#avarice:…yes…thank you…

[quinttyz]

precious mods….

#quinttyz rambles #i love lil mods that add so much story…. #like the dogs with backpacks thing :’)) #also get the cat mod!! theyre look so chonky #i FORGOT THE NAMES BUT JUST SEARCH CAT MOD SKYRIM SE AND CHOOSE THE ONE WITH THE CHONKIEST LOOKING CATS #also i have a mod where i can play fetch with dogs hehe #i was playing with a dog in windhelm and threw the bone #deadass sofie (the beggar child) ran after it and said hey u dropped this! #avarice:…yes…thank you… #skyrim mods #skyrim #elder scrolls v #tesv #tesv skyrim #skyrim memes #modded skyrim

[astrid-sama]

Hi can you make carmilla carmine x female reader smut about their honeymoon plz and thank you

Thanks for the request, I hope you like it. (I will write the other requests soon too)

Carmilla Carmine x fem reader.

The feeling of the warm water flowing on your skin combined with the thoughts of the beautiful day spent with your wife made you sigh with pleasure.

Carmilla had managed to get permission to temporarily leave the pride circle and had organized your honeymoon in the most beautiful cities of hell.

Today was the first day of your honeymoon and you spent it on the beautiful beaches of the circle of avarice, bathing in the sea and pampering yourself under the green sky that overlooked the circle controlled by Mammon.

Your thoughts are suddenly interrupted by the arms circling your hips, the lips gently brushing your neck, and the warmth of her breath against your skin.

-What are you doing?-

-I missed you so much and I decided to join you mi amor-

A light laugh escaped my mouth.

-You were only without me for twenty minutes-

-Twenty minutes without you is too much, I want to spend every second of our honeymoon with you-

Carmilla gave a tender kiss under your ear and then moved lower until she kissed your neck; she broke the kisses to suck the delicate skin on your neck until she left a hickey.

The attention your beloved wife was giving to the sensitive skin of your neck made you moan softly.

You turned until you were facing Carmilla, tangled your hands in her hair and pulled her towards you to join your lips in a passionate kiss.

As you kissed Carmilla she began to push you back until your back met the cold tiles of the wall.

Carmilla's lips left yours and she began kissing your collarbones and leaving hickeys; when she was satisfied with the amount of marks she had left on you she slid further down to your chest, took one of your breasts between her lips while her hand caressed the other; your grip in her hair tightened as Carmilla teased your nipples with her teeth.

After leaving your breast Carmilla knelt in front of you and moved her attention to your abdomen; she traced your ribs one by one with your tongue, bit and sucked at the soft skin of your stomach and ran her claws down your back making you shiver.

Loud moans left your lips as Carmilla dug her fingers into you; when the pleasure reached its peak you pulled Carmilla's hair hard making her moan from the harsh treatment.

-Did you like it mi amor?-

Carmilla asked you as she stood up. Instead of answering her, you gave Carmilla a deep kiss that contained all your passion and desire for her.

-I'll take that as a yes, let's go somewhere more comfortable-

Carmilla took you in her arms and you, taking advantage of the position, began to cover the skin of her neck with hickeys.

Carmilla walked across your bedroom with you in her arms and laid you gently on the bed. Carmilla crawled on top of you and looked at you with a hungry look that made you shiver with anticipation.

-Do you want to be mine all night mi amor?-

-You already know the answer-

#hazbin hotel #carmilla carmine #carmilla carmine x fem reader #carmilla carmine x reader #hazbin hotel carmilla carmine

[two-white-butterflies]

coaxed you into paradise - c. 15

Description: The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts. She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her older sister. She returns to seek solace in the arms of her uncle, that she's loved all her life.

(Coaxed You Into Paradise and High Infidelity Rewrite.)

masterlist for this series

Chapter Fifteen: Children of Valyria

When the news of Rhaenyra’s labor reached the ears of the Strongs, they both bolted out of their rooms for different reasons. Saera loved her sister - and couldn’t bear the thought of her alone in the birthing bed, while Harwin was excited to meet his child. They halted in front of the Princess’ chambers - freezing at the sound of her screams. 

“Is she alright?” Saera asks, while settling on the bench outside of the door. “Yes,” Alicent replies - sitting beside her daughter. 

Harwin Strong was pale - nervous for the safety of his beloved. “She’ll be fine,” Laenor touches the man’s shoulder before bolting inside the room. He was the father, but they didn’t know that. 

“How long has she been in labor?” the Princess inquires, watching the Queen peel the skin back at her fingers. “Ten hours, she started at dawn.” the woman confirmed, trying not to show her fear. Rhaenyra and Alicent were no longer friends - but the affection was still there. 

“Gods,” Harwin mumbled, finding his place beside his wife. 

—

Saera bites back a gasp, exchanging confused glances with Queen Alicent. “He is a handsome young boy.” Viserys smiles, holding his grandson with tenderness and love. Even a blind man could see that the child wasn’t a Velaryon. Prince Jacaerys had brown hair and brown eyes - Saera has spent two-years with Harwin to know that the babe had his nose and his smile. 

Harwin grins from behind his wife, both at them staring at the Prince’s face. He was adorable and charming - Saera couldn’t find herself hating him. “He is delightful,” she cooed, smiling at the sight of the little boy. 

“Thank you,” Rhaenyra breathed a sigh of relief, exchanging a knowing stare with her lover. “Would you like to hold him?” she offers, but it comes across as teasing. 

Saera’s lips settled into a thin line. 

It wasn’t an insult but it sounded like an insult. 

“No thank you,” she declined, gathering her gown and excusing herself from the room.

—

Harwin enters Saera’s separate chamber, he could sense that there was something wrong. His heart jumped out of his chest at the sight of her, arms crossed and with a frown. He was in trouble. 

“Good morrow,” she greeted, slowly filling her cup with wine. He had the broad shoulders of the Andals, and he was the perfect husband for Viserys’ second daughter - but she did not need his protection. Matter of fact, he should protect himself from her. 

Rhaenyra was fire and avarice, but her sister was calm as spring. It unnerved him - as he could do anything but it would never anger her. At least not in the way that Rhaenyra would be angered.

“It’s a shame that my nephew inherited his grandmother’s Baratheon blood,” she hummed, looking at his face and seeing it drop with every word that escaped her tongue. “ - his face is void of Valyrian blood.” she added. 

“He is still a dragon,” he defended and she raised an eyebrow. “Of course,” she looked at the side, taking a sip of her wine. 

Saera figures that it was the alcohol that had her speaking of things that she couldn’t understand. She takes another sip, sitting on top of her vanity. “I’ve heard rumors,” she began - already regretting her capriciousness. 

“Rumors about?” he acted clueless, but that seemed to feed more into her desire for the truth. “Her son looks like you,” she pipes - leaving out the fact that she had concrete evidence of his betrayal. 

She glances up from her cup to his face. 

If he were to admit the affair - then she’d bring forth an agreement. She could have Daemon and he could have Rhaenyra. 

“They are efforts to besmirch the crown’s reputation. Do not believe them, my wife.” he shuts her down, the grip on her goblet tightened - she bites the insides of her cheeks. She knew in that very moment - all of her trust diminished with her husband - even the mere possibility of friendship was impossible. That he would lie to get what he wanted. 

“I won't be mad,” she gives him a chance to redeem himself, but he begins walking in her direction - wrapping her around his arms. “You are the only woman that I love.” he pressed a reluctant kiss on the top of her head. “ - that is a promise.” he vowed - sealing his fate. 

—

Daemon and Saera impatiently walk inside the Maester’s chambers. He was never a big fan of Maesters, they were stupid and incompetent. He’d rather fly to Essos and Pentos to get a proper diagnosis. He places a protective arm around her shoulder - twisting the doorknob without knocking. He’d have more decorum if the Maester wasn’t the one that killed his sister, Aemma. 

“Prince Daemon,” the man stands up and he points at his niece. “Princess Saera,” the man bows, walking to help them. “I think I’m with a child.” she announces bluntly, and the man nods. 

Daemon points at a chair and she sits on it. 

The Maester hands her a small bowl, “You must pee in it.” the man reports, and she pales slightly. “Do I have to?” she stares up at her uncle.“How will we know, my princess?” The Maester replies, returning to his paperwork. 

Daemon turns to glare at the man, “Do not be curt with the Princess.” he gritted his teeth, eyes softening once his gaze returns to Saera. “Kessa, iksan zūgagon sīr. (Yes, I’m afraid so.)” he hums, combing through her hair. 

“Skorkydoso kessa gaoman bona? Kessa ao ūndegon ziry? (How will I do that? Will you catch it?)” she joked while rising to her feet. She was happy at the thought of having a child, but the process to know if she was going to - was quite embarrassing. 

“Disgusting,” he chuckled. 

Saera turned to look at the Maester. “We’ll be back in an hour,” she announces, walking out of the door. “Īlē jāre naejot emagon nyke ūndegon ziry? (You were going to have me catch it)” a faint whisper of Daemon’s voice echoed through the halls as they exited the room. 

“Bona iksin iā joke, uēpa vala. (That was a joke, old man.)” she huffed, running to the direction of her room.

“Careful, konir sagon ñuha riña iemnȳ hen ao. (that’s my child inside of you.)” he warned with a cheeky smirk, knowing that none around him were capable of listening in to their conversation.

—

Saera holds her breath, staring at the bowl and watching the Maester inspect her pee. The man raises his glass, a small formal smile on his lips. “You are with a child, princess - I extend my congratulations to you and Lord Strong.” he announces, and her grip on Daemon’s hand tightens. 

