#Blood Fury MC series

[pocketjoong]

☾₊‧⁺˖⋆noctem⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ 〘act 1, chapter 2〙

〘Synopsis〙『Your hatred of dragons is a hate born of witnessing their flames consume your village, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. The worst of all is the beast that haunts your dreams, the very dragon whose memory fuels a burning desire for revenge within you. But life has a way of unsettling even the most steadfast convictions. And when you stumble upon a truth that shatters the boundaries of your understanding, you begin to question the very essence of the world you live in.』

〘Pairing〙『Night Fury!Seonghwa x afab!Reader』

〘Genre〙『FANTASY, ACTION, SMUT』

〘Word Count〙『2.5k』

〘Chapter-specific Warnings〙『Based on How To Train Your Dragon. Canon-compliant violence. Mentions of dragons attacking the mc's village. Mentions of fire. Passing mention of injuries. MDNI.』

〘Banner Credits〙『@playmetheclassics』

please note: there will be NO taglist for this series

By the time you finish tending to the injuries of those who had been sent to the infirmary, the sun is rising in the distance. A weariness settles over you as you dress the wounds of the last person you have to tend to, and you look forward to the two weeks of peace after a dragon attack.

You rinse the grime and blood from your hands in the basin tucked in the corner before rushing out of the building. Relief washes over you at the sight of familiar figures at the edge of the cliff that overlooks the port. Even though they’re merely silhouettes against the morning light, you know each of them well enough to recognise them by their shadows.

As you move closer, you note that Yunho, Wooyoung, and Mingi, the village blacksmith, look battle-ravaged and tired. But they are watching the sunrise with content smiles. You approach them with a smile of your own, but you can’t help but scan their figures for any injuries that might need healing.

Amusement dances in your brother’s eyes at your worried expression, “I'm fine. Mostly unharmed save for a few small bruises and the soot lining my clothes.”

When you turn your focus to the others, you find them grinning back at you. “And you guys?”

“No open stitches or any new injuries. I told you I’d be careful,” Wooyoung declares, his tone light-hearted.

Mingi ruffles your hair while he offers his own reassurance, “I’m fine as well. I stuck to my workshop until the very end, only leaving when Yunho and Wooyoung needed assistance with the ballista.”

“Let’s go back home and get some rest. Wooyoung and I have a meeting to attend at the hall in a few hours,” Yunho says, leading you towards your home with a guiding hand on your shoulder. Mingi trails behind silently, waving in farewell before taking the dusty path to reach his house, which also doubles as his workshop.

You, Yunho, and Wooyoung share the house overlooking the village. All three of you moved here after losing your families to a brutal attack years ago. Despite being only a few months older than Wooyoung and barely a year older than you, Yunho seamlessly assumed the role of guardian for both of you. The weight he shouldered at the tender age of twelve, stepping into the shoes of a village leader after the tragedy, often made you feel bad for him. His duties far exceeded what any child should bear, but he bore them with a grace beyond his years.

The dream claws at your consciousness, a relentless reminder of the incident that tore through your family. You can handle the sympathetic looks of your fellow villagers, but the nightmares are another story. You hate them, for they persist, leaving you exhausted and weary even after a full night’s sleep.

You unlock the door, ushering the two males inside. As the door creaks open, the comfort of the space envelops you like a familiar embrace, and you can’t help the sigh of relief that leaves your lips.

────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────────

You know you are dreaming, but the panic that grips your throat is a tangible force that twists your heart and leaves your hands shaking. It’s a suffocating reality that is too familiar, too hauntingly real.

Your surroundings are too hot, too bright, and suffused with smoke that blinds your vision. The orange flames dance menacingly in front of you, searing painfully against your skin. Your brain is screaming for you to do something, to move. But you are frozen in the face of danger and struggle to comprehend the unfolding nightmare.

There’s a presence beside you, but the ringing in your ears drowns their voice. Squinting through the smoke, urgency compels you to find an escape route. If you don’t move, you’ll be burnt to a crisp by the flames, and you won’t let a dragon be the reason you meet your end. 

There’s no time to waste, you realise when there’s a crash in the adjacent room. The sound is what finally jolts you into action, and without hesitation, you grab the person next to you and bolt towards safety.

The relief when you escape the fire all but vanishes as the sight in front of you changes, and you find Yunho trapped in the claws of a massive dragon. His desperate struggle mirrors the fear etched in his eyes. The image shakes you to your core. It’s new, and you know why you’re seeing this: every time Yunho is out fighting the dragons during an attack, you can’t help but worry about his safety.

There’s a beat of silence as if the world has stopped around you before you jump towards the creature holding him hostage. But you’re too late. You meet the ground with a crash while the dragon takes off, taking Yunho away from you.

You jolt awake, your heart pounding so hard that you feel it wants to escape your chest. You’re covered in cold sweat, and you feel it trail down your back. You gasp for air, for the relief that comes with your lungs being filled with oxygen. Instinctively, you look down to check your hands, half-expecting to find the remnants of blood and soot on them.

Dazed and disoriented, you rise, stumbling towards the bathroom. Looking into the mirror, you wince at your wide-eyed and tear-stained face. You’re breathing fast, too quick to be considered normal. Staring at your trembling hands, you run them beneath the water before splashing the cold substance on your face.

Feeling a presence next to you, you turn around to find your brother gazing at you worriedly. But before you can ease his worry, Wooyoung walks in through your bedroom door, which is now wide open courtesy of Yunho.

“Is everything okay?” Wooyoung breaks the silence, voice is still gravelly from sleep. You feel bad for waking them up and worrying them like this, but right now, all you can focus on is the raging panic inside of you. “I heard you screaming, Y/N.”

You blink; your throat definitely feels raw, but you can’t remember hearing yourself scream.

“I think it was a bad dream,” Yunho mutters softly, eyes still trained on you.

Dream?

It’s almost as if everything falls into place when you hear Yunho’s words. You had the nightmare once again, the same one you had had since you lost your family during an attack when you were ten years old. With clammy hands, you tightly grip the bedside table in a futile attempt to steady yourself. Stumbling, you crash onto the floor as you try to calm your furiously beating heart.

Yunho scrambles to kneel next to you, brows furrowed in worry. “Y/N, breathe with me, c’mon. ’S okay, you’re safe.” You let him tuck you into his chest, the touch becoming an anchor to help you ground yourself. You breathe deeply, timing your breaths in tandem with Yunho’s. You remind yourself over and over again that he’s safe and sound.

“Was it the same dream?” Wooyoung’s voice is closer now, and you open your eyes to see him in front of you. You shrug as an answer to Wooyoung’s question.

“I’m sorry for waking you up,” you whisper apologetically, but they quickly shush you.

“Do you want to go back to sleep?” Wooyoung murmurs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as if he already knows your answer, “Or would you like to help me with lunch?”

“Brunch,” you declare, carefully disentangling yourself from Yunho, who has fallen asleep. Little snores leave his mouth, and you suppress a giggle. You grab a pillow from your bed, gently supporting his neck to ensure he sleeps comfortably even if he’s on the floor.  Quietly, you follow Wooyoung into the kitchen.

“What are we making?” You question, standing in the middle of the room while Wooyoung rummages through the cupboards.

“How do omelettes and buttered toast sound? Yunho bought bread from the village baker last evening, and I’m sure we haven’t run out of the jam we prepared,” he stops his hunt and starts gathering the things needed for the proposed meal.

“We also have some leftover meat pie,” you inform him, fishing out the pie from the pantry and setting it on the table. Grabbing a large bowl, you crack some eggs while Wooyoung chops the vegetables, the two of you falling into rhythm easily.

Wooyoung reaches over to add the chopped vegetables to the bowl, stirring them with the eggs as you place two pans on the stove. Soon, you have two omelettes sizzling in unison. Carefully, you add different spices and ingredients to each one based on your individual preferences. Spotting extra vegetables, you throw them in a pan to sauté them while Wooyoung handles the omelettes.

“Wow,” Yunho walks into the kitchen, drawn in by the aroma of food. He peeks over your shoulders. “That’s a feast right there.”

Eventually, you and Wooyoung finish cooking and carry everything to the table with Yunho's assistance. The three of you happily devour the food, joking, teasing, and laughing between bites.

“I have to go into the forest to gather more herbs. It’s amazing how fast we burn through them after the attacks,” you sigh, already tired by the mere thought of having to haul a huge batch of herbs from the forest.

“Be careful,” Yunho warns you. “The forest is safe right now, but you can’t be careful enough.”

“Don’t worry,” you reassure with a smile. “I’ve done this so many times.”

After bidding goodbye to the two males, you follow one of the trails behind your house that leads into the forest. You hum a small tune as you walk through the woods. Despite the village being attacked every fortnight, the forest is safe because the dragons avoid lingering for fear of getting captured. The chirping birds and the small animals frolicking around in the undergrowth lift your spirits. You take a deep breath, unable to stop yourself from breaking into a smile.

The sound of a nearby waterfall catches your attention, prompting you to change course towards the opening through the trees. However, you halt in your tracks when you spot broken trees and upturned earth, suggesting that something came barreling down from the sky.

The only thing that would crash down from the sky is a dragon.

Unsheathing your shortsword, you slowly approach an outgrown rock where the wreckage seems the worst. You take a deep breath to calm yourself before peeking to check if you’re right, only to hide behind the rock once again quickly. There, on the other side, is a dragon you’ve never seen before.

It doesn’t take a genius to identify it as a Night Fury, also known as ‘the offspring of lightning and death itself.’ The beast’s scales are pitch black, adorned with small horns that spike from above its eyes, down its neck, back, and tail, the tip of which fans out like that of a whale. Surprisingly, it doesn’t look as terrifying as its reputation suggests, resembling more of a feline than a vicious reptile. For being a dragon dreaded across the seven seas, the beast looks tamer than the ones you’ve come across over the course of your life.

Peeking from behind the rock again, you realise the dragon is tangled in rope. There are signs of struggle, showing that it tried but failed to free itself from the binds. As it seems to be asleep, you approach cautiously, awed by the sheer size of the creature. The dragon likely hears you because, even though it can’t move, one of its eyes opens, fixing a stare at you. It releases a warning growl when you move even closer, but you scoff, knowing fully well that it won’t be able to harm you.

“You know, you really look more like a cat than a dragon,” your tone is belittling as you tilt your head to meet the dragon’s gaze head-on.

The dragon emits what seems like a scoff, earning an eye-roll from you. “You should be nicer to me. After all, I could kill you, and then what would happen, huh?  Your little family would find it harder and harder to attack us, considering that you’re the one who makes it difficult for us to bring down the rest of your kind.”

It hits you that this would be your first dragon kill, and for some reason, it gives you a sense of satisfaction. Eliminating the Night Fury is a step closer towards your goal to avenge your family and the countless others who were destroyed by these beasts.

Raising your blade, you look down at the beast with a blank expression. The dragon gazes at you with big, pleading eyes, its pupils round and sparkly like that of a cat. Your grip on the weapon falters, and sensing your hesitation, it lets out the most pathetic of whimpers.

“You have some nerve, really,” you sigh, the urge to harm the creature gradually ebbs away the longer you look into its eyes. It’s a living, breathing creature, and it goes against all your ideals as a healer to kill a sentient being. “First, your kind kills my family, then you guys literally cause so much damage to my village every time you attack, and here I am, wanting to spare you? Why can’t you be as ugly as a Gronckle?”

The dragon blinks at you in confusion.

“Stop looking at me like that!” You scold it, only causing the dragon to huff, this time in amusement. Sensing that you’re not going to kill it, the beast lets out another whine and closes its eyes.

Sighing once again, you use your sword to cut through the ropes, loosening the bonds that bind the poor creature. That is your second mistake because the moment it is free, the dragon lunges at you, pinning you against the rock as you gasp in shock. It growls at you, keeping you restrained with its claws.

“Oh, isn’t that just lovely?” you mock the dragon. You know you’re playing a dangerous game, but you can’t stop taunting it. “I save your sorry life, and you thank me by pinning me to a rock? Quite the peculiar way to express gratitude, I must say… and quite kinky.”

The beast regards you with a look of sheer disbelief, scoffs dismissively, and turns around to fly further into the forest. Only when it crashes into an outcrop of rocks, do you notice the unsteadiness of its flight.

Is it injured?

Your brows furrow as a pang of worry pierces through your heart, but before you can act on it, the realisation of how late it it dawns upon you. You haven’t even started collecting the herbs you had ventured into the forest for. Deciding to return tomorrow to check on the dragon, should it still be around, you start the laborious task of gathering the herbs you need.

#cromernet #k-labels #wonderlandnet #kvanity #cultofdionysusnet #outlaw/noctem #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #ateez fanfic #ateez scenarios #ateez smut #ateez reactions #ateez fluff #ateez angst #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa imagines #seonghwa reactions #seonghwa headcanons #seonghwa fluff #seonghwa angst #seonghwa smut

[bullet-prooflove]

Stockton!Series Part Four: Sierra - Nestor Oceteva x Reader (feat: Marcus Alvarez)

Tagging: @anime-weeb-4-life @expir3dl0v3 @danzer8705 @drabbles-mc @alwaysachorusgirl @witches-unruly-heart @mysoulisasunflower @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @multifandomloversworld @est1887 @mortal--soul @buddinglinguist @spookyboogyuniverse @thanossexual @lexondeck @weiwei0210 @trublu2u @justreblogginfics @oklahomapeach @keyweegirlie @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @withakindheartx @wnbweasley @skyesthebomb @msjava1972 @trublu2u @fleureeee @jp1019 @thiashazzywriting @jeybae

Part One: El Cuchillo - An incident in the clubhouse causes ramifcations for the entire club.

Part Two: Always - Nestor learns about what happened.

Part Three: In the Dark - You and Nestor wake up to find armed men in your house.

Bishop is livid, fucking livid. He can feel the fury chasing through his veins as he stands on the patch of land outside the clubhouse at two in the morning, his eyes fixed on the three men kneeling in front of him, their hands bound behind their backs.

Sanchez, the man who had planned to burn down your house.

Flaco, the man who’d tried to murder you in your sleep.

Ramos, the fucking orchestrator of all this chaos.

Hank and Taza stand on either side of their prisoners, making sure no one gets a stupid fucking idea in their head and tries to run.

It’s fitting in a way that it comes down to the old guard. These were the men who swore to protect you once upon a time. When your father was at his wits end, staring down the bottom of bottle because he didn’t know how to help you. What you don’t know, what you will never know is that they had plans for the list your father made all those years ago. If you hadn’t sought your vengeance first, they would have done it for you.

He hears the roar of the motorcycle in the distance, it tears through the air like a banshee screaming into the night. Noone speaks as the rider pulls up, they simply wait as he climbs off the bike, his snakeskin cowboy boots clicking against the concrete. He’s wearing his kutte tonight, his El Padrino patch showing predominantly in the overhead lights on he strides towards Bishop.

That rage, it seems to simmer. Bishop can feel it radiating from the other man as he draws closer, his eyes glowing like coals from the deepest depths of hell. El Padrino’s out for blood tonight, Bishop can taste it.

“Just these three?” He asks Bishop, indicating towards their captives.

Bishop removes Ramos’s phone from his pocket before handing it to Marcus. The other man studies the messages intently, his thumb scrolling through them as he takes in the details of the hit.

Raze it the ground, he’d written. I want her to burn.

“Smokey wasn’t involved?” Marcus questions, handing the phone back to Bishop.

Bishop shakes his head as he returns it to his pocket.

“I have Riz keeping him company in the clubhouse, figured you’d want to talk to him once you were finished with them.” He says, inclining his head towards the three Stockton men.  

“You were right.” Marcus says, withdrawing the Berretta from the waist band of his trousers.

He points the weapon at Sanchez.

“The one that wanted to burn down their home.” Marcus says before pulling the trigger.

Flaco cries out as the blood splashes across his face, the stench of cordite fills the air as Marcus points the gun at him.

“The one who fired an assault rifle into their bed.” Marcus pulls the trigger again and Flaco falls face first onto the concrete.

“And you,” Marcus says turning his attention to Ramos. “The man who can’t let the past just die, who has to come back and rake it up because he can’t stand the fact a dead man was a better Mayan that he will ever be.”

Ramos laughs, it’s a haunting rasp that echoes through the yard as he stares up at Marcus.

“She grew up pretty didn’t she? Javi’s daughter.” Ramos says, a cruel smile spreading across his features. “Just like her mother.”

There’s a flash of steel behind Marcus’s eyes, his hand threads through Ramo’s hair, gripping it tightly before he tugs it back and jams the Berretta right under his chin.

“A bullet is too good for you.” Marcus snarls as he locks gazes with Ramos.

“She was my girl.” Ramos hisses, his tongue running over his lower lip. “Sierra was mine until he rolled up and took her!”

“She didn’t belong to you.” Marcus snaps, driving the gun even harder into the other man’s jaw. “That is something you have never been able to understand. She had a choice, and she didn’t choose you.”

“I had her anyway.” Ramos reminds him and, in that moment, he looks every inch the animal he is. “I took what was his and I ruined it.”

“I should have let him kill you that night.” Marcus seethes as he wrenches the other man’s head back even further. “I should have let him beat you to death, instead of pulling him off you.”

“But you didn’t and now we’re here.” Ramos grins, blood staining his teeth. “I bet her daughter would have tasted just as sweet as she did…”

The words are barely out of his mouth before the gunshot explodes through the scrapyard, his brains spattering across the concrete.

