sat on the carved wooden stool, balancing himself on his bare heels against the floor.

Every brushstroke, painted with such vehemence, was sacred, untouchable, and it seemed to rebel against the white of the canvas.

He had promised himself he would stop.

But this, this was the only way to full the hollow space carved within him.

The only way to remember.

His fingers dipped with ease into the pigment, letting it slide between his fingers tips, smearing its path across the canva of his hands.

His hand traveled its path, until it reached his lips, cleaning the red that once reflected them.

✿ (sound track)

His hands reached for his helmet, unhooking it from his head.

The night air masked the smog that had clogged his nostrils only moments before.

Far from his city, he stepped into an old park, the red leaves buried in darkness, only the dim glow of scattered street lamps guiding his path.

Dry leaves and soil crunched beneath his boots, each step slower than the last, like the tension in his limbs had finally begun to drain.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, dragging his sleeve across his skin.

And there, in the dirt, a flower. A single thing that seemed to steal all the color from its surroundings, demanding to be seen.

His red eyes regained a trace of their old shine, as a gentle smirk played on his lips.

His fingertips reached down to brush the petals, as if afraid they’d vanish beneath too much pressure.

An old memory, something he had never had a chance to forget, formed in his mind.

He hesitated only a moment before tearing the stem free, careful, and slipping the flower into his jacket pocket, right above his heart, before keeping on his way.

✿ (sound track)

The light had just taken over the sky. The darkness was still there, but easily malleable with the light of the studio in the middle of the clouds.

But someone was already awake, before the arrival of the day.

His tablet, linked to the holo-display, continued to repeat the star’s words from old recordings, as if in a loop, a broken record.

His ears listened to the voice as if it were the first time, analyzing every single imperfection, as if enchanted.

His hand, locked in a tight grip around the metal medallion, continued to trace its relief—caressing it as if trying to memorize the pattern.

Old photographs, printed rather than digital, stood arranged before him like a private exhibit. All of them pictured the same subject.

His gaze, lost in each image, lingered in frozen stillness, shifting slightly only when these started to get blurry.

His messy hair hiding his penetrating gaze, after one of the many sleepless nights, the heartbeat ringing in his ears along with that voice

It was the only truth left of his life, the only memory he had left, the only subject he cared about and had to ensure he never forgot. The last fragment of his past, that he to guard like the emergency oxygen supply, his green apple.

[charmed-quill]

The Art of Desire// B.B x Reader Ch 8

authors note at the end of the chapter

Warning - There is Smut in this Chapter. it's not very explicit but it's there. Minors DNI

summary: Benedict Bridgerton longs for more than society’s expectations, drawn instead to art and freedom. Y/N, a fiercely talented but struggling artist, fights for recognition in a world that dismisses women of her class. When their paths cross, fascination sparks—a shared passion for art bridging the divide between privilege and survival. But their growing connection threatens them both in a world where reputation is everything. As scandal looms and duty calls, they must choose: conform to society’s rules or risk everything for love, ambition, and the art that brought them together.

word count: 3.7k

Prev.

Next.

Chapter 8 - Let Her Choose

The ballroom was alight with elegance. Glittering gowns swept across polished floors, and champagne glasses clinked with polite laughter and sharper glances.

But beneath the practised civility of the ton, something sharper lingered.

Lady Whistledown had struck again.

The day’s pamphlet had rippled through drawing rooms like a match to dry parchment. And this time, her words had not aimed at a duchess’s daughter or a gentleman’s sudden change of fortune.

No, she had cast her sharp pen toward Benedict Bridgerton this time.

"An artist," someone whispered behind a silk fan.

"Of no consequence," someone else added with a sniff.

"A common woman with uncommonly clever timing, if you ask me."

"A mistress, surely. What else could she be?"

Benedict heard every word.

They were not directed at him—not openly. But they didn’t need to be. The looks, the hushed tones, the forced smiles and tilted heads that followed him through the ballroom said more than words ever could.

He was used to being noticed.

But never like this.

He felt exposed. Observed. Not as a Bridgerton or an artist—but as a man whose intentions were now fair game for idle tongues.

And all because of her.

He should have been furious.

But all he felt was that same searing ache low in his chest. That need to see her, to touch her, to understand what had unravelled between them in the quiet darkness of that carriage.