“Thank the seven,” she breathes - a smile spreading onto her lips. 

next chapter>>

taglist. @sweetybuzz25 @newtsniffles @loveandlewis-reads @lovecleastrange @julkaamazing @schniiipsel @mirandastuckinthe80s @areaderinlove @i-yam-awesome @ladystardvsts @gracielikegrapes @sweethoneyblossom1 @issybee0611 @tato0od @daemonskelitsos @delaynew @thisbihreadstoomuch @plutoscosmos

(comment to be tagged)

#daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen #prince daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen headcanon #daemon targaryen fic #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen fluff #house targaryen #house of the dragon #daemon headcanons #daemon prince #daemonism #hotd daemon

[bg3-bitching]

so. okay. bg3 & asian characters. for our purposes i will be talking about helsik and cazador—note that they are both characters with east asian features. this is because, as far as i know, there are no south/southeast asians (at least, not with speaking roles). this is the first of our problems.

quick harper branthos mention btw. i love him. he's not got enough of a speaking role to be relevant here but i love him all the same

let's look at helsik from the devil's fee. during your first conversation with her, she mentions being a follower of "lord mammon". she requests payment for information, and will tell all for obscene prices. it's basically daylight robbery. also, for people who don't know, mammon as a character represents greed and avarice, and is often depicted as one of the princes of hell. she embodies the east asian (usually chinese) scammer trope—she tries to get you to give her all your money and then some. so like. that's not a great portrayal of asian people, and she's maybe the second one we've seen so far?

then we have cazador, who is. at least visually based on fu manchu which isn't a good association lmao (fu manchu is a fictional supervillain who uhhh. embodies the evil genius/mad scientist trope. the stache cazador has is named after him). so that's a bad look! not to mention that over the game, cazador has been built up as an evil, manipulative, abusive shithead who is also the villain of the favorite white boy's narrative. his whole shtick in the later half of the game is the rite of profane ascension, a demonic rite in which he must sacrifice seven thousand souls for power. so not only is he the source of all the favorite white boy's problems, but he's power-hungry as well.

wow! you may be thinking. what a weird coincidence that these two characters are tied to diabolic rituals!

isn't it just? it's almost reminiscent of how east asian people have been called yellow devils in the past!

sorry about the sarcasm but it's just tiring at this point. thank you, larian! thank you so much!

Good fucking God Almighty.

Larian how do manage to fuck up the only two notable Asian characters in the game that badly??? (It's by not having anyone Asian be prominent in making the game) ((I also hate how broad the term 'Asian' is, as if Asia is monolithic))

Since he was brought up, I want to say how uncomfortable I feel seeing and using the word "slave" to describe Astarion's situation with Cazador. Yes that is technically what he was, but should we really be saying a white man is a slave? ESPECIALLY when his "master" (big yikes) has POC features? It's giving "Persecution Flip" trope.

Thank you for sending this! It's good for people to see these harmful tropes and stereotypes so they can spot them when they happen.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #larian critical #bg3 critical #cazador szarr #bg3 cazador #fandom critical #larian studios #astarion #astarion ancunin

[rubydracogirl]

HAHAHAHA REMEMBER I SAID I WAS GONNA MAKE GRAVITY FALLS CONTENT?

Well here's a very short one-shot.

Rated T for descriptions of making out

Stanford PinesXReader

'False Hope'

"You know, I think about kissing you a lot." 

Ford was startled from his book at your sudden declaration and his eyes snapped to your face as he blinked, trying to process what exactly you said. He wasn't successful.

"Er, apologies, I must have misunderstood. What did you say?"

"I said, 'I think about kissing you'. Often." You repeated without preamble.

"... Is that a joke?" He asked in a doubtful tone.

"Not at all. Would you be opposed to it?"

Ford gulped, feeling his face grow hot under your gaze. You had some of the prettiest eyes he'd ever seen, and he was only fooling himself to say that he'd never thought about you that way.

Embarrassingly, he found his mouth dry as he tried to reply coherently.

"I uh, wouldn't, um… no."

You scooted a little closer to him, and Ford felt his heart pound in his ears at your sudden proximity. Your eyes drifted to his lips, and he heard himself swallow obnoxiously loud.

"...May I?" Your voice murmured softly.

He couldn't bring himself to speak again, so he nodded. His skin tingled as he felt your fingers caress the underside of his chin, drawing him close.

Your lips brushed against him in such a gentle motion, he found himself leaning a little closer. He couldn't have imagined how soft your lips really were, nor how sweet your breath would feel on his face.

The moment felt like it stretched into eternity, and yet, it ended all too soon as you pulled back, looking at him with a dreamy expression. 

"Was that ok?" 

"Very. Yes. I…" Ford wasn't sure where it came from, but suddenly, he was holding your face in his hands, kissing you again and eagerly pressing you for more.

Your voice hummed sensually and he shuddered as he felt your lips part before a soft, wet surface lightly stroked over his bottom lip.

It was an invitation, one he accepted with avarice as he opened his mouth.

The warmth of your mouth was an incredible experience, and he explored you eagerly. You indulged him as he tasted you, allowing his tongue to roam freely as he angled your face to the side. You were so warm, sweet, and the contrasting textures of your tongue and teeth were nothing short of addicting.

For a moment, Ford felt as if he was drowning in you, completely taken in like a fish caught on a hook, and his lungs burned as he reluctantly pulled back, breathing heavily while he looked into your hazy eyes. His cheeks were red and hot to the touch, his hands trembled against your face as he affectionately swept his thumbs over your cheekbones.

"I take it that you really liked that?"

Your lips pulled into a teasing smile and he gave a short, awkward laugh.

"Er, sorry, I uh, got carried away." He said sheepishly.

"I didn't mind at all, Ford. Thanks for letting me kiss you."

"Um… you're welcome?"  His voice was flustered and he shyly let you go as he looked away in embarrassment. You touched his shoulder and squeezed it affectionately.

"If you liked it, you're welcome to kiss me any time. I wouldn't mind."

"R-really? But… why?"

"Well… the thing is, I really like you-"

8~8~8~8~8~

Ford's eyes snapped open and he gave a soft groan.

"Damn it." He growled. Another dream of you… this was unacceptable. He knew how unlikely and impossible it was that he would ever have such a relationship with you and besides that, he treasured his friendship with you too much to ruin it with such a selfish desire… and yet, that didn't stop him from dreaming of you like this; touching your face, kissing your mouth, holding your hands without fear of a negative reaction…. Like disgust. 

He almost preferred his nightmares of rejection because at least they reminded him of the reality of his situation instead of imbuing him with false hope.

As he lay in the dark, looking up at the ceiling, he gave a short, bitter laugh, covering his eyes with his hand.

"You're a damn fool." He muttered softly to himself.

#Gravity Falls #fanfiction #one-shot #Ford Pines #ford pines x reader #making out #kissing #pining #angst #it was just a dream #reader is meant to be female but there's no pronouns used in this #I'm not normal about Ford #no specific timeline for this

[windsweptinred]

@light-miracles Yes, yes, yes!! I had to pull your awesome reblog comment for it's own post because Yes! I think Unity and Hob's ability to be so contrasting from Desire and Dream is what makes them so uniquely perfect.

Pulls up a chair and gets comfy. OK.. My theory. Look at the two happiest, well rounded Endless, Death and Destruction. What do they have that the others don't? They've embraced their opposing nature's. Death acknowledges she's also life and reveals in it. Destruction is 'trying' to create. I'd argue he needs to openly reaccept destruction again to fully be there. But he's on his journey.

What was Death trying to push Dream towards in 1389? It wasn't a boyfriend or something to hope in (Though if that helps it's all good!) ... It was reality. He'd withdrawn soo far into the Dreaming that he'd he'd almost completely lost touch with the real world. She wants him to be among the people, listen to them, remember the joys of it. They just happen to run into the most human human who ever laughed so hard a bit if pee came out. Hob's not a dreamer, he's a Hobbit. His idea of the ultimate dream is a full belly and secure roof over his head. This man is a reminder to Dream of the joys of reality.

And as you said, Unity isn't a creature of avarice. She's brave and loving, and has the phenomenonal ability to take whatever fate throws at her and embrace it. She doesn't bemoan the years lost to her and wish her youth back. She's content, is thankful for her dream life and the family she has found on the other side of it. Through Unity, Desire learns to embrace their opposing nature.. fulfillment and peace.

#dreamling #desunity #hob x dream #desire x unity #hob gadling #dream of the endless #desire of the endless #unity kinkaid #sandman meta

[russellrustles]

CORRUPTIO MORUM - c. leclerc

a/n: Is this an au? I suppose that this may count as me just indulging in my rich bf, borderline sugardaddy charles fantasies, but I can’t be the only one with such thoughts. besides, charles + dogs = yes. as usual, massive thanks to the wonderful proofreader p @f1tingz.

warnings: alcohol, swearing, charles is kind of a cocky asshole at times

word count: 9.8k

summary: from the very first time he enters the restaurant, you can’t help but be intrigued by him. luckily for you, the attraction goes the other way too.

masterlist

corruptio morum playlist

money is the reason we exist, everybody knows it, it’s a fact (kiss, kiss) - national anthem demo, lana del rey

——————————

There are some, who, one may say, deserve their riches. They are those who spend their lives clawing through the ranks, backs aching and bones creaking under the weight of responsibilities and societal pressures to achieve success. The effort that they pour into their work one day pays off, and the only thing left to determine their righteousness is how they handle their newfound luxuries.