“Take their kuttes.” Marcus says as he stares down at Ramos’s corpse. “We’re heading up to Stockton.”

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[yomogi-mogi-mochi]

Lasting Spring

Pairings: Vil Schoenheit x (Orpheus Inspired) MC

Summary: Great expectations are placed on you, coming from a line of extraordinary poets, bards, and musicians. You fulfill these expectations with ease‒ the lightness of your voice illuminating any room with divine merriment through a swift dance of your fingers on your lyre. Your fame is equally matched with the curse swimming through your family’s blood‒ one which announces death and tragedy to your lovers, unless they are your true love‒ your soulmate. However there is no assurance that soulmates truly exist, only the madness that comes as an endless thirst for it. So you extinguish that thirst, settling for quick, messy flings‒ much to the dismay of your childhood friend, Vil Scoenheit. You lament your own tragedy through woeful verses, masked in the sweltering felicity of your music. Vil always trails that sorrow back to you, wishing to embrace you in his warmth to take it away, even for a moment. But the members of your family who had found love unobstructed by the gods were great lovers to heroes, kings, queens, and warriors‒ who was he, seen by most as a villain, to taint that possibility for you? 

Notes: Orpheus inspired reader, with a friends to lovers dynamic with Vil, GN pronouns. Continuation of my myth-inspired series

CW: Mentions of death and suicide, references to depression 

AO3 Link Here.

Masterlist

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The child of a legendary line of poets, bards, and musicians‒ you were always surrounded by lush sounds of harps, guitars, and voices which trilled of bittersweet love‒ ones which you echoed with your own youthful voice, plucking your golden lyre with what could only be described as divine sensibility. From age ten, you were rumored to have the ability to command flowers to a weeping sorrow, cap mountains with a fury of snow with a single verse. As such, it was given that your house was often host to lavish festivities, one which you enjoyed particularly because you liked seeing your mother up and out from your bed, shining in her freshly ironed dress and combed hair. It was rare to see her talking so brightly with the guests, but the way the room spun as adults pushed questions upon questions onto you made you scurry off from the ballroom, off to find somewhere to practice your melody.  

Finding a window tipped towards the ocean, you sat on the ornate bench facing the high moon, plucking your lure and singing a ballad of two star crossed lovers, soulmates, the lyrics specified, and the events which bled into their untimely demise. Their love so endless, spun into the eternity of myth, deathless as the gods themselves. You wondered a bit if they had any relation to your family, bearing the same cursed blood as you to have their tragedy to be the only thing fossilized into eternity like that‒ your blood cursed with similar ill fate in love until they found their soulmate. Even with the sliver of possible paradise, the gods promised heartbreak and woe to be cried from your throat in form of a song. Despite the ease of which you could spill brilliant notes and verses from your heart, your throat was always raw from the cursed blood inside of you, as if it knew of the coming agony that lay before it. 

"Do you really believe in that story?" A familiar face crept into the jewel-toned blue of the moonlight. 

You greeted it brightly. "Vil!" Koinonos, companion‒ in anything, perhaps the only one you knew that fit that word. 

"I thought I'd find you here." He sat next to you with a weary sigh. "And thank the gods I did. It's getting boring out there."

"I could imagine. Bla bla bla finance bla bla bla business. All they talk about these days. Even mother."

"Hm. My father also. Why can't they speak of more interesting, more beautiful things?" When he speaks, he never breaks the thread between his eyes and yours. Unlike the adults or their children who looked through you, tipping their head to the vastness of your family’s legends, Vil spoke clearly to you, the one that was here, now. 

"If you want to hear something beautiful, lend me your ear for this lowly bard." You bowed dramatically with a hand in the air. Vil giggled. That was one of your favorite sounds, even competing with the rich colors of your golden lyre, gifted from the gods. When you returned it to him‒ Vil mirrors your sentiment in his head in a clandestine whisper, only known to you in glimpses in the glassy warmth of his eyes.

You spoke of soulmates and heartache once more. When you ended the song in a mixed tune, Vil lulls his head into his hands behind his neck, flashing the cool violet of his eyes at you. 

"Do you believe in soulmates?" 

"Hah." You hacked out a laughter from your chest‒ taught and stiff. "It would be a wonderful thing wouldn't it? If soulmates existed." Sure, those who found soulmates in your family married kings and queens, heroes and the finest warriors‒ but the rest? They slipped into madness from relentless heartbreak, twisting towards death as they repeated songs which only reflected their own agony. The gods were cruel this way‒ such ripe, sweet fruit bearing on a tree full of thorns swelling with poison. You had so much of your love to give to that sweet morsel‒ but it felt like such a distant thing, a fairy tale of sorts, that even at your young age you broke that fantasy for yourself before you tore yourself apart trying like you had witnessed your mother had. You decided before your sixth birthday, when you were gifted your golden lyre with the title euainētos, well praised, that you would be content picking at the flowers beneath that thorned tree, occupying yourself with smaller loves, smaller heartbreaks without so much as desiring that fruit ripening at the branches reaching the heavens. 

"You don't think they do?" Vil almost pleaded. He could feel the desperation tightening of his throat. 

You looked up at the portrait of your family above you, just you and your mother, absent of your late father you had known better of his fists rather than his face. Sometimes, you had doubted you were from your mother’s womb‒ bearing little resemblance to her her face‒ but you felt a seed taking root inside of you as you witnessed her heart break over and over again, ensuring that the cursed blood that was beginning to grow in your body was indeed one which beat under her thick skin as well. You plucked the strings on the lyre, weaving a melancholic tune. 

Rare‒ Vil thought‒ you had always paired even your most woeful lyrics with the brightest notes‒ but anything that came from your fingers seemed to have a brilliant magnificence to it, divine, was the only word he could think of. The moonlight beads down the strings of your lyre like thin droplets dancing in the air, and it suspends you in a heavenly glow as you close your eyes, spinning a downwards tune. He flushes a bit at the thought. 

"No. I don't think so." You answered simply, a narrow smile and eyes reached your face, turning to Vil. 

"Oh." 

A light laugh escaped your throat, head thrown back to lean against the window. "Don't be so glum Vil." The liveliness in your eyes dimmed, hands slowing to a feathery sound. "I was just speaking for myself. You're beautiful." 

A hair had fallen onto his face, you swept it back with lithe fingers, resisting the temptation to trace the delicate features on his face. Tall, slender nose; rosey heart-shaped lips, lavender eyes speckled with sharp arrows of frosted blue. You tried to liken it to something in your head‒ twisting a poem in your mind‒ but no words you knew were big enough to describe his beauty. "I'm sure there's someone perfect out there for you who can recognize that." You curved your lips, deepening the smile in hopes of communicating your candor. 

He turned his tinted face away from you, simply answering: "Play louder." 

You did, a blithe color erupting from light beaming onto the strings of your lyre as they danced between your fingers‒ your throat the color of fresh blood as you trilled a song of woeful lovers. Vil didn't dare move his eyelids further up, afraid that if his lashes lifted, revealing your entire face to his gaze‒ his lips would betray him into a shameful quiver. Once he had, when he found a deep sorrow in your eyes, as infinite as the prickling stars in the sky, even with your hands which whirled with such an elated melody. He almost heaved with tears that time‒ he was only ten, after all. But you, the same age as him, seemed so much more wiser to tragedy, bearing it with a silky smile. 

He hoped what you said about him was true‒ that he would find a soulmate‒ but when your statement before sounded just as certain. Anything that came from your mouth did to him‒ it rang as clear as glorious mountains forged by the gods, and as robust as rolling waves of the holy seas. Like your ancestors, he felt that you had the power to move nature‒ crumble mountains and make the sun know heartbreak. If you said soulmates didn't exist, he would simply believe that as fact. Still‒ a tightness swirled inside him, one with a feverish heat that wriggled inside his chest.

A few months later, a letter arrived at his home, informing him and his father of your mother's death. At the bottom of the letter rested a wobbly signature, your name, written in red ink. You were only ten‒ what ten year olds practiced their signature enough for it to be as elegant and poised as an adult's? He walked to your house, a bundle of lavender from the garden as an offering. You took it with cold hands when you opened the door to the empty house, letting in Vil with that soft smile. 

"I have to…I have to sing at her funeral. And speak too." You stared distantly at the soundless waves, facing away from your family portrait. "What…what should I say?" 

"You shouldn't have to say anything if you don't want to." He camped next to your body's warmth, wanting desperately to let it scorch him by embracing you. But he thought it would not be a comfort if he had. 

"It's in her will." The adults already decided. "What do I even say that's not already known?" A bitter laugh pushes past your lips. "Sorry for all the trouble of gathering here‒ you all already knew this was going to happen? Yeah guys the prophecy is true‒ you can stop gossiping about it? You think they'll let me off the hook if I just don't stop crying?" You paused your chattering laughter. "I could if I wanted to, you know."

"You should cry whenever you want for as much as you want. We’re young, we should be afforded that right." He felt the stillness blistering in the air. After a moment, you answered with a weariness he wasn't used to seeing in your face. Still, it flowered gracefully in your eyes, soft as the cerulean moonglow and the velvety waves which were pulled by it. 

"Will you help me write the speech?" 

"Me?"

"Who else? I have no other friends. No one." 

Vil's eyes flashed through faces which laughed and danced with you. "How about the others from your party?" 

"They're not my friends." You leaned against him, rocking your head in the curve of his shoulder. "Not like you are." Koinonos, companion‒ in anything.

His breath stuttered for a moment, before he muffled it with a deep breath that raised his chest. 

"Sorry‒ you don't‒"

"No." He tried again, softer. "No. I'll do it. Of course I will." 

"Okay." If he were to guess that quiet voice came from your powerful throat‒ he would have guessed wrong by the crackling whisper of your reply. He also couldn't have guessed you were crying from the stillness of your form, but he knew the trick. The heat that rose to your face and the subtle shudder of your inhale was one he knew well. He said nothing, taking your sadness in without any need for words. 

The funeral was planned by you, and a few of your mother's friends since you were not yet at the age where you could sign legal documents. They pat your still back in sympathy, especially when they find through the surrounding gossip that you were the one to find her feet dangling above a tilted pile of scores and books of hymns. 

"I'm sorry."

"She deserved better."

"I'm sorry."

"She will never be forgotten."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry."

Who are you all sorry for? You thought, standing above her body blanketed in firewood. You wanted to crawl into her arms, but you felt that she would not let go if you had‒ you knew she was tiring of losing‒ dragging down blood of her own blood. The tightness of her decaying skin, the flowers which were delicately placed to hide her bruised, broken neck slammed your chest down to your small feet, which you heaved back up with steady breaths and rapid blinking, and the privacy of your face afforded when you bent down to place a coin on her cold tongue, your hair veiling the affliction in your eyes. 

You played her a song on a harp as long and tall as your grief. At ten, you were seasoned with that agony through blood and bone‒ no tears rose to your flesh during the ritual‒ the song, the speech, the mourning. Most left after you had kindled the fire to her flaring tomb, leaving after squeezing you with empty hands and words. You sat facing away from the blazing fire, weaving your hands in the grass poking out from the seaside cliff. Vil sat himself beside you hours ago, watching the waves crash against the rocks, withering it. 

"Do you truly think love exists?" 

He sat, thinking what words would comfort you. "I do. When you sing of it in your songs, I believe it." He knew his truth would be as much as he could give. 

"When I die, Vil." You looked straight at the swelling waves. "Will you be the one to sing at my funeral? Will you speak for me? Ignite my body?"

Funerary songs were reserved for the direct relatives of the deceased‒ mothers, daughters, sons, lovers, husbands, and wives. You had no father, no siblings, no spouse or children‒ and now, no mother. The thought of you dying before you could even make such connections choked him. "I'm not much of a singer." He says, throat wobbling. 

"Your singing is divine, Vil." Your smile draws shakily today. "Sing a happy song for me. Let people dance, sing, laugh. Bring people together." He averted his gaze away from the tears that silently trekked down your face, he knew better than to watch you break. "This is way too depressing. It's better to think of happiness and beauty during times like this, isn't it?" 

He wanted so badly to look at you when he answered, "Yes. It really is." 

"Don't die before me, Vil. I want to hear your beautiful song." You embraced him to hide your face. 

"I won't." He knew at the moment, why Orpheus had looked behind to gaze at his Eurydice's face when he couldn't hear her footsteps. He could barely hear your heartbeat, your crying, against the roaring waves hammering against the cliffside. But he felt stronger than your divine ancestors that day, cradling your face behind his own without turning, still as the rocks sinking and appearing from the cold waters. 

——————————————————

Despite your busy schedules, you stay in touch through piles of letters, small gifts with even smaller notes scribbled: “This made me think of you”, and sly backstage passes to each other's performances. He knows of the messy, brash flings you have with people, and the ease it brings you‒ after all, where else would you put all the love you have? To a curse that promised something unfathomable to you that would lead towards a path of self annihilation? He knew better than to question your actions in that, ready to silently sit beside you during days where it all weighed upon you. Moments you would lay stagnant in your bed reminded you of the slivers of memories you had of your mother‒ furthering the hope that Vil had not forgotten the promise he made on that burning cliffside.That cursed blood receded, and returned to you like the ceaseless oceans‒ a divine revenge coming closer and closer to crashing upon you as you felt the love inside you threatening to burst open at your seams. However, you waded that thick, flushing blood like water‒ carelessly throwing yourself against bodies that desired to devour such a passionate and powerful beast such as your legacy. The sexual pleasure helped a bit with the “muchness” of it all‒ despite the slight dismay of Vil, who saw the growing amount of alcohol and people you consumed during the nights of festivities at Night Raven College you often hosted. However, that would never stop him from checking on you the next day, bringing you cups of water along with a much needed lecture on alcohol consumption. It’s not like you didn’t stop being his friend after all‒ calming and assuring him during moments of his own doubts and rage whenever he was informed he was selected for yet another villain role. Those were rare times where you returned to the tranquility and delicacy of your childhoods‒ belting funny and melancholic tunes of gallant lovers and beautiful princes, wrapped in the blankets of Vil’s private quarters. There was a valor, a resistance in this happiness, the laughter from Vil’s lips making the moments even sweeter. It almost made you want to reach for that tantalizing fruit, but the poison rooted in your blood made you stop before you could even try. 

But moments like that, were again, rare. Most of your time was filled with smuggling alcohol into the Pomefiore dorm, hosting elaborate parties and such that gained you the reputation as “party animal”, a raging appetite befitting one too. Some even joked that you bore a similarity to Dionysus, jolly god of wine‒ ironic, considering your ancient records say your ill fate was because your ancestor angered him, causing the curse to fall upon your family. Nonetheless, the title was one you took with pride, becoming host to hours filled with music, food, and drunken splendor. 

"Let's begin the festivities!" You fluttered your hands prettily into the bustling air, the gold twisting around your wrists letting out a merry jingle as you let your fingers dance drunkenly towards a bass guitar. 

Vil quirked a brow. "You know how to play? I didn't know." 

"No." You tested the strings with lithe fingers, humming. "But I'll learn." A smirk fell onto your lips, immediately echoing onto Vil's own. Your plucking already sounded like the most masterful composition to him. 

He kept that same questioning curve to his brows while letting out a huff of laugher. So cocky as always he thought‒ but he knew once you whirled around the floor, throwing your head back with an airy laugh to bask in the light of the gods‒ the instrument would be singing a vivid tune. When that dazzling sound came from you‒ you flashed a crescent smile at Vil‒ leaping into the crowd to create high spirits, doing so with a blinding radiance. The warmth of your songs beamed on Vil's face despite you twirling far away, leaving him to his own devices. He knew you were too bright, too limber to be held only by him‒ and it would burn when he tried. Though he would spring to that blistering feeling like flowers to the sun‒ he knew the gods made you so it was almost unbearable to keep all of your splendor to just himself. He watched with a smile from a distance, admiring how you lifted the crowd into a howling merriness that shook heated bodies against each other. He too joined that swelling warmth in the room, smashing his body against it, the taste of alcohol tipped onto his mouth as he poured the drink down his throat in one go. It made his head buzz blindly, letting him loosen his body to whirling movements. 

When you cried his name, hollering a cheerful whoop at the quickness of which he drained the drink, he wondered if it was your music or the alcohol that was flushing his cheeks, bringing hot blood floundering to his prickling skin. He shifted his eyes to you once more, but you were no longer looking at him, flashing between bustling bodies, and he ignored the tugging feeling when he thought he saw you dancing next to a certain Kingscholar, throwing your head back into his chest, spilling your hair and drink onto his skin. Vil almost drinks himself to a stupor thinking about it, but reminds himself of the bloating he would have to deal with tomorrow morning if he did. So he turns from you, closing his eyes to the rhapsody of your music. 

The night feels endless, and tomorrow feels far. But the tiredness of Vil’s muscles comes sharply, waking him from that distance. The weariness of his body sinks deep into his face as he finishes his skincare for the morning, and he decides a smoothie would give him the burst of energy he needed for the rest of the day. Padding over to the kitchen, he sees a familiar figure slumped over on the couch, a tangled mess in a flurry of blankets and clothes. 

“(Name).”

You give a jumbled response, pressing your head deeper into the crevice of the couch. 

“You’re going to regret it if you sleep here, you know. I don’t want to hear you complain about it later.” 

Another groan, before you sat up, your head lolling to the back of the couch when you did. The openness of your crinkled shirt revealed violet bite marks and bruises blooming on your skin, before they were tucked under your head once more, a smirk reaching your lips when you caught Vil staring. 