The music swelled again, and he excused himself from the throng of ladies and their carefully poised mothers, slipping through a quieter corridor that opened into the portrait gallery.

It was a relief to be away from the noise.

The murmurs still followed him, no doubt bouncing between silk fans and champagne flutes, but here in the hush of gilded frames and waxed floors, the air felt almost bearable.

He moved through the room slowly, the candlelight catching on heavy oils and ornate gold trim.

And then, he stopped.

His eyes caught on a portrait at the far end of the room.

A woman posed regally in her sitting room, her expression soft but sharp around the eyes, her hands resting just so against the back of a chaise.

The brushwork was unlike the others. Less refined in a classical sense. No powdered softness, no romantic haze of the old masters.

But it was alive.

The strokes were deliberate. The lighting, striking.

Not flattery, but truth.

Benedict stepped closer, his heart suddenly pounding.

He knew this technique.

Knew the way the shadows cut through the softness, how the light kissed one side of the cheek while leaving the other half in mystery.

His eyes dropped to the corner of the canvas.

There, nearly hidden in the texture of the paint, was a signature.

Y/N L/N

His lips parted.

Of course.

"Ah!" came a voice from behind him, startling him slightly.

Benedict turned to see Lord Claridge, the master of the house, approaching with a glass of brandy in hand and a ruddy-cheeked smile.

"You’ve got a good eye, Bridgerton," the man said, nodding toward the portrait. "Striking, isn’t it?"

"Quite," Benedict murmured.

Claridge huffed a laugh. "Odd girl, the one who painted it. Found her through a friend of a friend’s valet’s sister, if you can believe it." He took a sip of brandy. "Didn’t cost me half of what the others did."

Benedict’s jaw tensed.

"She was fast, too. Came in, barely said two words. Had the whole thing done in under a week."

He paused, then added with a dismissive wave of his glass, "Bit rough around the edges, of course. Not formally trained. And a woman, no less. Surprised she could lift a brush at all, the poor thing."

Benedict’s hands clenched behind his back.

"Still," Claridge went on, utterly unaware of the fire simmering beside him, "there’s something about it, isn’t there? I’ve had guests comment on it, more than a few times."

"Yes," Benedict said, voice low. "There’s something."

He couldn’t look away.

The painting was brilliant.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just the kiss or the carriage or the whispers that burned beneath his skin—

It was the need to see her again.

Benedict stood alone at the edge of the gallery, the din of the ballroom far behind him, drowned out by the thundering of his heart and the frenzied ache building in his chest.

He shouldn’t have come tonight.

He had thought it would distract him—noble ladies in gauzy gowns, polite dances, the gleaming splendour of the ton on full display.

But all it had done was worsen the ache.

Because every smile was too polished. Every conversation was too rehearsed. Every girl—though lovely—was not her.

Not Y/N.

Not the woman who kissed like fire and bit back with words sharper than any blade. Not the woman who painted the world as she saw it—raw, unforgiving, glorious.

She had wrecked him.

And now that he had seen her signature on that canvas—now that he knew her hands had shaped that portrait, had touched it with the same passion she’d once given him in a darkened carriage—he couldn’t breathe.

She had left her mark on the very walls of Mayfair, and still, no one saw her for what she was.

But he did.

God, he did.

And now he couldn’t stop thinking, what if he just went?

What if he slipped out into the night and took the path through London’s quiet streets to that cramped little flat in Whitechapel? What if he stood at her door and said—what, exactly?

That he missed her?

That he wanted her?

That the taste of her still lingered on his tongue and he couldn’t sleep for wanting her?

But what came after?

The truth clawed at him.

He was a Bridgerton. She was… not.

He lived in a world of ballrooms and titles. She lived in the space between gallery walls and cracked pavement.

He could not bring her into his world without consequence. And he could not step into hers without risking everything.

One wrong move, one whispered word in the wrong ear, and they’d both be ruined.

And yet…

The thought of not going, of spending one more night with that space between them, was suffocating.

He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, his chest tight with yearning and frustration and fear.

And that’s when he heard it.

“Hiding, are we?”

Benedict turned to find Anthony leaning against the doorway, cravat slightly loosened, one brow arched in that way that made him look older than he was—and very much the older brother.

Benedict sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Hardly.”

Anthony stepped into the room, casting a brief glance at the portrait. “You’ve only danced with three eligible young women this evening. Mother’s beginning to look like she’s going to combust.”