Perhaps others are born into a lavish life. Yet not all allow their perspectives to be clouded by the idea of how easy it is to live comfortably and turn a blind eye to those around them, instead proving themselves to be benevolent individuals - or, at the bare minimum, not ignorant to the world’s troubles.

Then, on the other hand, there are those who are born sinners. Avarice runs in their blood and words of lust are on their tongues, they’re manipulative equivocators with an animalistic hunger for more, more, more. It is people like this who are undeniably, irrefutably unredeemable, rotten at the core and unfixable, too consumed by their own desires.

But, in reality, you find the equation regarding the entire subject of wealth to be rather simple: money plus power equals moral corruption.

It’s difficult not to ponder over the matter when you have to watch people ebb and flow through the restaurant, and you wonder how a place so full of people can feel so lifeless at the same time. In a way, those entering and leaving seem two-dimensional, lacking personality, with their only defining traits being their elegant fashion sense and dismissive nature towards the restaurant staff. But, at the end of the day, if you’re earning money for serving them then you’re in no position to complain.

There is nothing particularly unique about tonight. It’s just another evening of rushing around the opulent building, carrying around plates and bottles of wine, and putting on a forced, deferential tone whenever you serve a table.

What does catch your eye, however, is a group of rather rowdy young men sitting around a large table by the windows. Someone else has already given them their meals, but they’re still teeming with an amount of energy that you rarely see here, laughing loudly and slamming their fists against the table, consequently occasionally earning dirty looks from other diners.

However, you have other, more important things to do than stare at this group of men, so you hurry past them and towards a different table, only giving them a fleeting glance as you go by.

After having taken the orders of an older couple, you rush away to a staff-only corridor. Leaning with your back to the wall, you savour the quiet moment, even if you know that in just a minute or so you’d have to go back to work.

You don’t really find there to be a massive amount of negatives about your job - the pay is rather good, the hours aren’t excessive, and you get along with the other people on your shifts with minimal complications. Typically, the patrons of the restauarant are rather tolerable too, albeit snobby.

But, on a bad day, you may end up unlucky enough to serve a table of supercilious customers, who seem to think that they are God’s gift to the world. On such days you sometimes question why you even stay in Monaco.

A shout of your name from the entrance to the corridor abruptly brings your attention to the man currently in charge of your shift. He stands in the entryway, rather imposing despite the fact that you know he isn’t usually one to lose his temper. “Hey, Julie is refilling the wine glasses at table twenty-seven but there’s a lot of them at that table. Go out and help her, hurry up - she’s already got two bottles,” he instructs.

You immediately give him a quick nod and rush past him, relieved that he hadn’t told you off for hiding away for a second. However, as you make your way back into the high-ceilinged room with all the tables, you’re hit with a realisation that makes you groan internally.

Table number twenty-seven. The table by the windows. The table with all those noisy men.

You begin to pray that their manners are better than their behaviour.

When you approach the table it seems that your prayers may have been answered - or at least partially so. Their little clique has quieted down enough to stop attracting the attention of people sitting around them, but in exchange for not bothering those nearby they’ve clearly shifted their focus onto poor Julie.

Plastering on a fake polite expression as you go to stand next to her, you hear how some of the obnoxious guys are asking her for her number and questioning which of them she’d rather go on a date with whilst whooping with laughter. You give her a quick, surreptitious smile of sympathy before grabbing the other bottle of wine, applauding yourself for your self-restraint as you refrain from pouring it over the mens’ white shirts.

On the other side of the table, there’s two men who are quieter, almost silent, as they just observe what their companions are doing. You can’t really tell if they’re watching on in interest or disapproval, or whether they’re keeping their mouths shut simply because there’s no way that Julie would hear them over the ruckus that the others are making.

Much to your dismay, it turns out that it’s because of your third theory.

The first man whose wineglass you refill actually isn’t terrible - in fact, you may dare to call him pleasant. You stand between the two of them, and once you finish refilling the wineglass of fhe first man, he looks up at you with a dashing smile.

“Thank you,” he says simply, and you quickly pick up his charming French accent, yet don’t pay too much attention to it as it is obviously common in the region. Returning a smile and giving him a courteous nod, you turn to serve the second man, before a comment from the first stops you.

“That’s a lovely necklace you’ve got, darling,” he compliments you, and you’d be lying if you were to say that you don’t blush a little - it’s not like you can deny that the Frenchman is rather attractive, a pleasant face to rest your eyes upon in comparison to the usual aged diners.

You look down at the delicate jewellery around your neck, a golden chain with a teardrop ruby pendant that stands out against your black work attire, and bashfully fiddle with it. “Thank you, sir,” you respond quietly, before dropping the pendant and getting back to the task at hand.

The second man, however, is a little less tactful.

You hear him say, “Let’s take a look at that,” and reach his hand up towards the necklace, before stopping at the very last second. “May I?” he asks, and despite being shocked by his bluntness you absentmindedly nod, just wanting this all to be over so that you and Julie can leave this table behind as soon as possible.

With a delicateness that you hadn’t previously expected, he holds the pendant between his fingers and examines it for a few seconds before adding his opinion to the conversation, “Oh, yes, this really is a beautiful one.”

His accent is music to your ears, and you allow yourself to take a look down at him and make eye contact. And, by God, what a mistake that is - he meets your gaze with stunning green eyes, perfectly complimenting his slightly ruffled, brown hair. There’s some light stubble on his face too, and despite his expression being rather cocky, there’s still something quite alluring to it.

Don’t you dare get the hots for some spoiled brats, you scold yourself. As enticing as it all seems, you’ve heard all the stories of how relationships with overgrown daddy’s boys tend to end in heartbreak.

“So, does the pretty girl have a taste for expensive jewellery?” the man asks you, and you cringe slightly at what you assume to be a poor attempt at flirting. Maybe you’re hearing things, but you’re pretty certain that the Frenchman beside you laughs a little at his companion. Yet, you hold yourself together and give a calm response of, “Not exactly, sir. It was my grandmother’s.”

His eyebrows quirk up a little at the sound of your voice, undoubtedly picking up on the way it stands out in comparison to the sound of the locals’ accents. He then gestures towards his wineglass and you take it as a cue to refill it.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asks with an amused lilt to his voice. You shake your head, continuing to fill up his wine glass.

“So, where does a girl like you come from?” he continues to question you, seeming to see it as some form of entertainment, allowing himself to use those scrambling around him to provide services as a way to kill time.

You nervously bite your lower lip, taking a deep breath as you consider your answer. After a few more seconds of silence, your reply comes as, “Nowhere of any significance.”

Subtly trying to catch a glimpse of his reaction in the periphery of your vision, you pray that your inconclusive answer hasn’t displeased the man - patrons of restaurants such as this one have a reputation for getting easily offended, and consequently petty. However, when you finish pouring the wine and turn to make eye contact with him, you see nothing but a mischievous, borderline dangerous, glint in his eye.

With a devilish smirk, he says, “Mysterious. I like it.”

There’s no response within your mind that would be adequate for such a comment. Today is not the day to divulge into your past, and upon seeing that all the glasses on the table have been refilled, you just hold the wine bottle tighter, give a polite nod, and walk away.

—————

It takes a few days for the brown-haired man to return, but this time when he comes to the restaurant he’s alone.

You watch from a distance as he’s led over to a small table in a secluded section of the restaurant and handed a menu. Perhaps he hadn’t made the best first impression a few days ago, yet you still can’t help but look at him with evident interest. He just seems to have a wicked charm to him, a suave and sophisticated air that screams both ‘you’d be in for the time of your life with me’ and ‘I’d break your heart just to watch it shatter’.

You don’t allow yourself to mull over your thoughts regarding him for too long. Instead, you make your way over to a different table on the other side of the restaurant and gather up the empty plates. Whilst heading back towards the kitchen, you cross paths with Julie, who’s precariously balancing plates in her hands.

“Hey, one of the guys from that noisy table a few days ago is back,” you quickly tell her as she walks in your direction. It’s not really key information, but you find that she might just be interested in knowing.

She stops walking and turns to face you, “Which one of them is it?”

“Brown hair, green eyes, a bit of stubble.”

Julie rolls her eyes sarcastically and laughs, “What an incredible description, it most certainly rings a bell.” You start laughing a little too - it’s not like you really know enough about the man to describe him properly.

Just as you see her about to start talking again, the thunderous footsteps of your shift manager cut Julie off. He comes to a stop beside the two of you and Julie quickly heads off towards the main part of the restaurant, leaving you alone with the shift manager.

He’s got an apologetic expression on his face, which bewilders you a little until he begins speaking, his words rushed, “Table sixteen, young gentleman in a suit. He requested to be served by ‘the girl with the ruby necklace’ and I assume that would be you.”

Perplexed, you frown a little but say nothing.

The shift manager goes back to his rambling, “Look, I’m sorry, I know it’s odd. If you’re uncomfortable with it then I can just straight up say no-“

“I’ll do it.”

Table sixteen and a man in a suit. That would be the guy from a few days ago. It’s a weird situation, there’s no denying that, but if all it encompasses is just taking his order and bringing out food then it doesn’t seem to be too terrible of a task.

“Weird rich people shit, I suppose,” you add, shrugging your shoulders. There’s no doubt that they have the potential to act entitled at times.

“Well, thank you. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll take those too,” he replies, taking the plates from you before leaving to presumably take them to the kitchen. You take this as your cue to saunter over to table sixteen, digging a pen and a small notepad out of your pocket as you go.