“What? Like what you see?” Vil hated when you teased like this‒ because he so badly wanted to answer‒ yes, yes, of course I do you idiot, I have for years. But he deflects your question per usual, turning his back to you to make his morning slurry of fruit and vegetables. 

“Ugh. Cover yourself, you drunken bard. Actually‒ please change. You absolutely reek of alcohol.” 

“Do I? Hardly noticed.” 

“Tends to happen when you’re around it so often.” 

“Oi! I’m not the only one who was drinking last night. I saw you down that entire cup of sangria last night.”

“Yes but I don’t come back with bruises on my neck do I?” 

You see Vil pour out two drinks‒ you’ve never seen him not do this in your presence. Still, you thank him when he hands you the cup.

“Hey nothing wrong with a little roughness.” You spread a sly smile on your lips, lifting your eyebrows in a suggestive manner. ”Besides‒ easier to just let ‘em do whatever, you know?” 

Vil squints his eyes in concern, before he takes a sip of his smoothie to suppress the energy bustling out of him, sparked out of the anger he feels in your statement. Still, he’s careful with his words before leaving the room. “Just…be careful.”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

——————————————————

You tried to sleep that day to prepare for the school week that followed, but you were woken several times in a cold sweat, haunted by images of your mother’s dangling feet in the air. You breathe heavily, heart weighed by the burden of your blood. Would you end the same? Seeing glimpses of your mother in your own moments of despondency had brought this question closer and closer as time passed, as the love inside of you was begging to be displaced anywhere but inside your thin, rupturing skin. Perhaps death would be an easier home than finding a residence for that love somewhere.

The gods were cruel even in times like this‒ bidding: sing, sing, turning your blood hot and writhing in your tired body. You moved your heavy limbs from the crushing weight rippling from your chest, clamoring in your hands the golden lyre. Euainētos‒ well praised. By whom but by the gods who dangled the ripening fruit far from your reach, or by the people who rush to your givings, but never return with any of your adoration? Sure your legacy may be well-praised, but what about you? You try not to think about it, or yourself‒ spinning instead a lament of two lovers, one set off to find their beloved in the land of the dead. Perhaps this score could hold your pain, just for a moment. 

The softness of your voice comes as a willowy whisper, the blistering rawness of your throat tipped upwards towards the heavens to cool in the pin-pricked starlights and forlorn incandescence of the moon. The flowers near your window drooped at anguish laced in your low notes, you felt a deathly weight unravel from your lips, unfurling into the crisp night air, turning it to a frosty winter, negating all of the sun's warmth mirrored on the high moon. Even on this temperate autumn night, your music brings frost to the delicate petals of the flowers surrounding your window, seizing the fragrant water that slept in the flora in your chilled sorrow. 

Vil hears this bellowing ballad from his window, and feels it in the growing coldness of the air. To him, your music always smelled of late autumn winding to winter‒ it's crisp, unforgiving wind warmed with the spices and colors of the mountains; the scent of decomposing leaves and thrashing dirt; its perfume of smoked wood turning to ashes. It also brought him the salt behind his eyes, the copper taste upon his lips when such a levitious melody trailed a fragrance of setting decay. It was almost masked with the aroma you wore‒ a summery scent‒ fresh, sun bathed dew on candied lavender‒ he could follow its deep scent to the sweet smile that always flowered on your face. But it never did mask the scent of endings, the smell of dwindling, evanescent light. He inhaled all of it knowing he could not escape it‒ the salt, the decaying earth, the sweet florals‒ knowing he could trail that scent blindly in the shackles of hell. But this time, that maytime veil barely masked the frosted musk of your tender, singing flesh‒ murmuring a low tune of lovers fated in destruction. It worried him. 

"You awake?" He texts you.

The voice seeping through the cracks of his window stops for a moment, before a reply comes. "Yeah. How'd you know?" 

"We literally live right next to each other."

"Oh."

.....

"Yeah. Forgot about that. Sorry if I woke you up from your beauty sleep~ Don't kill me please?? I'm too cute to be murdered" 

Vil throws the satin covers from his body, shuffling his slippers on and heading to your door. He barely knocks once before you're opening it, blanket tangled over your body. Your scent washes over him like the mild sun, but is quickly chilled by a wintery aroma that freezes his breath tightly in his lungs. The bags that weighed under your eyes accentuated the hollowness in them, if not then by the your smile that didn't bother to reach past your lips. 

"Come on. We're doing face masks as long as you're interrupting my beauty sleep. Those eye bags are going to take care of themselves."

"A way with words, this one." You watch Vil march over to your vanity, pulling out a bottle that was part of a gift he had given you during your many exchanges. "And I thought I was the only bard." You squint your eyes a bit to make the curve on your lips more believable but Vil returns the look with a slather of a cold substance onto your skin.

"Ack! Your hands are freezing you heartless bi‒!" He smacks another glob on your cheek. 

"I wonder whose fault that is, hm?" 

You look at him perplexed, before he pointed his gaze towards the roses that had begun to wilt at your window. 

"Oh did I…?" They weren't like that before. Those blooming buds had been alive just now‒ you swore it. But now, turned gray and cold, they began to behead from their stems onto your floor. "I did it again, didn't I." 

"Can you undo it?" Vil asks softly, now spreading the substance onto his own skin. 

"I mean I could. Theoretically, yes. But right now I just‒" A sudden pain lurched inside your chest, clutching your throat in a quiver. You quelled it with a thick breath in, swallowing it down the constriction of your throat.  "- I‒I just can't‒ I‒" 

His gaze softens, and he places a clean hand on top of your own, warming it from the cold metal instrument that sat below your palm. "It's fine. You don't have to. It's okay."

"Okay." Your voice comes small and frail like a newborn bird. It swoops to Vil’s heart, soaring it‒ but he brings it down to earthly terrain, macerating the hunger of his hands, begging to take all of your pain away‒ to squeeze it out with his love. But what right did he have, tainting your legacy, your potential like that? You were meant to intertwine with legends and the blood of royalty, heroes, mighty warriors‒ he felt that you would be deathless in your art as the gods, divine power swelling in your carnal body reaching the eternity you deserved. Then maybe he could break the promise he made by the cliffside, never having to face your own flaming pyre. 

But he is reminded of your humanity when you shake silently like a wind whipped oak‒ that trick of yours he knew never to voice‒ for a moment, decorticating the towering facade hardened by the curse, the legacies, the thickness of your blood, withering away until it revealed your small form. He felt small too, returning to similar moments like this in childhood where you cried a whisper louder. But like Eurydice's final footsteps, your woeful imprint on this earth were beginning to sound more and more distant, and it grew the fear in Vil that you would disappear somewhere far off from him. Still, the stubbornness of his doubts and self image tethered to his insides like a quick, sinking poison, suspending him in a moment of paradise and hell. He imagined this was the reality you lived as well. 

In a moment of weakness, he determined, he indulges in his grasping notions, hugging a single hand to your bare shoulder, feeling the smoothness of your skin as he rubs it. You sink into this warmth, moving your head to his lap and unwinding into his heat. His satin robes smelled of lavender and rich vanilla, sweet as his plush palms lulling you to sleep. 

You hope he stays the night, caging you in this warmth until you wake again, but he never does. 

——————————————————

It's the weekend again, which means yet another celebration hosted at the Pomefiore halls. You begin the preparations at late noon, having slept off the exhaustion of the week's low mood until the last possible minute. It wasn't much effort, it's not like people your age were particularly picky as long as hard liquor and junky snacks were involved. You took a quick swig of the nearly empty bottle, enjoying the dizzy fever it brought to your head. 

"Drinking already? Honestly (Name)..." Vil sighs as passes by the hall, returning from his workout. 

Feeling color rise to your cheeks as your eyes glaze over his exposed body, you decide it was a perfect opportunity to chalk up to your growing alcohol intake. "Uhh yup. You know me." You smile tightly, as he enters the ballroom, emptying the water bottle in his hand in huge gulps, ripping the mound on his throat in a rhythmic wave. The way his hair curls messily at his neck, sweat beading down his chest makes your head spin some metaphor likening his stature to mighty marble masses‒ but the sound of your heart thundering away at your ears makes you deaf to your own song. 

"What? Like what you see?" He mirrors your exact words from the other day, a mischievous glint in his eye. As much as you detested the teasing, you loved the look of his face. Not Vil Schoenheit, the actor; or Vil Schoenheit, loved by all‒ just, plainly, Vil. Your Vil‒  Koinonos, companion‒ in anything, your heart blared. But you killed that voice as soon as it rose, busying your head with the ecstacy of boozy daze with another swig of another bottle. This would be your companion for the night. 

"Suck my‒" You began, but was met with a solid chest right as you swiveled on your feet to exit the room, the intoxication reaching your movements when you knocked back onto the floor on your behind. 

"Elegant." Vil responds with a raised brow. 

"Sorry!" 

You recognized the face but not the name, prompting you to scramble through your memories for one. "Hey Uuh…" Blank. Nope. Nothing. "Sorry‒ what was your name again?"

"Oh! Yuri, remember? We uh‒ you don't remember last week?" 

It clicked in your brain. Shit, why was he here? Usually your flings knew to avoid pursuing or meeting you again because of the whole curse situation. But situations like this happened now and again, you were just hoping it was resultant from a lack of knowledge of your bloodline than some extravagant declaration of "love". You answer, with a poised smile on your lips. "Yeah, I do, sorry my memory gets foggy sometimes. Can I help you with something?" 

"I…" His eyes sway from yours to Vil's. "I was just‒ here!" 

To only your slight surprise, an envelope is shoved in your face. His hands shake a bit from his nerves, ears tinted dark while his face hides in the deep bow he positions his body in to hand you the paper. Inhaling a mulled breath, you wrap your hands softly around his wrist, tugging it to raise his face. He doesn't meet your eyes‒ you don't blame him.

"Hey." You begin, setting the bottle of alcohol on the table. "Let's talk in the hall, okay?"

He nods, retracting his hand from your back to his chest. Vil shoots a concerned look at your now completely sobered expression, but you just smile and wave, shutting the door quietly behind you. 

"I appreciate it. I really do. But you know about my bloodline‒"

"I do! I'm ready to make that commitment! I think‒ know I know this is love! Don't you feel it too? Isn't that why‒"

"Do you honestly believe true love exists? We're strangers. We forever will be." You notice his eyes that look distantly through yours. 

"When you sing of it, I do." 

You blink. Somehow, those same words from Vil sounded less believable when this man‒ declaring his unflinching commitment‒ utters them. There’s a certainty that is embedded inside you that you’re not used to, that says you’d believe Vil’s words hell and back over any other person in this world‒ even over any other arduous confessions of love no matter how much you wanted to seize an opportunity, a chance, any glimpse of serendipity in love. But you placate that hunger, bury it deep in your darkened stomach, killing it kindly with the fragrant flowers that seat beneath that tangling tree of ripening fruit. There’s a whiff of lavender which trickles from above, but you pull yourself from it to focus on the moment. 

"It doesn't exist. Neither for you or I, or anyone. Do you want to know what happened to my ancestors and their lovers?" 

He shakes his head. "I don't care about any of that, I‒" You take a hand to his pulse, measuring it’s speed with the stilled rhythm of your own. 

"Some die horrifically, ripped apart by furies. Some go mad and take their own lives because they can't stand the thought of potentially suffering a death like that. Others have been killed, poisoned, struck and tortured by the gods. You’ll become their little plaything, like me." Relief floods you as his pulse begins to quicken, stuttering at your words. But, these words come as a generosity. "Are you ready for something like that? A fate worse than death? For something as flimsy as 'true love'?" His eyebrows furrow, he squeezes the envelope between his clammy fingers. 

You decide to make this easier for him, taking the words from his heart and whirling them on your tongue. You've heard it plenty before from your days of romantic pursuit, despite the sacred promises to yourself when you were younger. But you're glad it gives you the script for times like this. The words roll off like practiced notes on your lyre.

"You're fun, you're beautiful, I like you and all…" A smile crept on your lips, like an infinite curse, widespread and flowering on your face. 'I know, I know' it says, the muchness of it all, I know. What else could you do but smile in the face of such heavenly concocted absurdity? "But we both know how this ends, right? Put your love somewhere else. Somewhere precious, yeah?” 

He nods silently, and you afford him the dignity to leave as such. Vil’s eyes flicker to your expression, then back to his phone when you slip back into the ballroom, which fills with silence. You take another swig of the bottle to beat the growing heaviness pounding a crater inside your chest. 

“Carter called, says he’s bringing his friends over soon. With the amount of people that were on the call you’ve got a lot of work to do.” 

“Correction‒ they will have a lot of work to do. They’re going to help me.” You drop your back onto the couch, sinking into it and Vil’s shoulder. He flashes you an annoyed look, but he doesn’t budge. 

“In that case I’m going to get changed. Don’t want to have a drunken bard ordering me around.” 

“Okay, I’ll let you know when my servants finish up with preparations~” You reach to your lyre and strum the strings carelessly. You imagine the giggle that would emit from Vil’s throat, but you’re met with a stiff laugh, his usual vibrancy between you two smothered by the concern of his eyes. You play a merry tune to soothe this expression, relieved when his posture seems to relax a bit. This silent language is thrown between you at all times, and it forges a weltering tension in your chest, something you try to pacify with the bright song erupting from your lyre. But the music seems to dull when Vil leaves, relaxing your smile into an empty gaze to the skies in his absence. 

——————————————————

Preparations are done just in time (much to the resistance of Carter and his friends) before people begin flooding into the dorm, reaching immediately for the alcohol that loosens their nerves. You're quite drunk by then, babbling on about some ancient heroic hymns and the process of which ambrosia is dedicated to the gods, dancing your fingers across a lute with a whirling fervor. You swing your body with a feverish madness, throwing it against the vivacious bodies bouncing across the room, sinking your mouth into the bitter lips of a bottle once more‒ hoping to jostle and boil the ache in your body with some lunatic passion. But soon, that cavity in your chest grows too heavy for you to move your body with such vigor‒ and you excuse yourself out of the room onto the balcony, despite the pleas for another song. Even with their roaring solicitation, begging for another intoxicating melody, promising a dimness in the room if you leave it‒ the space remains hot and lively as you turn from it, sobering you with the chilled autumn evening, and the darkened blueness of the world. 

You find the golden lyre in your hands, your florid fingers grazing the engraved wreath composed of the many titles your ancestors bore. Orphéfs, Aoidan Patēr, Tælætárkhis, Kælefstís, Khrysolýris ,Prophítis, Khrysáoros, Onomaklyton, Chrysolyrēs, Paian, and finally, Euainētos. It spans the entire arch of the metal, beginning from the coiled head of the instrument, ending with your title at the opposite tip, filling the space with each letter‒ E U A I N Ē T O S‒ to leave no capacity for another. Perhaps it was all fated in the beginning, to slowly chip away at your bloodline‒ until someone like you remained, alone, and ended your legacy in that way as divine punishment. Even on these nights you sung wonderful merriness into, you retreated like this‒ helpless to the waves of pity and the axis of despair that spun you dizzy‒ whipping and cracking against your crumbling heart as you were reminded of the burden of the gift, the kindness, the everything you had to keep giving while killing any sort of expectation for anything. But at times that hunger for that tantalizing fruit swelled, the sweetness of looking into the face of love gathering the pieces of your heart and molding it together in its temporary warmth. Surely, it is not bravery, but perhaps blindness, stupidity‒ that reeled you back like this every time, whispering against bruised flesh‒ the hurt would be worth it this time. You really never knew if it was, having a seasoned sense to extinguish that voice when you remembered the poison that would lay in your path because of it. 

During times like this, you were careful not to weave your own poetry‒ afraid that if you had unleashed all of this emptiness at once, the world would decay and pulverize into stardust, quieted from all of its life and launched every which way into the eternal cosmos‒ the gods, tipping their ears to your destruction, and punishing you with another effortless thrust that hurdled you off the cliff of your mountain of love into the endless pits of your grief. So you recited a hymn of two star-crossed lovers, encrusting the roses that weaved onto the balcony with a white frost. 

“Hey.” The gentleness of that voice for a moment brought a stuttering warmth to your song‒ breathing a lifted radiance that bloomed into the flowers. But you quelled the muchness, the everything even as it burns in the tightness of your throat, managing to return a small, “Hey” back to Vil. 

“Tired already?” 

You scoff with a slight smile on your lips. “You wish.The night is still young.” You make room for Vil on the bench, dangling off nearly half your body when you do. He sits with a delicate grace, his sweet perfume reaching your nose with a twinge of alcohol melded in. 

“The air feels nice. Reminds me of back home.” 

Home. You try to imagine it, and you're just met with dusty, barren rooms‒ and Vil, Vil, Vil. He is everywhere in your memories and tethered to home, filling that empty house with his laughter, his warmth. Like your memories, you allow yourself to sink into him, filling your chest with his sensation. The bench is not meant for two people, but you manage. 

“Tell me, which one of your stories were you babbling on about?” 

“Oh nothing, really. Just some old tale, not any of mine. I’m tired of having to thread something from myself.” 

“All these old tales‒ they all end the same don’t they.” He recalls his career, strife with the same, fairytale endings over, and over, and over again. The villain, no matter how bright, how cunning, how beautiful‒ will fall, slain at the feet of the hero. He understood your sophistication to this tragedy at a young age, bearing this destruction over and over. Still, your back remained ever brighter than anyone he knew despite being whipped against this ceaseless death. “Why don’t you sing of something more bright, beautiful, happy in your life?” 