Benedict didn’t answer.

Anthony studied him, folding his arms. “You’ve gone quiet. Which, for you, usually means you’re about to do something reckless.”

“I’m not,” Benedict said flatly.

Anthony was silent for a moment. Then, in a lower tone: “It’s a woman.”

Benedict’s jaw tensed. “When is it not?”

That earned him a faint smile. “It’s not just any woman, though. Is it?”

Benedict didn’t answer.

Anthony walked closer, his voice softening. “You know, there’s a particular kind of madness when you find a woman who makes you forget the world. Makes you forget your duty, your name, your place.”

Benedict finally looked at him. “And what did you do when it happened to you?”

Anthony’s mouth curved, bittersweet. “I married her.”

Benedict looked away, throat tight.

“She’s not like the others,” he murmured. “She’s… sharp. Honest. Brilliant. She sees things I don’t. And she makes me see them.”

Anthony nodded. “And what’s the problem?”

“She has nothing. No title. No family. No protection.”

Anthony tilted his head. “And you think wanting her makes you the villain?”

“I think taking her would.”

His brother was quiet for a long moment.

“Then don’t take,” Anthony said softly. “Offer. Let her choose.”

Benedict blinked, surprised.

Anthony shrugged. “You cannot shield her from the whispers. But if she’s half as strong as you say, she doesn’t want a shield. She wants truth.”

Benedict had never been a man prone to hesitation.

Impulsive, yes. Unconventional, certainly. But never paralyzed by indecision.

Yet as he stood alone in the corner of the Claridge portrait gallery, the music of the ballroom now a faint echo in the distance, he felt utterly torn between the life expected of him… and the life he wanted.

Anthony’s words hung heavy in his ears.

"Then don’t take. Offer. Let her choose."

It had sounded simple when his brother said it, grounded and rational, like love could be a matter of mutual consent and courage like it could survive under the weight of society’s scrutiny.

But Benedict knew the truth.

Giving her the choice meant giving her the power to walk away.

And after the way she had looked at him in the carriage—kissed him like her life depended on it and fled as though it had—he wasn’t sure which she would choose.

But not knowing was killing him.

And worse—he wasn’t even sure she knew she had a choice.

He raked a hand through his hair, exhaling a shaky breath.

He had to see her.

Not tomorrow. Not after writing some carefully penned letter and waiting days for a reply.

Tonight.

Now.

He turned, striding through the corridors of Claridge House with a purpose that had nothing to do with polite social obligations and everything to do with the woman who had set his world on fire.

The moment he reached the ballroom threshold again, the noise returned in full: the swirl of gowns, the clink of glasses, the steady murmur of gossip that still bristled with Whistledown’s words.

He didn’t care.

He scanned the room, eyes landing on the one person he knew he could trust.

Eloise.

She stood at the edge of the dance floor, engaged in animated conversation with Penelope Featherington, one hand waving expressively in the air, a sharp frown on her brow.

He crossed the room in quick strides.

“Eloise,” he said under his breath, leaning close.

She turned with a start, clearly not expecting him. “Benedict?”

“I need your help.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Does this have anything to do with a certain Miss L/N?”

He gave her a look. “You already know the answer to that.”

Eloise crossed her arms, smirking. “Mother’s been watching you like a hawk. You disappeared for nearly half an hour, and I’m fairly certain she thinks you’ve eloped with someone entirely unsuitable by now.”

He fought the urge to laugh. “I need you to keep her distracted.”

“By doing what? Swooning in the middle of the ballroom?”

He raised a brow. “Could you?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll manage something less theatrical. But you owe me.”

“Endlessly,” he said, already stepping back.

Eloise caught his sleeve before he turned to go. “Benedict—”

He met her gaze.

“Do you love her?”

The question hit him harder than he expected.

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t know, but because the truth of it was suddenly so real—as though saying it aloud would change everything.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I think I do.”

Eloise gave him a rare, serious nod. “Then go.”

He didn’t wait.

Slipping out the side door, away from the candlelight and corseted laughter of the ball, he stepped into the cool night.

He had made his choice.

Now it was time to give her the chance to make hers.

The room was quiet, save for the steady hiss of the oil lamp burning low on the rickety table. The walls, aged and cracked, pressed in around her like a familiar, if unwelcome, companion.