You debate whether to bring up his peculiar request, but in the end you decide against it. Perhaps it’s better just to not acknowledge it. Taking a deep breath, you cross the last few metres towards the man, who seems very focused on the menu.

“Good evening, sir. Are you ready to order?” you politely greet him, flipping to a clean page in the notebook.

He looks up at you immediately, donning a bright grin and meeting your gaze. “Ah, good evening,” he replies cheerfully, “Yes, I would say that I’m ready to order, but I’d like some advice.”

Nothing out of the ordinary so far, much to your relief.

Smiling back at him, you ask, “What can I help you with, sir?”

“Well, I can’t exactly pick something - what would you say is your favourite thing here?”

It takes you a few seconds to process what he’s asking for and to form a reply. It’s not like you can’t afford to eat here - sometimes you decide to treat yourself on a birthday or another important date - but you just don’t see the point of spending so much money on a single meal when you could have a few days’ worth of groceries for a similar price.

“I’d definitely recommend the salmon,” you tell him. To be fair, out of all the things you’ve tried here, it’s probably your favourite. You don’t have too much time to think of an answer to the question anyways.

“Perfect, I’ll have that then,” he replies, before breaking off eye contact and looking back at the menu. A tiny poignant pang hits you once his attention isn’t on you anymore, but you remind yourself that you’re just a waitress and this man is a stranger.

“Would there be anything else with that? A drink, perhaps?” you continue to stick to your professional script and tone of voice.

“No, no - no drinks. I’ll sort that out later,” he mumbles, waving you away and so you turn to relay the order to the kitchen, a bit hurt by his sudden bluntness. Maybe he can brag about his wealth or perhaps even looks, but definitely not about his manners.

However, just before you start walking away, he grabs your attention again, “Actually, wait. Add a risotto to that.”

“Of course, sir.” Maybe he’s feeling a bit hungry today. Or, maybe he knows that the portion sizes are rather ludicrous.

Before you turn away for the second time, he gives you an awkward, rather poorly executed wink, and you have to stifle your giggles as you walk away.

You stand around outside the kitchen whilst waiting for the dishes to be prepared, unsure if you should be serving anyone else after the ad-hoc reservation of your services. Luckily, the other waiters and waitresses are obviously handling everything well and the restaurant isn’t particularly busy tonight.

It doesn’t take too long for the food to be plated, so you grab each dish in one hand and quickly go back over to table sixteen, where the man greets you with another warm smile.

“Here’s your food, sir. Where would you like me to put each plate?” It’s a stupid question, you know that, but he’s sat at a small table for two so you decide that the safest option is to simply ask where he wants everything, because you must admit that you’re slightly worried about what the consequences of upsetting this man would be.

“I’ll have the risotto, and why don’t you place the salmon in front of the other seat and eat with me?” he calmly states, pointing at the seat opposite him.

What the hell?

You’re not exactly sure what’s going on anymore. Does he just want some company? Why is he letting you eat food that he’s paying for? Is there some ulterior motive behind all this?

In a slightly panicked voice, you begin trying to explain the situation from your point of view, “Sir, I do admit that I’m not sure if I’m allowed-“

“Oh, stop it with the ‘sir’ thing,” he groans, rolling his eyes, “call me Charles.”

You hurriedly nod, unsure how to handle this - after all, you’d never even imagined a situation like this occurring, “I apologise, I didn’t mean to-“

“Quit it with the formalities too,” Charles cuts you off again.

This time, you don’t reply. He’s stumped you once again, just like he had done a few days ago. You simply stand at the side of the table, feeling completely out of place, as he picks up his cutlery. After a few seconds of silence, he looks back up at you and his eyes suddenly go wide with realisation, as if he’s had an epiphany of sorts.

“Oh my God, now that I think of it, I must have sounded like a creep,” he blurts out, and this is the first time that you’ve seen a crack in his cool demeanour.

You know you really shouldn’t, but you give him a tiny nod in confirmation. Maybe he hadn’t exactly seemed creepy, but his sudden order had definitely been shocking and demanding.

“I need to clarify that I didn’t mean it like that,” he starts to explain, “maybe think of this as a dinner date of sorts? Only if you’d like to, of course.”

Charles appears to be completely unfazed by what he’s just said, but your brain feels entirely frazzled, straining to keep up with the sudden overload of information.

A dinner date?

Partly, you feel excited at the fact that Charles clearly has some degree of interest in you. On the other hand, by getting into anything with him you’d be playing a dangerous game.

“Charles, you do know that there are better ways to ask somebody on a date? Now I’m going to have to explain to the shift manager why I’m eating, not working,” you lightly chide him, dropping the formal language per his request as you take a seat opposite him.

“I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he tells you, not sounding very apologetic at all but still throwing you another clumsy wink as appeasement. Yet, quite honestly, what you’re paying attention to is the fact that he’s finally used some manners, even if it is just a simple ‘sorry’.

You don’t allow yourself to take a look behind you in the direction of the kitchen, deciding that for this short moment you’ll just live in blissful ignorance of your job and responsibilities. Most certainly, your shift manager won’t be happy in the slightest, but that’s a problem that future you will deal with.

And so, with slightly trembling hands, you begin to eat.

The meal passes mostly in silence, with you stepping back and allowing Charles to control the situation. He stays quiet, just focusing on his food, occasionally taking a look at you and smiling. Perhaps if he’d start talking then so would you, but considering the bizarre premises of the situation you settle for following his lead.

You’re beginning to regret taking a seat as you both near finishing your food, starting to wonder if Charles has a deficiency in any romance related skills. He’s charming, that’s for sure, but you’re still feeling nervous and his silence is making you question if he perhaps changed his mind and doesn’t want you here.

In the end, you can’t bear the silence anymore.

“Would you like me to take the plates back and get a drink for you?” you ask him, needing a break from the situation to regain your composure and get over the initial awkwardness.

For the first time since you sat down, he speaks, “Oh, that would be lovely. Any recommendations for some good red wine?”

Unlike the food in the restaurant, the wine is a luxury which you do not allow yourself to indulge in. An occasional meal as a treat is one thing, but spending a significant proportion of your weekly wage on overpriced wine is a completely different matter.

“Sassicaia, of course,” you joke, naming the first wine on the menu that comes to mind despite never having tasted it, only pouring it into the glasses of others.

“Brilliant, I’ll take that.”

To be fair, you’re a little taken aback, not really expecting him to take you seriously.

“Alright, I’ll bring a glass out for you when I come back,” you slowly respond, a little uncertain as to whether he’s being fully serious or just going along with the joke.

As you start getting up and taking the empty plates from the table, he starts speaking again, “Bring the whole bottle and two glasses.”

Shocked at his profligate nature, you look up from your task of gathering cutlery and look right at him.

“Why a bottle, and why two glasses?” you question him, completely putting aside the formality that you’re supposed to adhere to at work.

“So that we can have a chat. I don’t really like talking whilst eating, you know?” is his straightforward response.

You feel like you’ve definitely overstayed your welcome at the table, first having eaten a meal that he ordered and now being offered wine with a ridiculous price tag.

“Charles, that’s ridiculous, you can’t be ordering all this stuff with the intention of me also having some when you don’t even know me,” you ramble, exasperated. To a degree, you’re starting to feel that maybe you’re taking advantage of his generosity without really intending to.

“Well then, how about I get to know you while we have a drink?” he says with that signature smirk on his face, “You can start by telling me your name, seeing as you already know mine.”

Quickly introducing yourself, you turn around with the plates and start walking away to get the wine, hearing an entertained chuckle from behind you as you leave. You tell yourself that you’ll be going home in thirty minutes anyways, so a glass or two of wine won’t hurt.

Despite that, once you’ve gotten rid of the empty plates and gripped the bottle of wine firmly in both hands, you find your shift manager, apologise profusely, and ask for him to say that you had stopped working an hour early or so. Perhaps it’s a little excessive, but you haven’t really been working for the better part of the last hour, and you also don’t want to get into trouble for drinking wine on the job.

When you return to Charles, you’re hesitant to pour the second glass of wine, but he insists. Once you’ve sat down, he gently pushes the glass towards you, slightly raising his eyebrows in encouragement. Tentatively lifting the glass to your lips, you take a sip and so does he.

“So, I suppose that you’re still not going to tell me where you’re from?” he begins, placing down his glass and leaning back in his chair.

“Nuh-uh,” you confirm. You had put so much effort into leaving everything behind that you don’t want to give anything even the slightest of chances to resurface from the depths of your memory. “What about you, though? Did you move here from France or some place like that?”

He rolls his eyes and takes another sip of his wine, “Oh, mon ange, don’t do this to me. I’m monégasque, born and bred.”

You giggle slightly at how he got offended and he scoffs a little, but in good humour.

The wine continues to flow and so does the conversation, proving to get easier and more light-hearted as the supply of wine depletes. Yet, as the evening draws to a close, the questions get a little more serious.

“I know you won’t tell me where you came from, but how about you tell me why you chose Monaco,” he says, slightly demanding, pushing for more information. You don’t give him an immediate reply, carefully considering how to disclose just enough information to satisfy him but not give too much away. Gingerly, he moves his hand across the table to touch yours, tracing delicate patterns on your palm.

“I just needed a change,” you carefully begin to explain, “An old friend of mine has an apartment in Monaco, but she moved abroad for uni and said I could stay at her’s in exchange for making sure the apartment stays in good condition until she returns.” Concluding your brief summary, you start to gently rub Charles’ hand with your thumb.

“How long until she comes back?” he asks, pouring out the last dregs of wine from the bottle with his free hand.