You chuckle. “What, like you?” The air cools the slight flush of your skin. Raising your hand to the skies like a muse, you lift your body to the balcony railing, lunging towards the heavens. “Oh gods lend thy ears to my hymn dedicated to very best companion‒ Vil Schoenheit‒ his beauty surpassing all those on this land even you dreadful creatures‒ kindness penetrating all of sentient beings; hair silky smooth as Galatea's skin‒ whoa!” 

Vil catches you by the waist before you tip over the edge of the rail, almost melting in your mild aroma if it wasn’t for your loss of balance. He swings you down to the balcony floor. 

“You.. half witted, drunken bard. I’ll kill you if I start wrinkling at this age because of your antics.” 

You lean back onto the balcony, afraid of the soaring feeling his touch engraved in you. Your breath stinks of liquor as you let out a laugh, throwing your head back off the rail. “The god won’t hear anyway. The story I must tell is already composed in the stars by their hands.” The corner of your lips weighs into a softer, mathematical smile‒ one which ensured it warranted no pity, no kindness, no woe. “I have no true say in what I sing. It doesn’t matter. None of it does.” 

You avoid Vil’s face, but your eyes heave over to them in a covetous gaze. There is no pity, no kindness, no woe‒ but understanding‒ something which makes you want to fall deep into the earth, all the way to the chamber of Hades, to bury yourself deep into the cold ground to shackle down any desire that may arise for that dangling fruit. But you yield to the celestial warmth in them, one which reflects the heat of your fluttering heartbeat in the tender lavender of his eyes. A warmth that did not burn, or was fed by taking your own, one which glowed with sublime beauty and touched like warm flesh. It takes an agonizing effort from you to sink and sabotage your heart from enjoying that tender touch, instead reaching your hands to the wintery, still metal of your lyre.

“...I understand that feeling. It's the same when you get type-casted over and over again." He stares at your hands plucking a wistful tune. "It's like you have no story to tell but the ones people keep deciding for you."

Your hands move ceaselessly to twist a sorrowful song, so shamelessly in front of Vil. You plucked with mulled, languid fingers, aching to play something much faster, much lighter than the weight licking against the strings of your heart. But a growing force born of your own flesh, would not let you, seizing control of your body and its movements, intoxicating it with a rupture, a breaking, a splitering that followed the lines of old scars. 

“You’re so beautiful, Vil. And so diligent, resilient too. You could command the seas and the stars if you pleased.” You giggled to squint your eyes, hoping it would shade the absolute adoration within them. “You’ll be whatever you want to be. That’s the Vil I know. I don’t care if you’re a hero, or a villain. You’re…” everything. All of it. “...you’re always that beautiful Vil to me.” 

He believes every word from you, he always does. Anger sparks in him. "What about you, then?" Those words came fast, escaping his throat without a hesitance prickling through it.

"Hm? What about me?" 

"You're the same‒ you could shake the earth with your songs, and you do." A heated temper welled inside him, buzzing, swollen like a burn. How dare you speak like this? How dare you speak so lowly, so carelessly to the one he loved? "What about you? What will you become?" 

"It is already decided‒"

"By who exactly?" He demanded, louder.

"By the gods of course. The ones which my family dishonored‒ "

“I am asking about you‒ what do you want? What will you do with all your love?” What about us? He wished things were a certain way so he could have tasted the sweetness of those words. But he bit his tongue. 

A hollow laugh thrusts past your lips. "But why should I try? Only few have returned from the trials of love with someone to share that victory with. Many take their lives‒ you know‒ my mother did." You rested your hand on top of your instrument. "It all ends the same. They all leave.”

"But they're not you." 

"The same blood flows within me." He was being so persistent tonight. You wished he’d give up, but it would also break you if he abandoned you at this moment. 

He can’t help the sarcasm lacing into his voice, rising from the rage swelling inside him. "I wasn’t aware you passed down the same heart too, is it a family heirloom?”

The silence hurt your ears like a bitter, frosted wind, matching the feeling in your chest that ached so freshly at those thrashing words. 

“They don’t.” You answered finally. “But this heart is neither theirs nor mine. It is for the gods to ravage. And I don’t know where to put it. All this love.” You turn towards the sky, sparing him the sight of your tears. 

“Okay, fine.” Vil sucked a breath in, he was feeling brave now‒ perhaps it was blindness, stupidity. “Then let me have it.” 

"...what?" He sees the tension grow in your shoulders, the heave of your white breath against the inky, cold air. 

"Give it to me." He said with more greed, hunger rumbling, plump in his veins. 

"No." You gripped the gilded gold handle of your lyre. "No. I cannot do that to you. I won't. You're‒ you're‒" Everything. Love. My memories. My love. My everything. The words came tumbling from your mouth. "You're too precious, Vil. What would the world do without you?" No. You felt those weren't quite the right words. "What would I do without you?"

Vil swallows the space between you two with one step.“You won’t have to live without me. I’ll be here. With you.” 

“You don’t know that! Don’t‒ don’t say things like that.” You shake, those words sharpened at him, lashing against his sweetness. “I can’t lose you. You’re different, you’re unlike anyone I’ve met. Even the gods cannot tear you away from me. I…” I love you. “...I could not bear it if you sunk below this mortal sea‒ if I robbed you of your life. Don’t do this. Stop.” 

He embraces your form. You want to lurch away from his tender arms, but you can’t. His arms station themselves like ancient stone around your body. “The gods have always been merciful to you when they brought us together. But you have not been the same to yourself.” 

You thumbed your title on your lyre numbly, pleading. “Stop. Don’t do this. Don’t say things like that.” Don’t, don’t, don’t.  

“Don’t take me for a fool, tell me why, then. Did all of these years mean nothing to you?“

“Because it will fade. Love is ephemeral, it dies, it withers. Do you truly believe it is eternal? Like some stupid fairytale?” 

He remembers your words towards him. You could command the seas and the stars if you pleased…You’ll be whatever you want to be. “When you sing of it in your songs, I believe it. You make eternity out of love. You’re more of an idiot than I thought if you won’t do the same for your own.”

You don’t answer him, leaning the back of your head against his flaying heartbeat, trembling. 

“It seems I can’t get through to you in these flowery words, you stupid bard.” He turns you to face him, a smile reaches his lips despite him seeing, for the first time, those greedy, fat tears that fall from your face. “I love you, dumbass. I will plow my way out of heaven and hell for you to hear this.”

“I…” You want to run, hide, thrash against his grip with the decaying vehemence of your song. Instead, you force out thick, hitching breaths with a burning in your lungs. “Is this‒ are you‒”

“I’m certain. I’ve had about an excruciating decade to be certain, (Name).” 

In your lifetime as a balladeer, you’ve trained your throat to trill the highest notes, sung your muscles raw to commit epics to memory, thickened the flesh of your lungs to cry bellowing poetry for colossal crowds. The world knew a thousand words from you. But the sun had never touched the words spilling from your mouth, pouring out corroded and rusted with the heat of your heart. It comes as a babbling rustle, rough as a child’s cry. Your arms move on their one, tangling into his neck and burrowing your face into the curve of his shoulder. It's warm, so warm. “I love you too. I love you, I love you.” You feel suspended in the heavenly, prickling starlights in his embrace.

"Tell me this isn't a dream‒ some cruel dream spun by the gods. Please?" The metal of your lyre sings as it hits the ground. You would not let the gods interrupt you this time, holding his face to look for any semblance of betrayal, cruelty‒ anything that would tear down this moment like the gods had promised. But it never came. This was your Vil. 

"Can I show you instead?" He peeled your lip forward, exposing the flushed color to his eyes. Was this the color of your blood? Your throat? Perhaps he could taste it if he tried hard enough. 

Your breath was already mixing with his when you begged. "Please‒"

His lips molded against yours‒ you tasted the faintest twinge of candied apples sticking against his plush flesh. He pulled you closer, hoping to color his insides with your smell, your taste‒ more, anything that would bring you closer to him. When you separated to breathe, you greedily gulped the air scented with his sweet fragrance, before diving back to his lips. Again‒ one more time‒ just to make sure this was all real. The bruising of your lips and feverish fluttering of your breaths made you believe, indeed, that this was reality. You grinned‒ your cheeks throbbing. 

“There is so much you have to make up for.” He says, smiling against your grazing fingers against his lips, committing every curve and grove to your memory. You would fill yourself with him like this. “Or‒ we have a lot to make up for.” 

You enjoyed the way his eyes flushed with a sea of violet as they squinted, crushed from his brimming cheeks. “I’m sorry. I will. As much as time will let me, I’ll make it up to you again, and again.”

“Show me.”

You dip your mouth onto his once more, tasting the fountain of sweetness spilling from his throat. A smile, one for yourself and no one else, flowers on your face. "I'll have to shape us into a song. I'll make sure they'll paint of us, sculpt us, sing of us‒ they'll remember us. Two lovers, you and me, a constellation of love." The lightness of your laughter almost pulled him up to the heavens. Finally. 

"You have such a talent of making everything sound so stupidly splendid."

"Because you make it so.”

You strum your lyre, lacing your adoration into the notes, each finger weighted by the love in your heart. The roses of the garden grow fragrant, fruit and flowering buds swung from the trees, lavender sprouting from between the crackling veranda floor. An everlasting spring of your love, infinite as the elements that grow, and wither, and die, and rebirth into the earth allows you to plant your feet next to Vil’s. You look to him, finding mischief, kindness, and tenderness swirling in the violet, speckling with the glassy blue. It was as if the whole expanse of the sky lay within each of his eyes‒ infinity‒ you thought. Your infinity, a garden of lasting spring you would grow with each loving note from your throat. There would be frost, there would be decay‒ but not even the gods could lay their hands upon this infinite season. You titter, filled with its warmth, listening to the beat of his heart, spinning a song, an eternity from it.

——————————————————

Notes:

Title inspired by Shakespear's poem "Orpheus"  “Orpheus with his lute made trees / And the mountain tops that freeze / Bow themselves when he did sing / To his music plants and flowers / Ever sprung; as sun and showers / There had made a lasting spring.”

Euainētos is an epithet for Orpheus, meaning well praised. I thought it would be interesting for an MC who has many people who love them for what they can give, rather than love them as a whole (the whole “people love me but don’t like me” dilemma). Love an angsty epithet. 

Lavender has historically been a symbol for both lesbians and gay men‒ an overarching mark of queerness. I try to be as inclusive as I can with my language and writing‒ but all art is a self portrait of their creators. So, because I'm queer, my writing will inevitably be queer coded too. I thought it was a nice touch to add because I do headcanon Vil as queer‒ both in his gender and sexuality. The pronouns he uses in the Japanese version has a historical connection to the "Okama"/"transsexual" and contemporarily, queer people in Japan. Our culture I think often twists gender expectations and language because of the rigidity in our language and social structure as an extension of ourselves (language = very strong way to express the self = entices subversive use of this powerful tool). We also have a great history in queer gender performance in our performance arts‒ such as Kabuki and Takarazuka which have deep influences in our overall society and culture. Though western literature and society has not seen these people explicitly "queer" I think westerners (and Japan as it is affected by Western ideology) need to expand their definition of queerness so that it is culturally inclusive. So to me I think Vil falls within that definition of queerness (also, his dress/uniform slays) on the gender and sexuality spectrum and I thought lavender was a good, subtle nod to that. 

Also, the hanakotoba (flower language) for Lavenders is "I await you", silence, hope, hesitancy, elegance,  "love that forgives'', and "please answer to me"- it has both positive and slightly sorrowful sentiments, and an aspect of yearning that I love lol. I love flower language so fucking much I use it with every chance I get

Title is also inspired from this plus, yes you guessed it, our lord and savior Mitski (First Love/Late Spring) 

Your mother's body is burned because cremation was popularized by the Athenians and became common practice by the Homeric era. Coin placed in the mouth (Charon's obol) is the payment for Charon to carry you across the river of the dead. 

Why are there so many convoluted parental relationships in my fics? Easy! I have mommy AND daddy issues. Yes ladies you really can have it all

All the names I mentioned that are engraved onto the lyre are different epithets of Orpheus

Working on the Azul x Siren hanahaki fic soon~ Here is the post of myth-inspired ideas if you haven’t seen it

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland vil schoenheit #vil shoenheit #vil schoenheit x reader #twisted wonderland vil #twst vil schoenheit #twisted wonderland vil schoenheit x reader #twisted wonderland x mc #twisted wonderland x you #twst vil schoenheit x reader #twisted wonderland fanfic #twisted wonderland fan fiction #twisted wonderland hurt/comfort #twisted wonderland scenerios #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland rook hunt #leona kingscholar #twisted wonderland oc #hurt/comfort #twisted wonderland angst #twisted wonderland writing #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted oc #vil schoenheit #twst fanfic #twst vil #twisted series #twst x reader #twst imagines

[sassykattery]

Celebrations of the Heart, Pt. 2

Welcome back to part 2. As I stated before, I will be doing three uploads a week for this chapter! I will still upload on the usual Wednesday/Saturday [Thursday/Sunday for further eastern time zones] schedule, but also a random day of my choosing! Enjoy!

CW: MC is afab, uses she/her pronouns. MC is a demon and poly. *Smut scene: quickie. f! receiving penetration, piv. Creampie.* Barbatos refers to MC as "Mistress" as a formality and does so sporadically throughout the series.

Themes: Romance. Mental health. Makeup sex. DiavoloxMC. LuciferxMC.

Characters: MC="you", Barbatos, Diavolo, Lucifer

Minors and ageless blogs DNI

18+ only

Masterlist

Enjoy~

"Ah, mistress, thank you for doing this for me. I greatly appreciate your help. Could I brew some Hell Rose tea as thanks? Or I could make you a treat if you'd prefer," Barbatos said, smiling at you after seeing the fully stocked pantry and fridge.

"I'll take some tea, and it's no problem. Anything for you," you replied softly. "I'll be in my suite," you added.

After settling in your room, you pulled out your notepad, turning to your law research. You stared at the two questions, considering everything that had transpired over the last few days between your vacation and returning home, and then thinking about what Solomon said.

It was truly unfair of me to say that, you thought. I enjoy being a demon, and I don't regret giving up my soul. Solomon's right, I put too much pressure on myself.

Putting your notepad back in the desk drawer, you pulled out your finances book, feeling a new vigor in your studies.

But it didn't take long for you to be interrupted.

"MC?" Diavolo called, knocking on your door.

"Come in," you replied.

Diavolo walked in, seeing you at your desk. "Ah, perfect, there's something I'd like to discuss with you," he said. He instantly saw your shoulders slump just a hair, and his heart sank a little. "It's nothing bad, I promise," he added.

"Sorry, I just assumed after our last conversation..." You started to mutter. You stared straight ahead at your desk, still not looking at the prince.

This didn't go unnoticed either. "No, no, my love, don't worry about that. I have given some consideration to a few–" He stopped, , trying to assess the situation. "Darling, can you at least look at me?" His change in tone caught you off-guard: it was serious and bordering on irritated.

Slowly, you turned in your seat, your gaze dragging across the desk, the floor, landing on his shoes, and slowly traveling up to his golden gaze. His arms were crossed, and he looked down at you with frustration in his eyes. Instantly, you flinched.

Diavolo was utterly confused. He felt like he was doing everything wrong with you all of a sudden. You were never one to shy away, flinch, or not want to meet his gaze.

You two stared at each other, unable to speak. It was weirdly tense between you two, unlike anything either of you have ever felt with the other. Unfortunately, Diavolo was still struggling with what Lucifer told him about you. He took it personally, seeing it as a reflection of his ability to be a good partner. Though he knew that it wasn't about him or a reflection of him, it still affected how he acted toward you, but all that did was actually make things worse, so he was frustrated.

Abruptly, he turned and left your room, without a single word, leaving you to wonder what it was that he even came in for, and now you were frustrated as well. Actually, you were livid, your wrath instantly spiking your blood pressure. In a fit of fury, you put your study materials away and left your suite to go outside, hoping the Devildom air might calm you down. You weren't exactly quiet on your way out, with the prince hearing the slamming of doors from his office as you stormed your way out of the palace.

Barbatos stood in the wake of your warpath, holding a tray for tea, and simply watched as you left wordlessly. Immediately, he set the tea back down in the kitchen and went to Diavolo's office.

"Sir–"

"I know, Barbatos, she left," Diavolo interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The butler tilted his head. "My lord, did something happen?"

"I don't understand what I'm doing wrong," Diavolo snapped. "Ever since Lucifer told me about that, I just can't help but be angry."

"And who precisely are you angry at?" Barbatos asked, raising a brow.

"Her. How could she even think to do that to herself? Do I not give her everything that's mine to give?" Diavolo replied bitterly.

Barbatos lowered his tone into that of a warning, something he only did to discipline the prince. "Perhaps you need to reconsider that, my lord. You don't know what it's like to be in her shoes, nor do you know what it's like to go through everything she has. She's lived quite the life in her short time, as a human and now a demon, and now her plate is the fullest it's ever been, for you. I think you should give her more grace. You've lived a rather privileged life to not know that sort of pain, sir."

The butler sharply turned on his heel and exited the office, leaving Diavolo speechless. Truthfully, Barbatos was a touch aggravated with the prince. He immediately went outside to search for you, finding you sitting next to the black roses in the palace gardens.

"Mistress," Barbatos called to you, approaching.