Y/N sat on the edge of her narrow cot, her knees drawn to her chest, her eyes fixed on the canvas across the room.

The painting leaned against the wall, unfinished yet devastatingly clear.

It was him.

Benedict.

Rendered not in the grand, romantic style of the ton, not in powdered grace or stately posture—but raw, unfiltered.

His shirt was slightly rumpled, and the soft brushstrokes of his collar turned askew like he’d just run a hand through his hair. His gaze was tilted downward, thoughtful, intense as if he were mid-conversation—or perhaps just at the edge of saying something too difficult.

The shadows of the room she’d imagined him in had clung to the planes of his face, the brushwork just shy of harsh. His lips parted slightly. His eyes were dark.

There was no golden glow to soften him, no grandeur to elevate him.

He looked like a man.

Her man.

But he wasn’t.

She tore her eyes away.

It was madness, this thing inside her chest.

The way he made her feel—exposed, seen, wanted. The way her body remembered him: his hands on her waist, the heat of his mouth on her skin, the helpless groan in his throat when she gasped his name.

She clenched her fists in her skirts.

She didn’t belong in his world.

Benedict Bridgerton lived in gilded ballrooms and sun-drenched parlours, where laughter drifted across manicured gardens and a scandal was only ever temporary.

She lived above a tavern that never slept, in a one-room flat with drafty windows and paint-stained linens, where the scent of turpentine clung to her hair and hunger was never too far away.

She would never walk among the glittering halls of the ton without being whispered about.

She would never be enough.

Not for them.

And not, she feared, for him.

Her eyes returned to the painting, helplessly.

She had painted him because she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

And yet, she knew—if he walked through her door again, she would only want more.

More of his hands. More of his eyes. More of the illusion that he could be hers.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, frantic knock at the door.

She startled.

It was late. Too late for anything good.

She stood slowly, grabbing her shawl, assuming it was one of the women from the lower floor. Perhaps Lizzie, who sometimes came up in the middle of the night asking for bread or a blanket when the cold crept in too deep.

Y/N crossed the room and pulled the bolt free, preparing her voice for kindness.

The door creaked open—

And she froze.

He stood there.

Benedict.

His hair tousled from the wind, his coat unbuttoned, chest rising and falling like he’d run the whole way. His cheeks flushed, his eyes wide and dark and burning with something she didn’t dare name.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The world held its breath.

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the edge of the door.

She had dreamed of this.

Feared this.

Wanted this.

And now—he was here.

Benedict stood at her door, soaked in the moonlight and the last of the London rain, his heart thundering like hooves against the cobblestone.

He looked at her like a man standing on the edge of a precipice.

And then he spoke—not as a gentleman of Mayfair, not as a Bridgerton, but as a man in the full ache of wanting.

"Y/N," he breathed, voice soft and trembling with the weight of it all. “You’ve undone me.”

She stilled, every breath she took shallow, caught between retreat and longing.

“I’ve tried,” he continued, stepping just inside the threshold, “I’ve tried to forget the feel of your hands, the sound of your voice, the way you look at me like I’m not a Bridgerton. Like I’m simply Benedict.”

His gaze dropped, his jaw clenched. When he looked at her again, his eyes were alight with something fierce and unguarded.

“You have haunted every canvas I’ve touched since the moment I met you. You live beneath my fingertips, in the shadows of every brushstroke. And it’s madness. You’re madness. But I would go mad a thousand times just to see you look at me the way you did that night.”

He took another step forward, careful not to touch her, careful to leave the air between them charged but unbroken.

“I know what the world will say. About you. About me. About this. I know the cost. And I would pay it—gladly, without question—if you asked it of me.”

Her hand trembled slightly at her side.

“I came here tonight not to demand anything, not to persuade or beg. I came only to offer you the truth. My truth.”

He drew a long breath, voice lowering to something sacred.

“If you choose me… I will be yours. In whispers or in ruin. In daylight or in shadow. If the world calls it scandal, let them. If they call it foolish, let them scream it from rooftops. I will still be here. I will still be yours.”

Silence fell between them like snowfall. Soft. Crushing.

Y/N’s throat tightened, her heart thudding like a war drum in her chest.

She had spent her life bracing for the worst. Holding the world at arm’s length. But here he was, not reaching to take, only offering to be held.

And in that moment, something inside her shattered.