With a sigh, you tell him, “She finishes her studies this year. I suppose that I’ll just go back home when she does.” You had never thought ahead into the future far enough to plan what you would do after her return, but none of your potential options really seem appealing. The two most feasible choices are either to return where you came from or move abroad again and start from square one once more.

You look him right in the eyes as you finish your final glass of wine before placing your other hand on top of his, fiddling with his bracelets. He doesn’t seem to have much to say in response to your explanation, his eyebrows furrowed in deep thought.

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, fondly holding each other’s hands and occasionally taking a quick glance at the other. However, eventually your long working hours catch up to you and you can’t help but yawn.

“Tired, mon ange?” Charles asks, an amused grin on his face.

You nod slightly, wiping your watery eyes with the back of your hand like a grumpy, sleep-deprived child.

“Let’s get you home, then,” he suggests, and you’re in no position to argue despite the fact that as the evening has gone on you’ve started to grow fonder and fonder of Charles, and you’d rather not leave him yet.

He pays for everything, despite your argument of ‘I had some of it too, so I should at least pay for part of it’ and leaves a hefty tip, saying that it’s indirectly apologising to the staff for stealing you away from your job for an hour.

The only time Charles allows you to leave his side is when you grab your bag from the break area in the staff-only part of the restaurant. He leads you out of the building and down the front steps with a hand on your lower back, surely providing an interesting sight for those watching: a man in a full suit with a woman in black jeans and a plain t-shirt.

He stops you once you’ve reached the bottom of the stairs, turning you around so that your chest is against his.

“Where is this apartment of yours? I’ll give you a ride home,” he offers, moving a few strands of hair off your face as you look up at him.

You can’t allow him to do that - he’s already paid for your meal, so getting him to drive you home definitely feels like taking advantage of his generosity, especially because you have nothing to offer in return.

“Charles, no, I’ll walk home, it’s fine,” you say firmly.

“No, no, I insist,” he replies, digging around in his pocket for something, presumably his car keys. You let out an exasperated sigh and grab onto his forearms, ceasing his search.

“It was lovely to spend the evening with you, but I’d rather walk home. I don’t want to be a hassle,” you explain, feeling slightly guilty at how crestfallen he suddenly looks.

Before he gets a chance to interject, you lean towards him, whispering, “Thank you,” and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, then turn away and start walking home.

—————

The third time you see him is while you’re admiring a black Ferrari with white and red stripes that’s parked outside the restaurant. You’re finally heading home after a tiring shift, your mood completely ruined after some lady had become absolutely apoplectic because she thought her food was taking too long to arrive, as if you had any influence on how long it had taken to cook.

Even though you’re eager to head home, you slow down a little as you walk past the sleek black car. It’s certainly very common to see stunning cars in Monaco, but this one particularly suits your taste.

Just as you’re about to speed up again and hurry home, somebody yells your name from behind you and the voice is delightfully familiar.

You turn around to see Charles rushing down the street towards you, seemingly elated, holding a small bag in one hand. He’s dressed more casually today but he still easily keeps his air of elegance.

Taking a few steps towards him, you wait until he catches up to you, unsure whether you should talk to him again or straight-up run away from both him and the conflicting feelings that are beginning to develop within you. Realistically, the chances of this all going wrong are higher than the chances of a happy ending, but he’s so endearing that it’s difficult to resist him.

He immediately grabs you in a hug, kissing your cheek before taking a step back.

“Who would have thought I’d see you here again?” he jokes and you scoff.

“I should get a restraining order against you, seeing as you’re continuously coming to my place of work like this,” you respond in a jocular manner, making him laugh a little.

“I just wanted to see you, mon coeur, but I have another idea too - how about next time I take you somewhere with me, instead of us being here?” he suggests, a hopeful look in his eyes.

You pretend to consider it for a second, before conceding, “I suppose I just might be willing to do that.”

He smiles excitedly before passing over the small bag, “I also got you this because I said I’d make it up to you after seeming like a creep last time.”

You giggle a bit, both in response to what he just said and to hide your slight confusion at suddenly being handed a gift. Reaching into the bag, you pull out a box that fits in your palm, and upon opening it you discover a breathtaking pair of gold earrings with shining rubies.

“Charles, what the fuck?” you gasp. You’re not sure what you had expected, but you certainly hadn’t had a pair of earrings in mind.

“They match your necklace.” He grins like a fool, obviously very pleased with himself for having thought through the gift like that, “Do you like them?”

“Yes, of course I do, I just… I wasn’t really expecting it. Thank you so much, though, you’re wonderful,” you tell him, trying to work out how you could possibly show your gratitude to him.

Before you can come up with a conclusive answer, however, he kisses you on the cheek again before whispering, “I’m glad you like them. Now, how about you give me your number so I can tell you where we’re going and when?”

Two late night call and endless text message filled days later he knocks on your door at exactly seven in the evening and you open it to see him holding a luscious bouquet of hyacinths interspersed with a few pale roses. You quickly greet him and invite him inside, taking the bouquet and struggling to see around it as you grab a vase.

“It’s really lovely, thank you Charles,” you tell him before hurrying over to grab your bag and put your high-heeled shoes on.

You see him standing in the corridor, closely examining a framed photo of you aged around eighteen sitting on a sofa with a dog next to you. “This is cute,” he says, pointing at the photo, “Are you a fan of dogs, then?”

“Absolutely love them,” you say with full certainty, “I wish I could have a dog here to keep me company, but I’m not sure if that’s okay seeing as it’s not my apartment,” you add, slightly dejected. Obviously you have quite a few friends here in Monaco, but on some days you just wish you could have somebody to keep you company in your desolate-feeling home.

Charles gives a small thoughtful hum as you fumble around to grab the keys to the apartment. “Are you ready to go?” you ask him, opening the door. He gives a quick nod and the two of you head out the door.

Much to your surprise, just a few metres away from the entrance to the apartment complex, the black Ferrari that you had admired outside the restaurant a few days ago is parked. Charles confidently strides towards it and opens the door on the passenger side, waving you over to come towards it.

“Oh, damn, this is yours?” you ask, slightly astounded at the wonderful little coincidence, “I was taking a look at it outside the restaurant a few days ago.”

“It’s my pride and joy,” he tells you, smiling warmly as you sit down, taking extra care not to scratch anything with your heels. He leans in and does your seatbelt up, giving your thigh a small pat before standing back up to his full height, closing the car door and doing an awkward half-jog half-walk over to the other side of the car.

There’s a bit of small talk in the car, but for the most part you just enjoy the sights of Monaco as you drive through the streets. However, you do have one question that you desperately want answered, “So, you said it’s a bit of a meet-up with some of your friends, but what exactly is it?”

You’re praying that it’s nothing overly formal, worried that you’ll be underdressed in a simple black dress, or that it’s not anything that requires too much running around or movement either, unsure of how your clothing would hold up in that sort of situation too. Charles himself is dressed rather formally, so you’re starting to feel a little uncertain about what you should expect.

“It’s a party,” he tells you, not taking his eyes off the road.

“A party of what sorts?” To a certain extent, as foolish as it seems, you’re expecting it to be an opulent event in some fancy hall with glasses of champagne and polite, forced giggles, but something about Charles’ smirk makes you think that your theory isn’t quite right.

“You’ll see.”

He parks the car on a random street, offering his hand as he helps you out and leads you down the street. “The party started like two hours ago, so I’m pretty certain that there won’t be any parking spaces closer to it anyway,” he explains to you as you weave through alleys and between buildings in the darkening evening light, “Besides, I much prefer arriving when the party’s already in full swing.”

You nod along, clinging onto his hand with both of yours as he continues to guide you, only slowing down when a deep blue pair of heels in a shop window catch your attention. In the reflection on the glass, you see Charles moving to stand behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“I can come back tomorrow when the shop opens and get those for you, if you want,” he whispers, slowly moving his hands lower.

Your attention immediately shifts from the shoes back to him. “Charles, are you insane?” you scold him, moving out of his grasp and continuing to head in the direction you had previously been walking in, “You’ve only known me for a few days, pull yourself together.”

“Let me spoil you,” he whines, following you down the street and clumsily trying to grab your waist again but you don’t allow him to do so, swiping at his hands despite his protests.

After a few more minutes of this back and forth squabble, you finally give in and let his hands settle on your body, hearing him give a satisfied hum. It doesn’t take much longer after that to reach your destination, and Charles opens the grand double doors and encourages you to take a step inside.

It turns out that you had been right about the party being in a hall of some sorts, but beyond that you hadn’t predicted anything else correctly. The hall is a stunning example of Belle Époque architecture with high ceilings, light colours and intricate designs scaling the walls and ceilings.

Yet, within the realm of the hall, the atmosphere of the party doesn’t match the elegance of the venue in the slightest. Only two hours in, there’s already people stumbling around, some sat propped up against a wall while others haphazardly dance on a makeshift dance floor in the centre of the room. Tables filled with food line the edge of the hall, there are some smaller, circular tables dotted around where the more sober people are conversing, and whatever space the people don’t occupy is filled in by blaring music.

There are countless numbers of formally dressed people running around, yelling and spilling their drinks or tripping over each other, their clothes completely juxtaposing their behaviour. It all seems like something which essentially is an upgraded teenage party, and looking at the state of it so far you fully expect somebody to start swinging from the chandelier within the next thirty minutes.