"Ah, Barbatos, I'm sorry, I'll come have tea," you said, getting to your feet.

"No, mistress, it's something else. May I speak candidly?" Barbatos asked, seeming flustered.

"Of course," you said, confused by his state.

"Rather, I would like to tell you about myself. Why don't we walk for a little bit?" Barbatos suggested. You nodded and the two of you walked the gardens.

"When I was younger, before the prince came along, I found myself lonely and in despair, and I wasn't sure how much more of this life I could tolerate. There wasn't much left for me at that time, having lived for so long. It was when I was presented with the opportunity to serve my lord that I did find some enjoyment and feeling of purpose in my life," Barbatos said and then stopped, turning to you. "Now you have come into my life as well, and I cannot begin to imagine it without you, nor do I want to."

Your face heated up, unsure of where this is going.

He continued, "I do not know of your particular suffering, that is only something you will ever experience, but I do know what it's like to be buried in the weight of desolation, and you shouldn't carry that burden alone. It's far too heavy, and I offer myself as someone you might consider confiding in, if necessary, mistress," Barbatos explained.

Tears welled up in your eyes, and for the first time, Barbatos opened up his arms and pulled you in for an embrace. Instantly, your arms came around his waist.

He let go first and put his hands on your shoulders. "MC, you are loved dearly, by me and everyone around you. I know the young lord isn't the best with his temperament at times, but I implore you to give him some grace. Sometimes, he isn't the best at putting himself in the shoes of others. And, you're his first love, and I would surely hate for things to become strained before you two have even begun to work together in this next chapter," Barbatos finished.

"Thank you, Barbatos," you replied, placing your hands on top of his.

You looked over at the palace behind him, and then back at the demon before you. He nodded and you nodded in silent reply.

You ran, and Barbatos watched with a small smile on his face, proceeding to walk the gardens for a while.

Dashing through the halls at inhuman speed, you threw the door open to Diavolo's office. He immediately looked up at you, brows raised in surprise. The look on your face told him everything. He stood and came around his desk, and you ran up to him, jumping up into his open arms for him to easily catch you and hold you against him.

"I'm sorry," you rasped, burying your face in his neck.

"Darling, I should be sorry, and I am," he murmured into your hair. His hands gripped you tighter. "I've been unfair to you. My unjustified anger has pushed you away when you needed me the most. And I've made this entire ordeal about myself rather than listening to you. Please forgive me."

He set you back down on the floor and cupped your cheeks, checking your expression. Tears ran over, and he ran his thumbs over to wipe them away. "I love you. Please never forget that. I know things are hard right now, but I don't want you to feel like you have to do this alone. I may not understand fully what you are experiencing, but I can still be here for you and be the support you need."

You nodded, nuzzling your face into his large hands. "I love you too. I promise to take care of myself, and when things get too hard, I'll ask for help. I won't leave you, ever," you stated tearfully. You looped your arms around his neck and his hands dropped to your waist, bringing you in closer. Both of you leaned in for an emotional kiss, filled with silent apologies, promises of love and adoration, and fervent passion.

*The two of you started to stumble around, finding a place to land as his hands, as well as yours, started to mindlessly unbutton jackets, pull off shirts, tear off pants, and eventually landing on the couch fully naked. He laid you back and climbed on top of you, fully laying himself on you as you two grinded into the other. Both of you were flushed with red hot desire, needing to feel the other as close as inhumanly possible.

Your hands went to his hips and pulled them into you, silently telling him what you wanted. He pulled away to take hold of your legs and put them on his shoulders, immediately lining his cock up to enter you. Both of you were already ready, and the familiar ache of need was pooling in both of you, pining to be soothed with the feel of your lover.

Again, you pulled him into you, his member slipping into you with ease and both of moaned. He leaned forward, your knees pushing back into you, and sank as deep as he could go.

"Ahh-ah!" you moaned out. His lips took capture of yours, his tongue slipping in to tangle with yours. The pace of his thrusts was slow but deep, seeking to reach your deepest sweet spots. His hands each grabbed a hold of your ass, holding you in place as he pumped into you. He rested his forehead against yours.

"I love you, MC, please never forget that," Diavolo said in a hushed tone. All you could do was nod as the sobs of pleasure overtook your ability to speak. His pleasure was also starting to overtake him, pushing him to thrust into you faster, but still just as deep.

"I love you," you finally rasped out as the heat in your core flashed out to the rest of your body. Within seconds, your moans turned to a silent scream, his cock kissing your sweet spot relentlessly as you came undone, causing your juices to run down and coat your thighs as well as his. Feeling you come apart on his cock sent him over the edge as well, and he sunk himself to the hilt inside of you to cum, relishing in your mutual pleasure.

He brought your legs down to relax, still inside of you, and buried his face in your neck, fully laying on top of you.

*Just then, Lucifer happened to walk in, seeing Diavolo still balls deep inside of you, both of you panting. His eyes went wide to see the two of you like that, still in the throes of pleasure and intimacy. Though, he was actually rather turned on to see you in particular, blissed out. It made sense now why he didn't see Barbatos anywhere on the way to the office, but not as to why the door was open. Slowly, he backed away and waited in the hallway.

Slowly, your eyes opened, looking up at Diavolo's sculpted face. He looked back down at you and smiled. "I missed your touch, my love," he murmured.

"I'm sure you did," Lucifer called out from the hallway. Your eyes went wide, and you looked at the open door to the office that you completely forgot to close. Diavolo smirked and pulled away from you.

"Apologies, Lucifer, I suppose I forgot about our meeting today," he called from the couch.

"I suppose it's not the worst thing to walk in on," Lucifer replied.

Both you and Diavolo quickly got dressed and cleaned up. Lucifer came in and smirked at your flustered appearance. When he walked by you, he placed a kiss on the top of your head. But once he sat down in front of Diavolo's desk, you perched yourself on the Avatar's thigh, much to his pleasant surprise. Lucifer wrapped an arm around your waist and held you there. Your two lovers began to talk about work, and you listened patiently until fatigue took hold of you, so you settled back into Lucifer's arms and curled up on his lap and fell asleep.

"Hmph, I think we've done this before," Lucifer mused, looking down at you with adoration.

"Indeed, shall I go ahead and steal her away again?" Diavolo teased.

Lucifer frowned, clutching you tighter. "I do believe you already had some pretty intimate time with her," he retorted.

Diavolo sighed and nodded, "I suppose you are right."

---

Tags: @delphi-dreamin @itsmeninerz @leavesandflowers @obeymediasimp @frozengoldie @flemmingbamse @marvelous-maniac

Thanks for reading <3

Post made by sassykattery. Do not repost. Reblogs and comments appreciated.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #sassywrites #sassystories #obey me fanfic #obey me lucifer #love-eternal #obey me diavolo #obey me smut #diavolo smut #diavolo x femreader #lucifer x female reader

[witchfall]

mastermind

[Fallen Hero series. Set post-Retribution, after an innocent MC crash ending. Chargestep; River Basri and Ricardo Ortega. 1236 words.]

Sometimes love is just an admittance of weakness.

Charge.

Meet me alone. 21:00. I have information the Rangers need to know but I trust no one else.

But please note, I have collateral to ensure you follow directions.

Two letters: RB.

Eventide.

—

Eventide waits. 

She thinks of herself as the sliver of the sun right before the sky turns dark and leans into that blue until her thoughts stop seething. She ignores the twisting of her gut and the shaking of her hands. She is the darkening horizon. She is the sign that their day has come to an end.

Remember this, before you shatter everything that came before.

Her phone rings, shrill and treacly. No. It’s River Basri’s phone. After tonight, River Basri may no longer exist, and it is better to start that separation now than tumble into it, smarting from loss. “Sparkles” is calling. The chessboard is set. Will Ortega sit at the table and play?

She flicks open the phone with one hand. “Oh, good,” she says, voice twisted into shadow. “You got my message.”

The staticky pause is heavy enough to weaken her knees.

The fury is deep and dark. “If she’s hurt, I’ll—”

“Save me the bluster, Charge. Meet me as directed and it will be worth your while.”

Eventide hangs up. Her mouth curves into an unseen smile, mirthless. She can still lie bloodlessly under the mask. That’s good to know. Such smiles may be all she has left, after everything is said and done.

Repentance. Stupidity. It’s the same damn thing.

But god. She can’t live with it anymore.

—

The light comes first, of course. White, simmering brightness. A warning shot, clean, right where her head would have been had she not been searching, searching, searching for his particular kind of static — to the point that perhaps lightning to the face would be better than the migraine building behind her eyes.

“Don’t be an idiot!” she screeches. Her helmet turns her every word into the voice of a shattered black mirror. But this gives him pause, she knows it does, from the way the warehouse falls silent, save the crackling from the crate that had been struck.

His silences always weighed heavy.

“Come out,” she snaps, setting a lure. “I’m not in the mood for this.”

He falls for it, as she knew he would. 

“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” he growls, stalking in from behind a pillar, face exposed (always, always, why could the man never have settled with a mask) and dark with anger.

She throws her hands up. No weapons. Safe. “Don’t,” is the only word she can say fast enough before he—

He is simply there, when he wasn’t before.

Had she forgotten how fast he could be?

Or—

Unprepared. Not ready. She had not planned for this, had not considered how sharply his fury had been honed in the wake of everything he’d lost. She hadn’t been the only one who survived by cradling the fire of anger until it was hot enough to immolate. 

She should fight back, some part of her screams.

Another agrees that perhaps this is what she deserves.

He seizes her by the hood of her cape. “Give me one reason I don’t end you right now.”

The quip sparkles on her tongue. Why Charge, is this what you’re like when there’s no cameras around? How fun. How interesting. So you were a bully all along.

“Wait,” she sputters. She sees her endless reflection in his black eyes. “Ricardo.”

Has he put it together yet? Is that why his hands loosen on the cape? Is he catching up? He’s always been smart; she’s always lied to herself, thinking she could beat him. It was never beating. It was only ever balance — her plans to his acts. Two halves of one fighter.

Molded from broken shards, now.

Her hands slowly move to her head and…

No. He knows. He knows. The way he stumbles back seconds before the helmet comes fully off, the way his eyes widen like she’d just slapped him, the way his limbs tighten inward like all the blood in his body froze.

She lets the helmet fall from her hands. Lets it bounce on the cement, echoing.

Silence lingers and then…

She can’t help it: “Why can’t you ever follow directions?”

“Are you fucking serious right now, River?”

She squints, not quite sure what to do with that tone.

“Why would you use yourself as collateral? Do you have any idea—”

“It made you come alone, didn’t it?”

His hands run through his hair. She’s surprised it doesn’t stand on end. She can feel his static from here. “I was going to kill you.”

“Maybe you still should.”

“Don’t.” Sharper than any weapon. “Don’t.”

She keeps her mouth shut. She licks her teeth.

His gaze smolders but remains unreadable. “Why.” It isn’t a question. 

“Really?” she snaps back. 

“Why don’t you ever—”

“You know fucking why!” She spits the curse at him. The heaviness of it shunts him to silence. He does. He knows. She’d bared all but the very center of her pain to him, while she was healing from the wreck. But even she is a little afraid of Eventide. 

“This whole time,” he says, voice dangerously quiet. “It’s been you. This whole time.”

“What, did I embarrass you?”

“Don’t pick a fight right now.”

“I have to,” she says. “This is reality, Ricardo. This is who I am. What I’ve been doing. It’s been this.”

And as usual, he never does the expected thing.

His stance relaxes. He tilts his head. He stares at her, moving pieces on his board. “Little River the rabble-rouser.”

“Shut up.”

“It makes sense.”

This is what she had hoped for, despite everything, but still the words make her body fall into a fighting stance. “Does it now.”

“Eventide doesn’t kill.” He lists things off on his fingers. “They threaten. They talk big. They make messes, but always with a story behind them. You beat our asses at the gala but then…” A memory, surfacing. “You ran away from me. After the party a week ago. Refused to engage. I thought that was weird. After your penchant for monologuing.” 

She doesn’t miss the change of pronoun, there.

“And after everything you told us…” His eyes flicker to her arms, protected by armor.

“I wasn’t lying,” she says. Her voice feels too small. “I have information. Hollow Ground. San Francisco. You can arrest me if you want but you know where I’ll go if you do.”

His mouth twists. “There it is.”

And her fury makes its triumphant return.

“Yes, idiot,” she seethes. “I’ve used you and your sympathy. Welcome. I’m sure it must be very painful to hear this, how someone who loves you has a crusade she can’t let go.”

He stares at her openly. She throws herself against the static of his mind, half-hoping she breaks it.

“You couldn’t stop,” he says.

Understanding?

“I thought I would like it.” Sweat slips from her brow. Her scalp is pulled tight by her hair in a bun, worsening her migraine. “I thought I would. I really did. Once upon a time.”

“What changed?”

Something in her crumples, then. Her eyes burn. She bares her teeth. “I think you know.”

“...I found you.”

See. He can play when he wants. “You found me,” she whispers. 

“The diner.”

“Yes.” Her hands fall to her sides. “And everything changed.”

#fallen hero #fallen hero: retribution #fh: r #chargestep #ricardo ortega #river basri #i am having way too many feelings about them and so here you go i threw up 1K words #one way i imagine a reveal going after an innocent crash ending

[dear-mrs-otome]

IkeGen Sampler #1 - Kurama

Kurama: “Are you afraid of me, human?"

I have a ton of Ikemen Genjiden translations sitting around (accuracy not guaranteed, as always) and I thought that just for fun I'd try posting some of my random favorite scenes from various routes. This will be the first in an occasional series, maybe? If you guys are truly interested in anyone or any more, let me know and I'll see what I can do! For now, we'll kick it off with my problematic favorite, Kurama.

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

(From Chapter 20)

"You there...what are you doing?"

The air is suddenly so tense she can't even breathe, the men's leers frozen as they all turn in the direction of the unknown voice in unison... And she's thinking no, no way, this can't be real...

"Did you touch that woman?" Kurama falls from the sky, his wings spread wide as if to embody the fury emanating from his frame, the enemy soldiers completely stunned.

All she can wonder is...what is he doing here?? She doesn't even have time to ponder the answer, when she feels tears well up and fall from her eyes.

He’s silent at the sight before he bites out an order for her to wait, spreading his fan open, and the wind shrieks around all the men at once.

 Kurama looking on coolly as they all begin to scream, the invisible blades slicing into them. They back away from her, shouting, scrambling for their swords.

One man tries to threaten MC to get Kurama to back down - making it halfway through his words before Kurama's eyes meet his and his sentence shears off. Silenced by a single blade of wind slashing his throat. He cuts down a second that tries to beg for his life, drawing his sword and dispatching him with just one blow, never even glancing at the man. A third tries to back away, but -

"Where are you going?" Kurama asks. He chases the man down with a few powerful beats of his wings, landing in front of him and cutting off his escape. "I'll send you straight to hell."

His ice-cold voice is the last thing the man hears.

Kurama looks out over the assembled men, covered with blood, and grins - saying that today is a good day, because he can vent his fury to his heart's content. MC's thinking in horror how ruthless that is...and the remaining men all freeze with terror, basically pissing themselves.

"M-monster!" accuses one.

Kurama agrees that he's right. "And your blood is the only sacrifice that's going to appease me."

His wings are soaked with it, so much so they almost shine, and it's the most unholy terrifying thing she's ever seen as he tells them he won't be leaving a single one of them alive now that they've seen the real him. His blade flashes, laying into them all, and she realizes he's dead serious - he means to kill every last one of them. She's half-dazed with exhaustion and everything else, as she staggers to her feet and croaks out for him to wait.

He stops immediately at the sound of her voice.

"Don't...kill them..." She doesn't even know why that request popped out, so nervous and exhausted she can't even think properly, and Kurama studies her in silence for a moment...before he turns her down flat.

He leaps into the sky, landing behind the next man - taking flight again before the man has even finished hitting the ground to fly on to his next victim...and she knows what she's witnessing is nothing more than wholesale slaughter. The soldiers not standing even the ghost of a chance against him.

Gore covers the ground, already congealing in a nightmarish sight as she tries to think - what should she do? What can she say to him? She approaches him slowly, and is struck by the very real thought that she might be killed too.

Nothing burns in his scarlet eyes but the exultant flames of slaughter.

"You're shaking," Kurama notes.

"I..." is all she gets out.

His blood-coated fingers reach towards her, touching cheeks that feel frozen into a mask. "With these hands, I slaughtered your kind. Like crushing insects, without hesitation or mercy. Are you afraid of me, human?"

Her hands and feet feel numb with tension, as she prays not to give him the wrong answer. Knowing he will detect even a hint of a lie. "...I am afraid," she admits. She can hear him draw a short, sharp breath at her quivering answer. "But...thank you for helping me."

"You..." His voice sounds confused, his words cutting off abruptly as if afraid she might hear how it shakes, before he goes on. "Your cheeks are warm."

It sounds as if he's saying it aloud simply to reassure himself.

"You're alive," he finishes.

She agrees, her chest aching at the overwhelming relief in his tone. Wondering why he acts this way, when he swore to kill her himself someday.

#ikemen genjiden #ikegen #ikegen kurama #spoiler #spoilers #ikemen genjiden spoilers #ikegen spoilers #cw: gore #cw: blood #ikegen sampler #let me know if you guys like the idea or if you want bits of a particular suitor #just something i was tossing around

[draftmare]

I think in my last update I said I was going to read, or was reading A Court of Mist and Fury, the second book in the ACOTAR series by Sarah J. Maas. Well, that book is well and truly finished. Another speed record on my part. I am 1/3rd of the way through the third book in the series, A Court of Wings and Ruin, when I took a totally random side detour to read Falling In Love With My Vampire Cat by Camilla Evergreen. It was… okay.