She closed the space between them in one breathless step, took his coat in her fists, and kissed him like it was the only language she knew.

It was not the kiss of a man newly in love, it was the kiss of a man who had long been drowning in it. It was weeks of unsaid things, of stolen glances and imagined touches, all poured into one desperate, searing moment.

Y/N responded in kind, her fingers knotting in the wool of his coat as if she might disappear without the anchoring of his body against hers. Their lips moved in harmony, frantic and tender all at once, her breath mingling with his, laced with the faint taste of tea and honey.

His hands slid down her waist, tracing the curve of her hips through her stays. The lace edge of her corset brushed his fingers, a delicate barrier between them—a symbol of the world she had built around herself, and the one he was so desperate to step into.

“Take me to bed,” she whispered against his lips, voice hoarse and wanting, her eyes shining with certainty.

Benedict’s breath caught, his heart lurching. Words failed him. Instead, he gathered her into his arms, lifting her with ease, holding her against him as though she were made to fit there.

The room was modest—bare floorboards, a hearth glowing softly in the corner, a bed just wide enough for two, covered in a hand-stitched quilt that smelled faintly of lavender. It was a humble space, and yet Benedict thought he had never stepped into a room more sacred.

He laid her gently on the bed, the firelight casting flickering shadows across her skin. His hands trembled as he shrugged off his coat, then his waistcoat, fingers fumbling at the buttons in his haste. Y/N sat up slightly, reaching behind her to begin unlacing her corset, but he stopped her with a gentle hand.

“Let me,” he said, his voice low, reverent.

With careful fingers, he undid the laces, easing the garment from her form. It fell away, revealing the delicate linen of her chemise, already slipping from one shoulder. Her breath quickened as he pulled it down, exposing the swell of her breasts, her skin flushed and glowing in the firelight.

He stilled, just for a moment.

Then, in a voice almost broken, he said, “You are... divine.”

His mouth found the slope of her neck, trailing kisses down to the hollow of her throat. Her hands tangled in his hair as she arched into him, a soft moan escaping her lips as he explored her slowly, reverently.

“I want you,” she murmured, her voice raw with emotion. “All of you.”

He answered her with touch, not words, his hands gliding over her sides, his lips worshipping every inch of exposed skin. He kissed down her belly, trailing warmth and longing in his wake until she was trembling beneath him.

The last of their clothing fell away between breathless kisses and gentle laughter, both of them fumbling, half-lost in one another. When she reached for him—curious, reverent—his breath hitched.

“You don’t need to—” he began, but she silenced him with a look. A look that said she wanted all of it, all of him.

He guided her back down onto the bed, their bodies now bare, warm, tangled in heat and shadow. When he settled above her, she stilled, her fingers clutching his arms.

“I’ve never…” she whispered. “I don’t know what comes next.”

Benedict’s hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

“I do,” he murmured. “And I’ll go slowly. I’ll take care of you. Just… feel. That’s all you need to do.”

She nodded, trusting, her eyes wide as he pressed his forehead to hers.

And then, he entered her. Carefully. Tenderly.

She gasped, her body tensing around him. He stilled at once, his breath shallow, his voice ragged.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “You’re all right. Just breathe with me.”

She did.

She breathed.

And slowly, inch by inch, her body began to open for him, the sting fading into something warmer, something deeper. When she finally relaxed around him, he began to move, gently rocking into her with the kind of patience that made her feel. Every part of her.

Their bodies fit together as though they had been carved for this moment alone.

And as the rhythm deepened, so too did her pleasure, slow and blooming, unfurling through her limbs like heat through a winter frost. Her hips lifted to meet his, her gasps growing breathless, unguarded.

“Benedict,” she whispered, again and again, the sound of it like a psalm in the dark.

When her release came, it did so with a breathless cry, her body arching against him, every inch of her alight. He followed seconds later, collapsing against her with a shudder, his arms tight around her, his heart pounding against her chest.

“I love you,” he murmured into her hair, lips brushing her temple.

Y/N blinked, dazed and undone, her fingers curling into his back as she breathed in the scent of him, sweat and smoke and something entirely his.

Outside, London slept.

Inside, in the smallest room she had ever known, something vast and unspeakably beautiful had taken root between them.

a/n: finally they fucked lol. I fear there is going to be some angst coming tho so sorry abt that