Standing frozen in place, you try to take it all in. It’s already completely shattered your image of how you had always expected some of the most well-off people in the area to behave behind closed doors. Of course you had already known that these sorts of people, especially those on the younger end of the spectrum, are capable of possessing an unbridled wild side, but you find that as you witness it all firsthand you begin feeling a bit overwhelmed.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a familiar man walking over to you and Charles, and you quickly recognise him as the Frenchman from the restaurant. “Charles, my man, I knew you’d come!” he exclaims, grabbing Charles in a one-armed hug.

“Ah, well, I just had to consider the invitation a little bit. I do quite like your parties, but I needed some time to ask a special someone to come with me,” Charles replies, before placing a hand on your back and urging you to step forwards. “You’ve seen him before, but this is Pierre,” he introduces his friend and you give him a small wave, willing your voice to be as confident as possible when you share your name.

“It’s lovely to finally meet you properly,” Pierre says, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek as a greeting.

“Get your own girl, Gasly,” Charles jokes, giving Pierre a good-natured shove with his elbow as he begins walking past with you in tow, the Frenchman just laughing at Charles’ reaction.

The three of you sit down at a table that’s already got some people on it and they quickly introduce themselves to you but the majority of their names go in one ear and out of the other as you continue to attempt to adjust to the new environment. Charles seems to notice your discomfort and places a hand on your thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t worry, I’m planning to stay on the calmer side of the party tonight. There’ll be opportunities in the future for us to do some wilder stuff, but how about you just get to know some people for now?” he suggests and you give a small nod in response, resting your hand over his and playing with his fingers. Something tells you that what you’re seeing here tonight is far from the limit of how far these people will go when they let go of their self-control.

You stay on the outskirts of the conversation, only chipping in once or twice, finding that you don’t really feel like you have much to contribute. The people you’re sitting with are definitely welcoming and amicable, but you still can’t help but feel like an outsider, a newcomer in an already-established rigid community and hierarchy.

Eventually you turn to simply looking around the immense hall, watching people from afar or examining what food is available on the tables by the walls. Charles spots you eyeing up a table covered in various cakes and pastries that’s right next to where you’re sat and leans closer towards you. “You know, they’re not just there for decoration, you can grab something if you want,” he tells you, so you put on a brave face and excuse yourself from your seat, heading over to the delectable-looking treats.

As you’re picking up what appears to be an unnecessarily fancy slice of chocolate cake, someone clearing their throat beside you grabs your attention and you look up to see that a small group of people, maybe four or five of them, has amassed near you. You panic a little, unsure whether they want to talk or whether they want you to move, so you grab your plate and begin turning away to leave after giving them a polite, “Hello.”

“Who are you?” one of the guys asks, stopping you mid-turn. It’s certainly blunt, but you don’t think that he has the intention of being rude, and it’s probably more likely that he just doesn’t know that manners exist. Your mouth seems glued shut for a second as you mentally debate whether you should introduce yourself by name or just say that you’re with Charles and Pierre. Would they even know who you are if you introduced yourself by name?

However, Charles notices the situation a few metres from him and makes the choice for you.

“She’s with me,” he calls out to the group, and they immediately smile and introduce themselves, but right as you’re about to tell them your name they grab some pastries and leave. Clearly they hadn’t really been interested in you as an individual at all.

Fucking weirdos.

After that odd experience, you sit back down and absentmindedly poke away at your cake with a tiny fork, occasionally feeding some to Charles at his request.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for the situation at the table to become slightly sour, at least in your perspective.

Throughout the evening, some uniformed people have been coming over to refill drinks or take away empty plates, and you feel some relief at the fact that it’s not you running around to everyone’s beck and call tonight. Alas, one of the girls happens to spill some champagne while refilling the drink of some blonde sat on the other side of the table. She immediately begins apologising profusely, saying she will come back and clean up the spill as soon as possible.

Having been in her position many times before, you feel great empathy in this moment. Grabbing a paper serviette, you begin to stand, about to try to dab up some of the alcohol before too much of it gets into the tablecloth, but Charles quickly moves his arm over your lap, effectively preventing you from standing up any further.

“Sit down,” he commands firmly, his voice deeper than usual and carrying a warning tone.

“I’m just trying to help her,” you hiss back, trying to move his arm.

“It’s her job, she gets paid to do it,” he responds sternly. Recalcitrant, you shove at his arm again to no avail, annoyed at his sudden change in behaviour.

“Would you say the same about me in the restaurant?” you spit back vehemently, giving up with trying to shift him and instead petulantly crossing your arms.

With an exasperated sigh, he says, “That’s different.”

“I hope you know that you’re being an asshole,” you snap, turning away from him on your chair, but allowing him to keep his possessive hand on your legs.

Opposite you, the blonde is absolutely livid, yelling at the poor girl over something as inconsequential as a simple spill. As the girl leaves to get some cleaning supplies you can tell that she’s barely holding it together and Pierre gives her a small look of apology.

When she walks past you, you quietly whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Charles spends the rest of the party trying to appease you, stroking your thighs and arms, and occasionally giving you a kiss on the back of your hand or forehead. In the end, when he realises that you’ve only partially forgiven him, he starts promising to take you shopping the next day or offering you a day on his yacht.

Eventually, you tell him to shut up.

As the time draws past midnight, you start feeling your energy depleting and give in, shifting closer to Charles and resting your head on his shoulder. “I just think that you guys should have been a bit nicer to her,” you mumble to Charles, still clearly not over the incident, especially as you know that she’ll likely be weighed down by it for the rest of the evening.

“Alright, next time I’ll be nicer,” he concedes, but you can’t tell if he’s being honest or not.

“Especially that blonde there. What’s her issue?” you whisper in his ear, trying your best to make sure only he can hear.

He shrugs, before responding just as covertly, “I can’t lie, I’ve never really liked her either.”

Soon after, he decides that it’s time to leave. You both say your goodbyes, but Pierre is the only person that you really stop to have a conversation with. Out of all the people you’ve met today, he’s easily your favourite.

Enticed by the promises that Charles has something you’ll like at his apartment, you end up succumbing to his request for you to go home with him. Besides, at this point you’re too tired to argue, and you’d rather spend the night with someone else rather than in your empty apartment, no matter how annoying Charles has proven to be at times.

His apartment is on the top floor of the building, and you’ve never been more grateful for the invention of lifts as you lean against the wall, waiting for him to unlock the door.

He lets you enter first before quickly shutting the door behind him. There are no lights on, and you take a minute to look around and see what you can discern in the darkness, the only source of light being from the floor to ceiling windows showcasing the city and coast.

Suddenly, you hear the sound of claws and paws skidding on the wooden floor, and you don’t have enough time to brace yourself for the mass that slams against your legs, sending you crashing into the wall behind you.

“Get off her!” Charles shouts, grabbing at the animal with one hand and turning the lights on with the other.

There, attempting to jump out of Charles’ grip on its collar, is a young red and rust Doberman.

She’s clearly excited, bouncing around and spinning in circles as Charles does his best to keep her under control. “Sorry, I’m still trying to teach her some manners. Are you okay?” he asks, moving to stand between you and the dog.

You nod, not at all hurt or scared, just slightly shocked, and respond with a question of your own, “What’s her name?”

“Trixie. You can stroke her in a minute, I’m just going to try and get her to calm down a little first,” he tells you before asking Trixie to sit, “There’s also Diesel - he’s quite a bit older, so he’s far less likely to accidentally kill any guests as collateral damage.”

As if on cue, another Doberman - a black and rust one this time - emerges from behind a sofa, calmly padding towards you. You look at Charles, asking for permission, and when he nods you bend down and scratch Diesel behind the ears.

“Why didn’t you mention them earlier?” you question him as Diesel turns around so that you’re scratching his back instead.

“I just thought it would be a nice surprise,” he replies. Carefully, he lets go of Trixie and gives her a stern look, already warning her not to try anything silly. This time she approaches you much more steadily, sniffing at your hand for a few seconds before nudging it with her nose, prompting you to give her some attention too.

After a few more minutes of you interacting with the dogs, Charles asks if you’d like to shower. You tell him that you gladly would but obviously don’t have any other clothes to wear, so he offers to give you a t-shirt and some clothes of his.

When you emerge from the en-suite bathroom, Charles laughs a little at the sight of you. You don’t blame him at all - you feel like you’re absolutely drowning in the fabric, the clothes are far too large but they’re rather comfortable so you don’t complain.

“Don’t laugh,” you chide him, “I’ll give you my clothes next time.”

He gets up from the bed and holds you in his arms, kissing your neck and reassuring you that he thinks you look very cute. When he steps into the bathroom, he says, “Good luck sharing a bed with them two while I’m in the shower - they like to take up the entire thing.”

He isn’t wrong - Diesel and Trixie are splayed out across the majority of the bed and don’t seem to have any intentions of moving, instead giving you dirty side-eyes as you try to find a spot to call your own.

You’re not entirely sure how willing they’ll be to welcome you on Charles’ bed, so you tentatively lay down right on the edge, keeping an eye on them while you grab the TV remote and turn on some random cooking show.

The dogs don’t seem particularly bothered by you, much to your relief. Trixie is the first one to move, standing up and stretching before jumping off the bed and leaving the room. You hear some water sloshing around, so you presume that she’s just gone to have a drink. Seizing the opportunity, you shift over to the centre of the bed, Diesel not caring in the slightest as he continues to sleep.

Upon her return, Trixie just looks at you for a few seconds, and you imagine that if dogs could talk then she’d be cussing you out for stealing her spot on the bed. However, when she jumps back onto the mattress, instead of just laying by Diesel, she lays down beside you, resting her head on your legs.

You let out a quiet, “Aww,” and start to gently stroke her back.