Similar to Jump that I read earlier this year it’s another “clean romance” in that there is nothing beyond kissing. Swearing is left up to your imagination, which left me having to reread some sentences to try to make sense of what was actually being inferred as having been said. In this world being a fairy or having fae blood is a stand in for being neurodivergent, and it’s heavily implied that the MC is autistic except it’s blamed on her being part fairy, which was an interesting concept.

The MC is an avid reader of romantic fantasy, and that makes her very self aware of all the romantic fantasy tropes. Enemies to lovers, fated mates, love triangles, and how she refuses her story to be anything like that. It was cute and witty at first, and then it got exhausting. I found myself skipping entire pages of internal dialogue, similar to how I felt about Sunshine by Robin McKinley at times.

Anyway, it was free on Kindle Unlimited and only 250 pages, so while I don’t regret my slight break from my main reading obsession right now, I’m also glad that I didn’t pay for the book either.

#fall reading 2023 #bookblr

[allthingsdarkanddirty]

We are excited to share that Jeanne St. James has released FOUR BOX SETS in her Blood Fury MC series! Despite spilled blood and broken bones, Blood Fury will rise from the cold ashes left behind... Binge the complete series today! 

#1-click Read in KU 

Blood & Bones: Books 1-3: Blood Fury MC Blood & Bones: Books 4-6: Blood Fury MC Blood & Bones: Books 7-9: Blood Fury MC Blood & Bones: Books 10-12: Blood Fury MC These books have no cheating, no cliffhangers and each has an HEA. While it’s recommended to read my Brothers in Blue series first, it’s not necessary. For content warnings, please check my website: https://www.jeannestjames.com/bloodfurymc. They can also be found at the beginning of each book. It’s HIGHLY recommended to read Crash: A Dirty Angels MC/Blood Fury MC Crossover before Ozzy’s story since those two stories are tied together.

#mcromance #kindleunimited #bookish #romancenovels #booknerds #bookishlove #mustread #ebooks #wildfiremarketingsolutions

[jerisbookattic]

Blood & Bones: Shade by Jeanne St. James

Blood & Bones: Shade by Jeanne St. James

  Title: Blood & Bones: Shade   Series: Blood Fury MC #6 Author: Jeanne St. James Genre: Contemporary MC Romance Release Date: March 6, 2021     A past that defined a future…   Shade has a secret. One he’s hidden most of his life. Secrets created in his past. Of a broken family. A little boy lost. Of broken dreams. With only nightmares left in their wake. As a prospect, his MC nicknamed him…

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#Jeanne St. James

[inhuman-obey-me]

Excuse me! it’s just me, this blog’s stalker because your works amazing. I kinda am in love with your demon’s nature series. I if I could request something. Could you possible do MC seeing the brothers do something that is “demonic”. Similar to what happens in the series. Thank you!!!!

Hello!! Haha, thank you -- we’re so glad you like our content! ;u;

And I’m glad that you enjoy the Demon’s Nature series! It’s been a lot of fun to write.

Sorry this took a bit! I wasn’t sure if you wanted this to be something with one of the brothers or all of them, so I ended up doing little short blurbs for each of the brothers and MC accidentally catching them doing something demonic/violent. Tried to keep them all pretty short, which was hard.

[Mod Cosmos]

MC accidentally catching the Demon Brothers being Demonic/Violent

content warning: blood/gore, body horror (especially in Beel’s), and general violence

Note: This is through the perspective of an MC that knows that the demons do their thing, but perhaps doesn't want to see it happening in front of them.

LUCIFER

You were supposed to go shopping together after meetings for the day were finished, and he had told you to just wait an additional thirty minutes so that he could finish up some business. Thirty minutes passed, but there was still no word from him, so you decide you’ll go and see what was holding that workaholic up. You soon realize that was a mistake.

You hear muffled cries, and a familiar deep voice. Cautiously, you approach the source of these sounds -- a room located off a dark corridor. You didn’t think there were any classrooms here, and your curiosity got the better of you -- so you approach the door, peeking through the crack. You recognize the intimidating silhouette and --- there’s blood. There was another figure in the room, their body limp on the ground in a puddle of red, the mighty first-born’s claws tearing through flesh. A loss of balance in your surprise results in you tumbling into the room, earning a sharp turn from Lucifer, whose crimson eyes were wide in surprise. His wings spread out to try and shield the unsavory scene from you.

“MC, you were supposed to wait for me.” His voice is stern, but there’s a gentleness to it. He sees the queasy look on your face, and decides he can put this torment to an end. With a swift motion, he fully blocks your line of sight before slitting the lesser demon’s throat. He then turns back to you, lightly embracing your body with black feathers. His voice is soft as he did not want to frighten you. “I’m sorry, you weren’t supposed to see that. Let’s get you home, shall we? I’ll make you some tea.”

MAMMON

It had just been a scratch. A low-level demon had taken a swipe at you in passing, but hadn’t been able to cut too deep. Mammon insisted he was just running off to get a bandaid after you insisted he didn’t need to go after the other demon. He said that he’d be right back--”I’m just gettin’ a bandage, I swear!”-- and told you not to move an inch. But this bandage quest was taking longer than it should have, so you go after him, pressing a loose cloth against your wound. And there he was, having cornered the offending demon. He seems to be staking the demon in the arm with a sharp metal object, speaking in a tongue you couldn’t understand.

You hadn’t even realized you had dropped the Majolish bag from your hand, not until it hit the ground with a thud and Mammon whipped around to see you there. A flash of guilt appears on his features, his eyes going between you and the lowly demon. He drops them, though he can’t resist one more swift kick to their chest before running back to you.

“I told ya I’d be right back!” He’s about to cup your face in his hands, but retracts them as he realizes they’re covered in blood. “Uh, okay, let’s go get that,” he motions to your injury, “...taken care of, yeah?” He mumbles a sorry as he picks up the bag you dropped before ushering you away from the scene, promising he’d do whatever he needed to do to make up for having to witness it.

LEVIATHAN

You’re browsing games at a shop, having tagged along with Leviathan who had been raving about a new release. At one point, however, Leviathan had vanished from your side. You now realize it’s been … quite some time, actually. You wander about the store, unable to find him anywhere. Did he step outside? You decide to check, missing the anxious glance from the clerk behind the counter.

You hear some sounds from the alley by the shop. Is that … someone choking? Worried, you round the corner to make sure whoever it was is okay -- only to see the one doing the strangling was Leviathan himself. He had his tail tightly wrapped around the other demon’s throat, and … what, what was that inky substance leaking from their eyes? Leviathan caught your shadow against the alley wall, turning to you with a slightly panicked look.

“M-MC!” His tail quickly slithered off and away from the demon’s throat, leaving them to collapse to the ground. He’s suddenly at your side, hands on your shoulders as he turns you around and makes you walk out of the alley with him, murmuring something about how the venom will take care of the rest. “S-sorry about that, MC. You look a little sick … let’s get that game and go home and play, okay?”

SATAN

You had been ambling through an aisle in the grand Royal Library, wondering what random book you should pick up next to flip through idly. Satan had wanted to spend a quiet day reading and studying together, to which you readily obliged. But it was easy to forget just how large the Royal Library was -- what floor were you on again? -- and you wonder if you should head back to where the two of you had set up. Then you suddenly hear a distant crash. It seemed to be coming from one of the meeting rooms at the back, and you couldn’t help but want to take a peek to see what had happened.

“Fuck you!” You knew that voice, and you knew that anger. There was a muffled yell, and what sounded like shattering glass. Then there’s a chilling, mocking laughter, and you can feel the goosebumps starting to cover your skin. You nervously approach the slightly ajar door, and there he is, his tail impaling another demon with its sharp ridges. Oh, there is fury burning in those eyes -- ones that shift to land on you, and that glowing fury is replaced with exasperation.

“MC!” Your name comes out as a hiss, but he quickly tosses the other demon, slamming them into the wall. “You…” He’s unsure what to say, his wrath calming at the sight of you, especially with that look on your face. “I … I’m sorry, I just had to take care of something. Please, let’s go. We can talk about this later.”

ASMODEUS

The music is loud, the drinks are pouring, and you’re having an absolutely wonderful night out clubbing with Asmodeus. You were returning from the bar with two drinks in hand for the both of you, thanking one of the security guards on your way for managing the crowd of fans that had now dispersed, only to find that Asmodeus was not to be found at your table. He had left a note-- “BRB! ♡”--with lipstick on a napkin. You waited, sipping your drink as you demon watched from your seat. Some time passes, and you realize you’ve finished your drink a bit more quickly than intended. There’s still no sign of him, so you might as well go get another.

On the way to the bar, however, you pass by what you assumed was the hall to the restrooms, and you hear a desperate “I’m sorry!” cutting through the heavy bass. Should you be concerned? Well, you decide to at least be nosy, so you slip into the hall to see what was going on -- and are met with the sight of Asmodeus holding a heart he had carved out of some poor demon’s chest. In your shock, your empty glass slips through your fingers and crashes to the floor, earning your demon’s attention.

“Oh, MC!” Despite his surprise to see you, he gives you a smile -- one that gives you chills as you see blood spattered on his face. “Ah, what a mess…” He lets the lesser demon slide to the floor, debating on what to do with the organ in hand, but hides it behind his back for now, coming over to place a quick kiss on your cheek. “Sorry about that, darling. I’m just going to go clean up, so wait for me at the table, ‘kay?”

BEELZEBUB

You had agreed to go with him to Madame Scream’s after finishing up classes for the day, but he was running late. He’s not picking up any calls, either, so you decide to go to where his last class would have been -- maybe they were just running way over, and he hadn’t realized the time? The hall is quiet, and you end up reaching an empty classroom. Walking back out, you decide to try calling him again. Ring, ring. After a moment, you realize you can hear Beelzebub’s ringtone in the distance, and you follow your ears to where his D.D.D. and ultimately he himself must be.

You weren’t prepared for what you saw next. A head of bright orange hair buried in a lesser demon’s abdomen, the sound of squelching and slurping from his feasting sounding so much more insidious than usual.

“Beel!” You can’t help but cry out his name in shock, which causes him to jolt upright -- with intestines still hanging from his mouth. Oh, you were going to be sick …

“MC … sorry, Lucifer always says I need to work on my table manners … “ He gulps down what was left hanging, but his eyes widen when it registers just who caught him in the act. “Oh, uh, guess that’s not the point, huh … “ He sheepishly wipes at his mouth with some torn cloth that you can only assume came from his victim, standing up and walking around to block your view of the mangled body. “I’ll clean this up, and then … well, we can do whatever you want to do. Sorry, MC …”

BELPHEGOR

You’re looking around for where Belphegor could possibly be napping. Beelzebub had to go to Fangol practice and asked that you make sure his twin got home, as he had seemed even more tired today than usual. He’s not in the Western Courtyard, so you head to the Southern Courtyard next. You think you remember him saying that was one of his favorite spots…

You perk up as you spot the ever-familiar cow patterned pillow, but you fail to see the demon that was usually attached to it. Peering around the area, worry starts to set in -- and then you hear a scream. It certainly didn’t belong to Belphegor, but the gears in your mind start turning and you run to where the scream came from. Of course, no one else was around here -- it wasn’t the busiest area on campus in the first place. Turning a corner, you see just what you feared -- Belphegor had his claws at another demon’s throat, his barbed tail wrapped around their body and squeezing them tight. You feel weak, the scenario a bit too close for comfort as you recall what he had done to you in the past.

“MC?” Belphegor turned to see you, his eyes wide. He must have sensed your presence at some point, or maybe your heart was pounding much louder than you realized. He drops the other demon, growling something you can’t make out to them, and then slowly approaches you. He sees you tense up, causing him to stop in his tracks. He averts his gaze, not wanting to meet your eyes as he tries to figure out what to say. “I just … had to deal with something. You … you can head on home first, if you want. I understand.”

#obey-mes-treasure #obey me #obey me! #obey me swd #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #gn!reader #gn!mc #demons being demons #the all encompassing [mod] cosmos #ask and ye shall be answered

[a-crepusculo]

Control (Ethan x MC)

Book: Open Heart Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x Dr. Marchia Bisognin (F!MC) Premise: As an argument broke out between them, could they handle their own heat? Rating / Category: Mature / NSFW Warning(s): Adult language and sexual content. Minors DNI. Word Count: 1920 words

A/N: I was supposed to be writing angst... but this happened. Zero plot. None. Just filth. Self-indulgent sm*t. Sorry not sorry? Lol.

“I can’t believe that you, out of all, went behind my back.”

Her heels clicked against the extravagant granite floor as she stormed into his enormous office, every step fueled with fury and wrath. Typically, it would not be this easy to get Marchia riled up, but nerves had been crawling under her skin all day and she was certainly not in the mood to deal with this.

Ethan looked up from his desk, seemingly unfazed by her heightened anger.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Doctor Bisognin?”

The sheer audacity of this man, asking her questions that he had already knew the answer, baffled her. Marchia refused to respond, simply because she does not want to give him the satisfaction, while her blood boil even hotter.

His eyebrows were raised towards his hairline, head tilting to the side. For one long, scathing moment, those blue eyes evaluated her—his stoic expression carved out of stone, rather unintelligible to the eyes of strangers.

“That,” the blonde doctor exclaimed, index finger pointing outside; aiming the direction of diagnostics team’s office. “That is my team, Ethan. Did you forget about that when you went over my head and forced me this case?”

He exhaled heavily in response, “She needs our help, love.”

“But you had no right to intervene and question my judgement—”

“You don’t understand, Doctor.”

She caught his passive aggressive snark, hitting and taunting her like a little child. Her emerald orbs started to burn with a fire he rarely witnessed; the sound of hushed exclamations outside pervaded the open space between them, signaling an upcoming war.

“Perhaps you could enlighten me, Chief,” she replied through gritted teeth.

The title spat from her mouth; morose and bitter.

“This case, this patient, she has been transferred to ten different hospitals, and none of them have a single—” he explained, but she cut him off with a harsh laugh.

“Bullshit.”

That managed to get Ethan worked up. He offered a cool glare at his successor, eyebrow raised in challenge, as he stood from the black leather chair. The room became dead silent as they stare at each other; a series of slow thumps in her heart transformed into rapid fire staccato.

The older doctor scoffed. “I’ve been in that position longer than you, Marchia, and you cannot buy that kind of experience.”

“So, what, you pointed me as the Head of Diagnostics Team,” she shot back, putting heavily articulated air quotes around it. “Only to humiliate me and my decisions? In front of Harper, Tobias—my associates, my peers?”

“I can assure you that wasn’t my intention.”

“Really? It wasn’t your intention to mark your territory in front of them? Showing us who’s boss?”

“Listen to yourself!” Ethan roared, disbelief sketched all over him.

Something coils in his stomach at the virulent words, twisting his insides, like rubbing salt on an open wound. His vexation, outrage—it snapped and spit, crawling from his soul, leaving it, forming a life of its own.

“I was merely showing you the best case to pursue, Rookie,” he sneered, gaze undeterred from hers. “If you can’t understand that for what it is, then maybe you’re not ready to lead this team.”

Her head snapped upwards, glaring intensely to her opponent.

“Don’t you fucking dare call me ‘Rookie’ again.” she shouted, voice as cold as ice, jabbing a finger on to his chest. “And you don’t get to tell me how to do my job behind my back, Ramsey. Say it to my face.”

In that moment, Ethan can optimistically say that  Marchia Ivy Bisognin is the most infuriating woman he has ever encountered, even if he did live up to a millennium. Stubborn, reckless, hot-headed—conveniently equipped with that smart, rosebud mouth.

“Then what,” each syllable is stretched taut with exasperation, eyes flicking and turned into dangerous black slits. “Would you have me do, Marchia?”

In a swift motion, he snatched her wrist in a vice-like grip, pulling her closer. Their chests—heaving fiercely—had touched one another, tightness in their throats. His eyes darted down to her lips again, this time only inches apart from him.

That damned crimson lips of hers.

Their quarrel became the furthest thing from his mind; insignificant, pointless. Her sweet, heady perfume meddled with his rational stream of thoughts, nourishing the primitive monster that resides within him. What is it about this woman and her power to completely bewitch him, enchant him?

And just like that, he fell into a dizzy spiral; caught under her spell.

Before Marchia can fix her mouth to call him out, his palms were quick to cup her cheeks—practically moving on its own—and he slanted his mouth over her.

Urgent, desperate—their livid and passionate movements became hazy in the heat of the moment. Her fingers were fumbling with his collar, lips colliding together in a hungry, jarring kiss. An involuntary moan escaped as she sense his tongue and teeth, pulling and biting her lower lip, so hard she almost tasted metal seeping through it.

One can never get enough of her.

Both of them stumble as Ethan pushed her back until she hit the edge of the table, stationary clattering as he shove everything off to lift her unto the mahogany surface. Without conscious thought, her legs flew open for him to stand between.

“Did you—” the beautiful blonde panted, gasping for air as she tried to broke off their kiss. “Did you do that to make me stop talking?”

He replied in between the piquant, delicious sips of her. “I did that because I like seeing you take control, my love.”

Marchia pulled back from kissing his jaws, biting her swollen bottom lip.

“You do?”

“Very much.”

Oh, she will show just how much control she has over him.

Marchia rose to her feet, and to his surprise, made quick work of removing his watch, his shirt, his pants—lips and tongue indulging every inch of his exposed body. Slowly, yet urgently, she pushed him down to his office chair.

“Be a good boy and sit down for me, then,” she whispered against his ear, her voice a sultry murmur that drowned the last bit of his restraint.

Skillfully pinning him against the lavish leather backrest, she was on her knees before him in a matter of seconds. After a few careful maneuvers, she pulled down the waistband of his underwear, allowing it to release the rock hard length that was hiding underneath.

The young doctor looked up to flash him a mischievous smirk, holding his erection in her hand. His cock, hard and heavy under her grasp, gave away a twitch as soon as she started those slow, deliberate strokes.

“Marchia,” he hissed, words slipping away from him.

His hips bucked involuntarily, overpowered by the delicate sensation, begging for more. As she began to pick up speed, he closed his heavy lids in ecstasy; grunting and moaning at her torturous movements, fresh pre-come escaping from him.

“Christ, Marchia, I—”

The sentence was cut in the middle when her tongue, wet and dexterous, twirled around his tip—claiming his length deep in her mouth. Her slim fingers stroked the base of his phallus; asserting her indefinite power. Round and round she goes, tracing nonsensical pattern on his cock with her tongue.

Ethan grabbed a handful of her honey blonde hair, tying any stray locks in his sturdy grip. He threw his head back and groaned, mind was racing at an unimaginable speed, reeling at the astounding sensation of her soft lips and smooth tongue. Each stroke was a sweet blow that brought him to the verge.

The shallow, erratic breath had once again escaped in a loud moan, causing her to release him with a pop.

She worked her way to his chest, dragging her fingers on his clavicle, and permitted herself to meet his gaze. “Still like giving me control?”

His breathing, ragged, filled her ears as he replied, “My turn.”

The air is cold on her skin as he lifted her body, shoving her back on the wooden surface. Steady hands removing—almost ripping—her black blouse, trailing lazy paths along her bare sides. A low growl made its way out of his throat as he continued to remove every piece of her clothing.

“Let’s finish what you started, Rookie,” he grunted like a savage, ripping through the final piece of her navy blue lace undergarment.

And without warning, he slid into her opening.  

“Fuck—” she moaned, her vision distorted for a split second as his steely cock reach further, deeper. Marchia leaned back more, trying to accommodate the amount, the angle, the powerful thrust he is propelling—residual pleasure awakening the buzzing wires in her body.

Slow, hard thrusts into her, long drags out.

Cracking her eyelids open, she found herself gazing directly into those  dark, molten irises, pupils widening and almost reverent with desire, that  familiar glint passing through when he has her right where he wants. His hands rushed to palm her breasts, simultaneously flicking over the pebbled nipples—tweaking, squeezing, rolling them to his heart’s desire.

“Harder,” Marchia pleaded, arching her body close to his.

“Careful what you wish for, love,” he warned her, though his voice was sweet, almost coddling. “Or I’ll fuck you so hard that you’ll walk out of this office limping.”

A sharp breath escaped her, visceral.

“Promise?” That competitive bite, the confidence; it is her desperate attempt to gain the upper hand—some equilibrium she could strive for when his body wreak havoc upon her.

He responded with a harsh thrust; taking everything in her not to cry out his name. Throwing her free arm around his shoulder, he jerked closer and caught her hardened nibs in his mouth, teeth biting softly, beard scraping across her chest.

Ethan drove his length into the deepest part of her, repeatedly hitting that perfect spot.

“I’m—” she grunted, delirious from the overwhelming sensation. “Fuck— I’m close.”

Marchia knew that he was close, too. The frantic, frenzied thrusts became more evident as their pleasure mounts, blood boiling through his veins like a lava. Calloused hands in her hair as he sped up. Desperate, insistent.

At this point, the unholy melody produced by both of them eclipsed the room.

As his cock pulsed to the rhythm, she began to see that luminous edge, the transcendent weight of it on her tongue. Light bloomed as she released herself, all of her, into the paralyzing bliss. Ethan was right behind her, reaching the finish line, and they cried out in unison—both collapsing with utter pleasure.

Ethan rolled off of her, hands softly pulling her and laid down together on the floor. Neither of them said anything for a few moments, trying to catch their own breath, hoping to slow down their heart rates.

He shifted forward and kissed her gently, lovingly, lips soft and warm, his nose nuzzling against in the crook of her neck.

“Are we still fighting?” he asked, his voice still hoarse.

Marchia chuckled at herself. “After that? Probably not.”

“But you were right,” he murmured against her hot skin. “I had no right to question you, at all. Let alone force you to take a case.”

“And?” she answered, giving him crooked smile.

He sighed before answering, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for yelling at you, too, sayang.”

“It’s alright, I deserve it.”

She returned with a loving laugh, kissing the top of his forehead.

“Yeah, you do.”

Additional A/N: Yeah... I’m still going to hide in a cave after posting this.

I’ll be tagging in a separate post!

#open heart #open heart choices #choices open heart #open heart fanfiction #open heart fanfic #open heart fic #oph fanfiction #oph fanfic #playchoices #pixelberry #ethan ramsey #ethan jonah ramsey #dr. ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey x mc #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #fics of the week #ns*fw #choices stories you play #Ethan x Marchia

[ophiuchus-interactive]

In My Time of Need (MAJOR ANGST)

This is too long and too juicy of an ask to let it be just a common RO ask,

So! I'm going to be doing a mini-series answering this ask with all of the ROs!

Valerian is first! Now, remember, this is torture!

TW: Angst, blood, gore, torture!

Under the cut!

The prison cell looked akin to a tomb. Water leaking from the ceiling above your head, dripping through the stone brick and splattering against the aged, bloodied floor. Your hands were held in rusted, metal cuffs that were connected to the ceiling through chains. Valerian was in a similar state- only with him, his right eye was completely swollen shut. You wonder with a vague, passing thought if his eye dislodged from its position- or if it could be used at all anymore.

His breath was labored, heavy. The tell-tale rattle that echoed in his heavy gasps of air was a sign of broken ribs. The fierce, inky purple that took shape against his chest made sure of such an injury. A possibly permanent one.

They had beaten him within an inch of his life. The twisted, sinking feeling in your stomach was telling you that they weren't quite done yet.

In the darkness of the cells, you heard a large, metal door swing wide open, hitting the walls with enough force to make you jump. The clattering of your chains rang loudly in your ears, followed by the cacophonous, clobbering footsteps of your captors.

"He will not speak, commander. If we beat the whelp anymore without medical treatment, he will die,"

"He's not uttered a word?"

Silence.

A beat. Your heart is in your throat.

"...No, Commander. Nothing."

"'cause..." Valerian speaks up suddenly, his speech slurred by the blood the collected in his mouth, clogging his throat, "y'all dumb sons of bitches who can't....throw a fuckin' punch."

Your captors came into view. Their cloaked appearances giving you little to go off of as to their identity. Too tall for a Harpii. Too short for a Kal'Morran. They don't hiss their words- but something in the back of your mind makes you think they aren't exactly human.

"You know," The one called 'commander' says, " there is one thing I can never understand about your kind, captain. Do you know what that is?"

You watched- with a vague sense of astonishment- Valerian try his best to smile. You noticed teeth missing.

"What we're all better lookin' than you?"

Though you couldn't see it, you can imagine the Commander clenching his teeth, practically grinding them down to the gums,

"No. It is your aptitude for pain. In my experience, experimenting on the wide range of races that this universe, unfortunately, places in my hands for disposal, humans have always had a peculiar knack for...endurance."

The Commander chuckles, the action was enough to make your blood run cold, "True enough, I suppose. Humans have always been much more productive in experimenting than...well. Let's just say I don't think the two of you would do too well chained to our mining pits, living out the rest of your pathetically short lives harnessing the exact ore it is we will destroy you all with."

There was an audible smack to his lips, and then an almost dreamlike sigh, "Though the irony would be exquisite, indeed."

"Come 'ere to...talk, then?" Valerian coughs. The chains echo every harsh seize of his dry, bloodied throat, "I...stopped payin' attention right around the time you started...spewin' shit again."

You could practically feel the harsh and frigid stare the Commander was given Valerian. It was enough to make you swallow the lump that rose in your throat- a feeling of true fear.

"Grab the other one, Lieutenant."

"What?!" Valerian roars, his voice broken and scratched from his own screams, "You damned sonuva- they've got hell all to do with this! Leave 'em alone!"

Valerian's protests fall on deaf ears, the Lieutenant grabbing the chains that held your arms high in the air and release them from the hook- causing you to fall face-first into the floor.

Pain. White-hot, exploding pain burst like fireworks inside your skull. You felt blood pour freely from your nose; your forehead in enough agony to make you assume it was cracked.

You were pulled forward by the shackles that they hung you by, feeling every stray piece of stone and gravel embed themselves in your skin, burning the layers until it was raw, exposed.

The Lieutenant pulled you up from the floor, your blood trickling down the sides of your mouth and lips. Nausea began as your whole world started to spin. There was only one thought in your mind as you felt bile rise in your throat:

This was only the beginning.

"Come now, Captain, surely you can be reasonable? A member of your crew is about to be severely beaten. Their bones will break. Their skin will grow into that dark, nasty shade of purple- and you will have caused it. You will have caused their suffering.

Unless of course, you tell us precisely what it is we want, right now."

Silence.

And for that you were grateful. You and Valerian both know that not a word can be spoken of this. No matter what the cost.

"...Don't," You can hear Valerian say softly. Quietly. All that vibrato he had once before has been thrown to the side; all at once, he was a completely different person, "don't hurt them."

"I don't think you have much of a say in the matter, Captain. Either you start talking or I get to practice my hand combat- the ones that you abhor?"

"Don't- don't tell them shit, Val," You say as evenly as you can muster, "not a goddamn thing!"

CRACK!

It was the sound that came before the feeling- the force of a thick, gloved hand connecting with your side was enough to cause your body to forget how to breathe. You panicked as the pain blossomed into downright torment, your lungs being unable to catch up with the now broken pieces of your ribcage. You were left drowning in the dry, empty air.

"MC!"

"I'm going to give you one more chance, Captain. I suggest you take my words over your companion's- tell me everything. Every last shred of detail, and I will spare you both this pain."

Silence.

Do you think you hear a sob?

"Tch. Pathetic. Do you hold the silence above the people you're supposed to protect? What kind of a captain are you?"

"Stop! Please, stop, kill me- hurt me, anything but them-!"

"You do not get to beg like a diseased dog for a choice, Captain!" The Commander spits, his fury unable to be contained any longer, "Speak one more word that's not what I want, and I'll beat your companion until they're bloody, grey-mattered pulp on the floor!"

Silence.

A clatter. You think it was a tool. A hammer?

It doesn't take long for you to find out, however, as with a furious snarl, the hammer was slammed down upon the palm of your hand. You felt the bones in your hand crack under the force, the sheer magnitude of the assault was enough to make tears run down your face, and cry. Your nerves burned like fire, your body screaming for relief, and you know you won't be receiving any form of it. So this was true pain.

The world around you faded in and out of spotty darkness that threatened to consume your view, and you were afraid. Was this it? This- this can't be it. You needed to be awake, alive, you needed to see Valerian again.

But the darkness grew, and your air slowed down, and despite the chaos, the horror, you heard only one thing.

Silence.

A welcomed reprieve. An escape.

For now.

#angst #tw: blood #tw: violence #tw: torture #valerian itoos #torture miniseries #1/9

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

i saw your post about Charles and what his personality past and part in the story line so i was wondering if u could do the same for vlad? :)

Ah, well, I can at least let you know what I’ve seen so far? I haven’t delved too far into Vlad, and some of his general impressions can be confusing, so I’ll do my best to make it sensible and unbiased! Here you go lovely <33333

Fair warning, there will be mentions of a lot of JPN app content since Vlad and his boys aren’t around much in the ENG app yet.

My general sense of Vlad is basically discount vampire Sasuke Uchiha.

What I mean by this is to say–according to what I’ve read so far–his clan/family were murdered by vampire hunters in cold blood when he was just a young boy. Presumably as a result of that traumatic event, he harbors a sizable enmity towards humanity and kind of lashes out on them in weirdly specific moments of violence. Another aspect of his motivation is something that’s mentioned within Comte’s route; which is that Vlad went through the timespace door on his own one day and allegedly saw a devastated future, where nothing remains of life on earth more or less.

I guess the reason I find him to be so perplexing is that he speaks about his actions in terms of efficiency, while most of the things he does just feel like unhappy outbursts (v often a product of unresolved trauma symptoms, I’d wager.) I also say this because he appears to have no larger pattern to his fury beyond the original event of his loss. Most of the human beings he attacks aren’t much of a threat to him and hurting them really doesn’t bring him any dividends beyond revenge.

For instance, he insists his disdain for humanity and insistence on controlling them is for the sake of ensuring they do not destroy the future–the horrifying wasteland he witnessed when he traveled through the timespace door. However, I’m not really sure how his current movements really speak to that goal? I mean sure, maybe he’s relying on Faust to create an immortal human so that humans will be forced to care because it will be their future too, but he doesn’t allow Faust to draw his pureblood blood for experimenting. (One can most certainly argue this was more about a lack of trust, and perhaps for plenty reason: Faust is vindictive enough to try to turn the tables and exert control over Vlad, or act on his own whims with his findings.) But if that’s the solution he’s waiting on, turning the rivals of the men in the mansion doesn’t really bring him any closer to that vision either? I mean, what good does it do to bring back Gilles de Rais–a prominent French serial killer? How would unleashing him on the populace help humanity “realize the error of it’s short-sighted and wasteful ways” and move to a brighter future?

Can’t help it, I ask these questions as I read.

In Comte’s main story, Comte hammers home that Vlad is not somebody to be taken lightly. One day when MC goes out to buy flowers, Vlad poses as a human florist to sell them to her–which is how Comte finds out he’s in France, and that he’s made contact with MC. When prompted, Comte describes him in a very particular way; and I think people really overlook this when they talk about their relationship. He says that Vlad is frighteningly pure in terms of the way he thinks and acts. The way I understood his description (given what I’ve seen of Vlad) is that Comte really does mean it point blank: Vlad is very simple in terms of why and how he does things. The issue with this is that nuance and context are lost on Vlad as well–and that’s where the problems start to flood in. Vlad is angry at humanity for what they’ve done to him. Baseline? That’s fair, they killed his damn family. However, Vlad thinks that by extension he has the right to decimate the general public and attack people completely uninvolved in his hurt.

And that isn’t right either–it’s ignoring so many factors here. He’s ignoring how much vampires use and toy with humans as pawns, it’s ignoring the massive power imbalance between him and his victims (this really isn’t a case of self-defense most of the time, nobody but Comte/Leo is a sizable threat to him), and he’s ignoring whether or not a person even did anything to deserve his retributive violence. While murder is never okay, it is perhaps more understandable when we see Jeanne’s frenzied and violent belligerence in response to a man who murders a boy’s mother for the sake of his own amusement/convenience. Vlad literally sees almost every single one of the rivals he created begin to heal/improve and murders them in cold blood because they are no longer of any use to him. That’s uh……..that’s a little messed, not gonna lie to you chief.

While part of me understands the efficiency here–he doesn’t want to leave any traces of his involvement, he doesn’t want any loose ends–it’s also just kind of foolish and cruel ultimately. From my understanding of the narrative, all the people he turned had some visible sign that indicated their origin to Comte. So even if he claims it was for the sake of concealment, it was more likely about his personal convenience. Which…..also yikes.

[Comte clearly does not trust Vlad to be reasonable, and I think there’s plenty of good reason enumerated above, but I actually don’t sense quite so much hatred? I think he’s just given up on the idea of Vlad growing up, even if he doesn’t like giving up on people. And considering Vlad’s behavior, I think it’s overkill to say that Comte just abandons him because he doesn’t care lmao. Even when Comte expresses real anger at the end of his own route, it was more because Vlad was fine with endangering MC’s life just to get back at him. I think Comte’s unhappiness with Vlad has more to do with Vlad’s treatment of human life as meaningless and worthless. It’s fascinating but also kind of sad? Vlad’s traumatic experience results in behavior that is a direct exacerbation of Comte’s trauma, and as such--no matter their potentially fond history--they can’t stomach each other.]

In Comte’s route, Vlad also has Shakespeare abduct MC and take her to the cathedral. Later on in the castle, we see an immediate display of Vlad’s shocking powers: he has the ability to manipulate people’s desires/thoughts. I’m not exactly sure how this works, but he is able to give MC visions of the mansion and Comte coming on to her–which shocks her into realizing it’s all just a dream. It’s not reality; it’s all manufactured by Vlad.

After that...weird introductory note...Vlad gives MC the rundown on his life together with Comte, which as always is subject to a question of bias. My assumption is that he did not lie, only because he was trying to convince MC that he was “right.” Furthermore, he does not omit the most damning evidence of his erroneous judgement, which suggests a continued inability for him to see where he went wrong.

We get a series of three flashbacks. The first is them as young kids. I don’t know if Vlad had already experienced the horrors of his family being destroyed, but this particular flashback focuses on Comte. His parents, in an effort to teach him that vampires and humans have no ability to co-exist, send away all of his teachers/mentors/nannies/the servants--pretty much everyone and anyone he was closely bonded to. Think about it this way: we can see that Comte is very sociable and affectionate by nature. He was living in a house full of people, all of whom cared about him and looked after him in their own way. Now the house is entirely empty. Naturally Comte is very very upset, and Vlad appears to try to cheer him up with little success. 