Unfortunately for them, Charles re-enters the bedroom and begins urging them off the bed and out of the room, telling them, “Alright, that’s enough. I’m not willing to share her for any longer.”

Once they’re out, Charles shuts the door and turns off the TV, laying down under the covers on his back and grabbing your hips. You’re pliable as he moves you around until you’re straddling him, your hands resting on his bare chest.

“Why don’t you let me do anything for you?” he asks, his hands languidly moving up and down your sides. You take a moment to just look into his eyes, examining every tiny fleck of brown and every delicate eyelash as if this is the last time you’ll ever see them.

“Because you’re not my sugardaddy,” is your blunt reply, but you still bat your eyelashes at him, now gripping his shoulders.

In return, he smirks and raises an eyebrow, challenging your statement.

“You’re vile, Charles,” you tell him off, digging your nails into his skin and feeling some satisfaction when he quietly gasps, his hold on you tightening.

“Ow, ow! Okay! I get it!” he pants. When you move your hands back down to his chest, this time in a far gentler manner, he quietly adds, “I just want to make you happy.”

You pretend to give his statement some thought. “Well, to do so, you and your friends can start off by losing some of your massive egos. For example, you won’t suddenly be banished to the lowest echelon in society if you wipe up some champagne,” you say, and he just replies with a scoff and an eye roll dripping with attitude. Knowing that there’s no point reprimanding him or trying to reason with him, you instead decide to go along with his earlier suggestions for a little entertainment.

“However, there are also a few other things that could make me happy,” you whisper, leaning down onto your elbows to get closer to him.

“Mhm?”

“First of all, I think that I’d actually like those heels I saw on the way to the party, and I also think I could do with some new perfume,” you drawl, giving him a teasing smile.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, actually. I also want a new handbag - preferably Giorgio Armani. And, on top of that, I want a weekend getaway on a yacht. Are you taking note of all this?” you continue jesting, now moving one of your hands up into his hair to gently pull at the soft, brown locks.

“Of course I am, mon ange. What more do you wish for?” he replies, drawing random patterns on your hips with his fingers, the tension between the two of you slowly rising.

“A pony.”

He actually laughs out loud at this one, throwing his head back and guffawing. You refuse to break character yet, though.

“Silly Charles, don’t laugh,” you delicately scold him, having to bite your lip afterwards in order to fight your own laughter, “You’ve made me change my mind now.”

“I’m ever so sorry,” he says, still chuckling every now and again.

“I think I would prefer a horse. A buckskin Andalusian to be exact, but if that’s too difficult for you to acquire then I guess an imported warmblood will do too.”

He nods, still smiling, eyes slightly teary from laughing, “Is there anything left on this list of yours?”

You pause for a second, finally dropping the playful facade, and carefully consider the potential outcomes of what you want to say next. In a brief moment of impulsiveness, you decide to throw caution to the wind.

“I would like a kiss from you.”

He’s silent, looking into your eyes as if to make sure that you’re being serious. Delicately, he pulls you down even closer to him, and his soft lips finally meet yours. It’s gentle, slow, his arms wrapping around you and holding you tight like you’re the most precious thing in the world to him. One of your hands remains tugging at his hair while the other drifts up to cradle his face, your thumb moving against his light stubble.

When you finally move away from the kiss, you keep your eyes closed for a little while, your head resting against his chest. “You can also pay for my university expenses,” you say as a final remark.

He chuckles quietly. “Oh, yeah? What would you study?”

“I always wanted to be an engineer. I still regret never having gone to uni,” you lament, and in response he rubs your back to soothe you, giving the top of your head a kiss as well.

“Why didn’t you go?” he enquires gently.

“Sometimes life has plans that are different to the ones you’ve already made,” you sigh, “I guess that I ended up in Monaco, at least, and it’s rather interesting here.”

Charles gives a small hum before saying, “I quite like engineering too, especially in motorsports - like, Formula One and stuff like that.”

You finally open your eyes, shifting your head so that you can look up at him as you run your fingers along his collarbone, “I bet that if you were in F1 you’d drive a Ferrari, seeing as you love yours so much.”

“Ah, maybe so,” he laughs a little, and after that the conversation dies down to a comfortable silence.

Wrapped up in Charles’ warm embrace, you feel safe and relaxed enough to close your eyes again and drift off to sleep.

—————

Charles lays staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the girl he’s holding, waiting just a few more minutes until he’s certain that you’re asleep. Trying not to disturb you, he slides out of your grip, making sure to pull the duvet up around you so that you don't get too cold while he’s gone.

He quietly makes his way to the kitchen where he grabs a glass of water, carefully stepping around the two dogs sleeping on the cool tiles, before walking out onto his balcony.

The night air is refreshing, fresh and cold in his lungs as he takes a few deep breaths, thinking through the last few days.

The majority of the time, he isn’t one to enjoy a steady relationship. Instead, he tends to prefer the thrill of a hookup at a party or sneaking around with some rich guy’s daughter. He’s young, he’s impulsive, and he’s got a craving for adrenaline.

But this time, he knows that he won’t be able to kick you out of his house in the morning. Rather, he’ll probably be making you breakfast and helping you get home, but not before arranging another occasion on which to meet you.

And, by God, he doesn’t want to give up his status as a bachelor just yet, addicted to the attention that he can garner from coy girls when he walks into a room.

Yet, the longer he spends mulling over the matter, the more he comes to the conclusion that the only girl he wants at his side is the one that’s currently asleep in his bed, oblivious to his absence. He can’t help but laugh at himself, because it turns out that he’s already managed to fall for a girl that he’s only just met.

And he’s fallen fucking hard.

——————————

a/n: i’m not a native english speaker, and i actually struggled a surprising amount with some phrases in this fic, so if you spot any mistakes please let me know.

TAGLIST: (read this post for more info about my taglists)

@seastarapiaries @lovingroscoee @ohthemisssery

#i literally had to battle my barely-functioning laptop in order to be able to post this #corruptio morum #cm #charles leclerc #cl16 #charles leclerc fanfiction #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x y/n #f1 fanfiction #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n

[aruku-gram]

Voice Drama - Avarice of Ambivalence

Transcript:

Kitsune: [places paws on Elliot’s face] Hey, wake up, sleepyhead!

Elliot: [groggy mumbling]

Kitsune: [sighs] This always happens… Come on, get up!

Elliot: …Do I have to…?

Kitsune: Yes, you do! 

Elliot: [sits up, headache spiking] Ouch… Getting up is painful…

Kitsune: [snorts] This is what happens when you overeat and oversleep. Anyways, come on, up! I have a lot to tell you!

Elliot: …Overeating? Did I… eat too much for dinner yesterday?

Elliot: …I can’t remember. Actually, a lot of things are a blur…

Kitsune: That’s normal! It’s why I have to talk to you, actually. 

Elliot: …Really? In that case, thank you.

Kitsune: [scoffs affectionately] No need to thank me! Here, follow me, I’ll bring you somewhere that might bring back some of your memories. To the Panopticon we go! [footsteps]

Elliot: Panopticon?

Kitsune: Put simply, it’s a place where you can observe all the prisoners as you wish.

Elliot: …Prisoners?

Kitsune: [pauses footsteps] …You forgot even that?

Elliot: …Ngh… I think… No, I remember. This is… Aruku-gram, right?

Kitsune: [resumes footsteps] Mhmm! Anything else you remember? I’ll help you fill in any gaps.

Elliot: There’s… 10 prisoners. We observe their behaviour - past and present. And… we judge their wrongdoings, based on that.

Kitsune: You’re so indirect when describing what this place is for! You can just say that you’re judging their sins, you know.

Kitsune: And there is no ‘we’. You’re the one handing out judgements.

Elliot: …Then, what are you here for?

Kitsune: [offended cry] Are you implying I’m useless?! I’m a great cook, you know! And my fur is soft. If you’re nice to me, I’ll even let you touch my ears.

Elliot: …No thanks.

Kitsune: [shrugs] Suit yourself. I’ll be here whether you like it or not anyways, Elliot.

Elliot: Elliot… That’s my name?

Kitsune: If it’s not your name, then whose would it be?

Elliot: [momentary silence]

Elliot: And… Your name is…

Kitsune: Just call me Kitsune!

Elliot: …But that’s not a name.

Kitsune: I never said it was. I just told you to call me that.

Elliot: …You don’t want to tell me your name?

Kitsune: Nope!

Elliot: May I ask why?

Kitsune: You may! The answer’s simple, really. I just don’t want to.

Elliot: Oh. That’s fair, I suppose.

Kitsune: [pauses a little and looks up] And you haven’t earned it yet.

Elliot: …

Kitsune: Well, you don’t need to concern yourself with matters like that! Just focus on the tour.

Kitsune: Here we have the facilities, like the prisoners’ communal bathrooms. Opposite that is the storage room. Then we have the hall and a smaller room… It was originally meant to be an entertainment room, but it can be anything you want it to be. Order in a bunch of stuffed animals or use it as extra storage, I don’t care. 

Elliot: Order… in?

Kitsune: Yep! As Administrators, one privilege we have and can use with our discretion is the acquisition of outside goods into the prison - so long as it’s nothing that doesn’t exist yet, I suppose. 

Elliot: …What about the prisoners?

Kitsune: They can request things, but it goes through us first. Well, you, mostly. I’m too fabulous to be dealing with boring stuff like that. 

Kitsune: You also get to decide other things like curfew and general prison rules, such as any punishments. Isn’t it cool?

Elliot: …Or, you can’t be bothered to be dealing with those things, so you shove them into my lap instead…

Kitsune: [gasps dramatically] True, but you didn’t have to call me out like that! 