[When I look back on this scene I don’t think I initially registered the sheer dissonance of Vlad’s reaction, versus Comte’s catatonic misery. There was a very solemn feeling to that memory, and the correct choice in terms of extending comfort is to hold his hand believe it or not. There is a sense that he feels very alone. When young boy Vlad enters one can argue that it was the proper thing to do; he was trying to cheer up his playmate and friend. But at the same time, I think I need to double check. Because I’m beginning to wonder if I was wrong. What if Vlad was happy to see someone as alone as him, and that joy is accordingly dissonant for that reason? He can’t see what Comte needs or how he’s hurting because he’s so glad he isn’t alone anymore in a way.]

The second flashback is the war nurse scene that I have spoken at length about. The important thing to focus on here is Vlad’s surprise that Comte would opt out of turning her out of respect for her wishes. The way Vlad frames the situation is starkly different from Comte’s. Comte sees himself as an outsider, somebody who invaded her life as a result of the timespace door and therefore has no right to suddenly change the course of her fate. He had no idea if she even wanted to live (considering the horrors she’d have to cope with and remember) or leave that time period at all, for that matter (considering the only thing keeping her going was helping the wounded/victims). Comte really was listening to everything she had to say, and he was taking her concerns and motivations seriously. 

Vlad simply says: if you want her, take her. It’s as simple as that for him. And in one way that’s not entirely wrong--assuming Comte would have every intention of looking after her and actually cares a lot about her. But what’s being ignored here is her agency and the fact that they really don’t know each other that well? Something like that could begin and be rocky, if it doesn’t end in complete disaster. Worse, I get the feeling Vlad is perfectly fine with the notion of turning her and if things don’t work out, just kill her or get rid of her. Again, the simplistic thinking comes into play here: it ultimately comes down to Vlad being self-centered. He’s thinking only in terms of satisfying his needs, he doesn’t seem to have any concept of a larger pair or group feeling. There’s an inability to bend/be flexible for the sake of maintaining a greater harmonious feeling. 

[For the record, I don’t think this makes him irredeemable? Only that it makes it very hard to live with him or love him, probably. There’s an inability to live at a joint pace? It’s always answering to what he wants without room for anything else most of the time, which to me is not living and it’s not love ;;;;]

Following their escape back to their own time, Vlad explains how he wants to use the door to turn geniuses and control humanity. He eventually wants to create a surveillance state, which would mean everyone is forced to move with his explicit approval, more or less. (He almost reminds me of Louis XIV, can’t tell if that’s what they were going for.) I have my doubts that his abilities could extend that far, but human history shows us that we are plenty susceptible to fascist and totalitarian rhetoric. In a shocking display of anger, Comte draws the line at controlling humanity and forcing them into a regime in which, and this is Vlad’s description not mine, “we (purebloods) would be like kings.” There’s definitely a concept of evolutionary superiority at play here, which echoes what I mentioned earlier; vampires seem to have this awareness that they’re apex predators in a sense, and enjoy the power that comes with that. Unfortunately, that probably makes for a fairly toxic/uncomfortable larger species culture, which is exactly what Comte and Leo hate lmao.

Vlad does not seem to find any issue with this sort of outlook, and asks MC to decide which of them--Vlad or Comte--is right. Who is more realistic, who best understands the future? As expected the MC replies that it's Comte, and Vlad goes from beseeching to big mad at record speed. He's p much that gif of the teddy bear that smacks its head down on the tables and then has the angry eyebrows.

This is where Comte intervenes, firing a warning shot that grazes Vlad's cheek and demanding he let MC go. In response, Vlad shoves MC into the turbulent timespace door--p much guaranteeing MC's death. (Essentially timespace is a void of sorts, a human being could never survive in that environment for long. Vlad fully knew this, and yeeted her anyway.)

So uh, yeah. Disagreement? Death. Moving on? Death. Nuanced approach to reality? Death. Beginning to think he doesn't really have a lot of patience or open-mindedness or any other kind of problem-solving approach. 

He raises flowers and gardens like a fiend, and he openly plucks any single flower with a blemished leaf. Even if a single petal is slightly damaged, it will be removed and destroyed. So one could argue his extremism reflects a kind of perfectionism as well. No room for errors or troublesome dissent. No ugliness of any kind. I mean in all of his interactions with Faust and Charles this is the overt undertone. Don't ask more of me than I'm willing to give. Behave like good children, mommy's busy. Is that insubordination? boss music begins

One thing I actually don't understand very well is his decision making in Dazai's route. Dazai finds out about what Vlad's doing in a nanosecond when he senses MC is in danger, and yet Vlad makes absolutely no move to eliminate Dazai? He just watches from the shadows. Even when Dazai grills Charles about his loyalty to Vlad, no retribution.

My best guess for this specific situation is that Vlad does derive some level of satisfaction thwarting the future of human beings/former humans. Dazai--being somebody with no great desire to live, no rivals to speak of as far as we can tell, and no larger aspirations--is a life that is easily extinguished. There's no satisfaction in it. When Vlad's clan was murdered and he saw the future decimated, it could be that he felt humans had invaded and eradicated every potentiality that was important to him. Where he might have lived happily with his family, that future was ripped from his grasp. Where he might enjoy his flowers and the creation of an immortal for the rest of conceivable time, that too was ripped from his grasp with a desolate future. 

So much about who Vlad is is about control, so it's very possible his lashing out is an extension of that. Dazai does not awaken any of the disdain he feels, and he does not succeed in overthrowing Vlad's control over Charles, so Vlad simply lurks in silence.

And last but not least, I've seen the preview to Vlad's newest birthday event story. The contents are incredibly revealing, in that MC wishing him a happy birthday and offering him a gift has him saying that it was "the best birthday ever." Granted idk if that’s sweet or just...beyond sad, but here we are. It’s only compounding my curiosity about the wound on his chest--I really do wonder if he was attacked and locked away by vampire hunters or hostile human beings or something. I say that only because that line speaks to a lot of isolation, and given how little he seems to care about turning people/subjecting them to his whims it feels odd. Why the isolation or lack of people who care about him? Is it a perceived lack where his actions alienated all the people who wanted to be close to him, or is it a more involuntary lack?

When she says let’s celebrate again next year, he seems a pleasantly shocked by the notion, and remarks “Ah yes, it’s a promise c:”. The preview was also mega horny: “You make me feel so loved, I don’t think I can be gentle with you tonight. If you enjoy it so much, then I won’t stop. I want to see you completely lost for me. I’ll teach your body what it means to be loved by a pureblood.” Aaaaaand pretty sure the CG was alluding to him licking the good stuff from her basement, though not entirely sure given it was only the preview. 

The brief POV they give us is also very revealing:

“You always keep your promises, and I think I underestimate all the time how much you saved me. You are good, only you are good in this world.”

“Will we continue to make promises to each other in the future? Well in that case--you will always, always be mine, my vampire.”

Tbh he’s...v sweet? In his own way? Honestly he feels like a crabapple that is just so sick of the world and wants softe wife to take comfort in. While granted that’s not really my thing, I know a fanbase appeal exists for these types--so if that’s your thing, have at it!

So now that we have reached the end of my ridiculously long analysis (when am I ever brief, I’m so sorry. If you made it all the way here you deserve a cookie at the very least, if not the right to chase me with a bat) perhaps it’s more clear why I said discount vampire Sasuke Uchiha? “My clan is gone, every other second I’m going to be in retraumatization insanity, when I’m not I’ll be seeking power/hobbies, planning the demise of people who wanted the best for me, building a team to my advantage and unquestioned control, and eventually settling for a lifelong love who sees the best in me despite my more difficult moments and perceived hollowing loneliness. Not the most ideal comparison, but I will say if Vlad was not already named the historical figure, would have pointed and yelled Uchiha.

That’s all from me folks, hopefully this was a fun way to get introduced to him? And again, hope I didn’t alienate--I fully respect what people do and don’t enjoy o7

#asks #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp meta #ikevamp vlad #ikevamp comte #ikevamp saint germain #ikevamp leonardo #ikevamp faust #ikevamp charles #ikevamp dazai #i hope this was helpful! #i had too much fun writing it jkahlgkjhgdf i love meta #but thank you for submitting <33333 #oh discount vampire sasuke uchiha we really in it now #rambles #not incorrect quotes

[sabraeal]

I've been living for the combination of @bubblesthemonsterartist 's gifs and your comments in the tags for Sen and Kazama. I don't know who they are other than "the beautiful haughty blond boy with a punchable expression from that game the obiyuki discord likes", but I'm having such a good time. I don't go there, but I'm rooting for them so much (and apparently the writers of the show as well? xD)

I wish the writers would root for them as much as I would like them to 🤣 Kazama (the haughty blond boy) is a demon prince and one of the main antagonists of Hakuouki...but also oftentimes the MC's ally and on HIS route, her love interest. Sen's the demon princess that find her and becomes her bff-- and in most routes, her interaction with Kazama is minimal.

In ONE, however, there is HEAVY HINTING there is something between them, though the both refuse to admit they're attracted. She gets kidnapped and turned into a Fury (a weird perversion of demons using their blood; it's usually used to turn humans into half-demons but sometimes it gets used on demons to increase their power), which is typically something Kazama finds GROSS and needs to be eradicated....and then he still shows up for her rescue (wherein it is revealed they have been exchanging letters, mostly about the MC according to him but like, LIES) and then carries her all the way back home.

There's also like, ONE MINI-SERIES that Joanna's has gif'ed every angle of where they have a talk about what girls like because he's ABSOLUTELY STUPID and also offers to steal Sen away if she would like AND LISTEN THEY SHOULD KISS BUT I KNOW IT WILL NEVER BE GIVEN TO ME.

#asks #hakuouki #sen x kazama #every time they get to interact they literally steal the show LET THEM KISS ALREADY #also I choose to believe that Kimigiku and Amagiri were once married #and then he went off to fight Kazama's wars so they are separated #and Kimigiku gonna make him regret every minute of it #LISTEN THERE IS NO PROOF AT ALL BUT IT WOULD BE INTERESTING #AND THERE IS NO PROOF TO THE CONTRARY EITHER #PULL IT OUT OF MY COLD DEAD HANDS it would make every interaction between kazama and yase SO funny

[atiny-doodles]

two

HALA

genre: fantasy, romance, alt. universe

warnings: violence?

disclaimer: pirate!ateez x siren!reader, mc is already given a name, female mc

series masterlist

-

“The princess has been terribly injured!” Erina exclaimed. The earth-maid rarely confided with Laila, so the fact that she was rushing over with her fins expanding rapidly with exhaustion concerned the fellow water-maid.

But she looked back at the sailor she just lured. “But I just caught my dinner.” she pouted.

Erina rolled her eyes. “You’ve obviously not been paying attention at school.” she said before swimming over to the unconscious man. Lifting his hand, she showed Laila a tattoo he had of the skeleton of a sea horse crossed over with two violent red slashes on his wrist. “This insignia obviously shows that he’s a pirate. Of high rank too.”

Laila’s eyes widened. Cautiously looking around, she lowered her voice. “We should take him back to land before his crew comes looking for him right?”

Erina nodded. Pirates have had a history of hunting sirens. It’s been a while since human kind thought their species went extinct, so it’s risky capturing pirates and having their crew search the sirens' waters, potentially discovering them again.

“I will do that since I have the ability to walk on land. You need to get to the princess quick! I know your healing powers are not as developed but you're the only water-maid I could find fast enough.” Erina said.

Laila nodded and sped off in the direction Erina had come from. A couple meters away, she found a fire maid sitting by some coral with the princess in her arms. She looked at Laila with wide eyes and beckoned her over.

“Please help her. She was caught in a net from a nearby ship. They were night fishing, a-and a dolphin got caught and s-she was just trying to help!” The fire maid said, shaking before bursting into tears.

Laila wasted no time. She scanned the princess’s body and found a large open wound at her torso, right where her red tail met her belly. Focusing her energy, she took a deep breath and tried to stop the bleeding. Laila was still a kid in training, so she wasn’t sure if she could do this. If she failed to save the princess, would she be imprisoned? For sure she would be hated by the fire clan for the rest of her life for causing the death of their beloved royal daughter. She might even be executed.

She started to hyperventilate. Her powers were starting to get shaky. Her hands were trembling, trying to control the healing properties gifted by the water around her, but she couldn’t. She could see steady wisps of blood leave the princess’s body and float into the clear water above her, tinting the ocean crimson red. The light sobs of the fire-maid were starting to get heavier.

“W-why is she bleeding harder?”

“I don’t know!”

“You’re hurting her stop!”

The fire maid started to shake Laila. She lost her focus, letting the energy from her fingers slip. Clasping her chest, she violently gasped for air. With teary eyes, she looked back down at the princess.

Her fiery red tail started to fade into a dull orange. The steady streams of blood that flowed out of her body turned into bubbles. Her finger tips, her gills, and even the small strands of hair on her eyelashes started to fade into foam.

The fire maid started to wail louder, pushing Laila out of her way and hugging the princess.

“No! No, don't do this! Poseidon save us!” she pleaded.

The princess faded into a ghostly white hue of sea foam and floated away from her arms. Dissolving into the sea, she left nothing but the red tint of the ocean water of what was once her hurting body.

Laila stared at the red wisps as it floated away. All she could hear were the wails of the fire maid next to her.

A soft hand adorned her shoulder, snapping her out of her trance. “Thank you,” someone whispered from behind her.

The two sirens turned around to the voice. Eyes widened in shock, Laila bowed down to her.

“M-My Queen!” she exclaimed. “I’m so sorry, I tried my best I-I didn’t know what to do.”

The fire maid who was on the ground sobbing rose up. Her eyes focused on Laila and all she could feel was fury. Making the water around her boil, her tear clouded eyes focused onto Laila with nothing but hatred.

“You traitor! You purposefully made Ashira bleed out. You killed her!”

Curling her hand back, she aimed the boiling water at Laila’s back. But before she could strike, the Queen promptly waved her arm, sending a gush of heat back at her stopping her attack.

“Adira, calm yourself!” the Queen exclaimed.

She leaned down to the water maid and helped her up. “You’re a warrior.” she said. “Thank you for trying your best to save the princess.” The Queen gave her a warm smile, calming Laila down.

“Thank you my Queen.” she said, still keeping her head down.

Adira on the other hand collapsed on the ground. “Yes, you tried your best. Actually it was my fault.” she cried.

“I could have saved her! She saw a dolphin get stuck on the fishers net and went off to save it herself. I warned her against it but she went anyway and got stuck. I should have helped her, but I was too scared. She had to fight her way out of it alone.” Adira looked from Laila to the Queen.

“She lost the royal ring Ceto!” she sobbed. “This is all my fault.”

Queen Ceto is known by mortals as the Goddess of the sea. She is the oldest known siren in existence and has defeated many legendary sea monsters in her lifetime. Although she’s a fierce fighter, she is kind and loved by all the siren clans.

But no one ever called her by her real name.

Laila turned to the fire maid. “Who are you?” she asked. She realized she was being rude, but she was confused and wanted an explanation.

The fire maid straightened her back and wiped away her tears. “I am Adira. I was princess Ashira’s advisor,” she hesitated, “and I looked at her as my closest sister.”

Queen Ceto looked at the young maid softly. “I understand how you’re feeling, young Adira. I looked at Ashira as my own daughter.”

Adira looked at the ground in shame.

“But I look at you as my own daughter as well.”

Adira looked up with wide eyes. “My Queen-”

“And so if you will accept, will you please be the new crown princess?” Ceto asked. She turned to Laila. “What do you think young water-maid?”

“I think there is no one more qualified than Adira, my Queen.” Laila responded. The Queen raised a brow at her. “Oh, I mean princess Adira.”

Adira looked back and forth at both the sirens and let out a sigh. “I’m honored, but I don’t think I’m qualified enough.”

“Which is why you will go through a test.”

Adira was stunned at Queen Ceto’s words. “A test?”

“Of course! You think this position is something I can hand out so freely?”

“No, of course not my Queen.”

“And I’m sure you feel upset at how former princess Ashira was unfairly taken away from us?”

Adira made fists with her hands. Her breath got heavier and the water around her started to steam. Laila backed away from her in fear.

But Queen Ceto seemed unfazed. “I thought so. And so my dear, your mission is to get revenge on those who killed our princess.”

Adira furrowed her brows. “For sure my Queen.” but she hesitated. “But, how am I supposed to do this?”

“You have all the sirens and sea creatures supporting you. If there is anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask the clan leaders.”

Laila perked up at this. “If you would like Adira, I can ask my clan leader to give you medicine and supplies!”

Queen Ceto nodded. “The Earth Clan can also help you get temporary legs.” She paused for a moment. “I’m not sure the Air Clan won’t be very fond of the idea of helping you though.”

Both young sirens nodded. The Air Clan often kept to themselves and rarely confided in the other clans. They were a very powerful clan on their own, sustaining themselves for centuries.

Adira took a deep breath. “That’s alright. I trust that every siren will have my back regardless.” She turned to Laila. “I promise to avenge our sister.”

Looking down and letting the boiling water around her rest in a simmer, she looked up to the water maid. “Thank you, and I’m sorry about my attitude earlier.”

Laila smiled reassuringly at Adira. “It’s alright. And I believe in you princess Adira.”

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