Elliot: I’m… I don’t think I’m a person who can make decisions like that, though.

Kitsune: [shrugs] Well, it’s your responsibility now. You can get used to it now, or scramble to keep things in order a few months in. 

Elliot: …

Kitsune: And at the end of this hallway is your room! Opposite that is my room. You’re not allowed to enter unless I say so, by the way!

Elliot: I have no desire to enter your room. [mumbles]…This is a long hallway.

Kitsune: [sigh] Kids these days, no curiosity whatsoever…

Elliot: I’m 18. 

Kitsune: A kid!

Elliot: …

Kitsune: And this would be a long hallway for someone like you, I guess. 

Elliot: … [awkward silence]

Kitsune: Swing that door open, aaaand… we’re here! The Panopticon! Behold the ingenious architecture and- wait, where are you going? Wait up, don’t just storm ahead!

Elliot: …

Kitsune: Are you really that angry over me calling you a kid?

Elliot: …

Elliot: …No.

Kitsune: [sighs] Humans, I swear. 

Kitsune: But the tour continues! We’re standing at the north of the dome right now. If you think of the Panopticon as a clock, then we’re standing at the 12 o’clock position! And along the sides of the ‘clock’ are the prisoners’ cells. 

Elliot: And… each prisoner’s inmate number corresponds with their metaphorical clock position. Am I right in assuming that?

Kitsune: You’d be correct. Should I start introducing the prisoners to you? Well?

Elliot: …I haven’t met them before?

Kitsune: Would you have remembered if you met them? With what memory?

Elliot: …No, I guess not.

Kitsune: Don’t worry, you have me - your trusty vulpine companion - here to help!

Kitsune: Starting at the 1 o’clock position, we have prisoner number one - Kobayashi Rokurou! You’ll have your hands full with him, I’m pretty sure. He’s almost succeeded in assaulting other prisoners multiple times at this point, if I remember correctly.

Elliot: You don’t remember something as noteworthy as that?

Kitsune: Hey, it’s my first time meeting him as well! Or any of these prisoners, really. 

Elliot: …

Kitsune: How many times are you going to judge me over the course of one conversation? 

Elliot: How did you learn of his actions if you yourself haven’t even met the prisoners yet?

Kitsune: A girl has her secrets~~

Elliot: You’re a girl?

Kitsune: Sometimes. But that’s not important right now! And don’t worry if he threatens to punch you too. As Administrators, we cannot be hurt by the Prisoners.

Elliot: …How?

Kitsune: [sighs heavily] You’re really ruining the mystery vibe… Well, it’s not important to your role as the Warden so I won’t waste my breath explaining, but I can give you a hint: It’s Kitsune Magic ~✩

Elliot: That’s not much of a hint at all.

Kitsune: And you’re not much of a Warden, but here we are.

Kitsune: Onto prisoner number two! At the 2 o’clock position, we have - drumroll please - Arai Hisayo!

Elliot: I don’t get the reference.

Kitsune: Of course you don’t, you won’t remember.

Kitsune: Anyways, Hisayo-chan! She’s rather timid and doesn’t like interacting with other people. Apparently she always looks like she’s 5 seconds from crying, or so I’ve heard. 

Elliot: ‘Heard’... Not magical at all.

Kitsune: Magic is subjective! Moving on, prisoner number three! Hashimoto Nao, a nice and friendly middle-aged lady. Personally, I like her the best!

Elliot: Why?

Kitsune: She’s just cool like that. Oh, but she’s also the one I hate the most.

Elliot: That makes no sense…

Kitsune: Don’t judge me with your human sensibilities. The only ones you can fairly judge are other humans - which is why you’re here! And why I'm not the one handing out judgements.

Elliot: I see…

Kitsune: Prisoner number four! Hasegawa Mihane, a serious-looking prisoner. Look, even her uniform looks professional! 

Elliot: I do have one question… The prisoners are wearing ‘uniforms’, are they not?

Kitsune: Yep!

Elliot: But they do not look ‘uniform’ at all. All of their garbs are… so different.

Kitsune: Aruku-gram doesn’t do things for no reason. In fact, everything it does is for the same exact reason. So, in that sense, why do you think it allows for individuality rather than conformity?

Elliot: …Ah. I see. 

Kitsune: See, I knew you’d get there eventually!

Kitsune: And now, we have prisoner number five - Miyara Shion! He may be taller than prisoner number one, but don’t let that fool you: he’s the youngest of all Aruku-gram prisoners!

Elliot: So, a child… Why is he here?

Kitsune: For the same reason as everyone else! He’s committed an unspeakable crime - murder! Or something. I’m not clear on the specifics. And he's  not the only child here, anyhow.

Elliot: Clearly not an unspeakable crime if you can speak about it.

Kitsune: Um, fuck you?! 

Elliot: Hehe.

Kitsune: Moving on to prisoner number six! Murakami Choka, a middle school student. I think. She’s very jumpy all the time, but she’s well liked by the others.

Elliot: …

Kitsune: What? Nothing else to say?

Elliot: …Not really. I just don’t like the fact that there are young children in this prison. I… don’t know why I feel this way, so strongly.

Kitsune: Hm. It’s probably some human thing. Sorry, I can’t help you with that!

Kitsune: Personally, I believe all children deserve the guilty verdict.

Elliot: …Why?

Kitsune: They’re annoying.

Elliot: For such a frivolous reason, you’d give them a guilty verdict…?

Kitsune: Why not? Judge them based on whatever standards you wish. How much you like them, hate them, or how attractive they are. Or on whether or not they like pineapples on pizza. I heard that is a point of contention in human society? 

Kitsune: It doesn’t really matter. The verdicts won’t affect us.

Elliot: …I see.

Kitsune: Oh, but they do affect the prisoners. Quite a lot, actually.

Elliot: !!

Kitsune: But that’s not our problem. Onto the next prisoner!

Kitsune: Prisoner number 7 - Ikeshiro Kei! He’s… boring. That’s all I know of him.

Elliot: ?

Kitsune: Oh, come on. He’s unremarkable, what else do you want me to say? He’s like… every human you can find. Quiet, minds his own business, never gets in any trouble - except whatever got him in Aruku-gram in the first place, probably.

Elliot: …I’m not sure why I expected more from you. Is there anything else you can tell me?

Kitsune: Hm… He’ll turn 18 in a few months?

Elliot: …Interesting. I guess. 

Kitsune: Don’t you be boring too… anyways. In the 8 o’clock position, there’s prisoner number eight, Kikuchi Tomoaki! They’re a bit annoying, but I’ve figured out a way to shut them up for a while. Just put a book in their face and they’ll be too distracted reading to bother you.

Elliot: …Thanks for the information? I’m not sure I’ll use it at all.

Kitsune: It’s my job to assist in yours! But I think I get your point. In fact, I think you guys would get along quite well…

Elliot: I don’t plan on getting close to any of the prisoners.

Kitsune: No? It’s not prohibited to do so, you know?

Elliot: I still have no plans to do so. 

Kitsune: Woah, such an unromantic warden… 

Kitsune: Well, you’re also free to not engage in amorous affairs with prisoners. Not my business. We now have prisoner number nine, Narukawa Chisachi! She’s actually quite a successful singer and dancer!

Elliot: She’s both?

Kitsune: She is! To be honest, I’ve watched a few of her performances online, and I gotta say… I don’t get the hype.

Elliot: …

Kitsune: I mean, she’s cool and all, but she’s not super remarkable or anything.

Elliot: …Okay? I haven’t watched them, so I wouldn’t know. 

Kitsune: Oh come on, you’re allowed to have an opinion, you know? Even based on superficial factors like how you think she looks right now. Sleeping…

Elliot: I’d prefer to see it for myself first before making my judgement.

Kitsune: You’re such a blank slate of a Warden…

Elliot: You said I could do as I wish. 

Kitsune: I did, but-

Elliot: I would like to see everything for myself, before making any judgements. I don’t want to decide anything without looking at the full picture.

Kitsune: And what if the full picture is not available?

Elliot: …

Kitsune: Face it, Elliot. An objective truth is unattainable, especially for someone like you - so why bother trying to strive for it?

Kitsune: You’re free to fail as you wish. I’ll be here to support you either way. Anyways, here we have the last prisoner: number 10, Hirano Mio! He’s a really social guy and is actually the person that frequents the ‘entertainment room’ the most. 

Elliot: …Oh. He sounds… exhausting to deal with.

Kitsune: For you, maybe! But as for me, I think he’s the second best prisoner. I would give him the innocent verdict, to be honest.

Elliot: I thought it didn’t matter to us which verdict a prisoner is given? I’m surprised a self-serving kitsune like you would care like that.

Kitsune: Well, I don’t want him to lose his outgoing personality. That’s all.

Kitsune: Aaaand we’ve gone through all of the prisoners! Remember to talk to them yourself as well to understand them some more.

Elliot: You just told me to not strive for a full picture.

Kitsune: No, I just told you that it’s unattainable. Striving for it or not while knowing that is your decision.

Kitsune: Anyways, now-

Elliot: What about the eleven o’clock room?

Kitsune: Oh, that one? There’s nothing in it.

Elliot: That’s not a cell door. It looks… heavy. Like it’s made to keep something in. 

Kitsune: It’s not a cell anymore. Just ignore it. 

Elliot: But- [bell rings] What’s that?

Kitsune: It’s wake-up time! You get to meet the prisoners while they’re conscious now! Oh yeah, just remember: no doubts, no hesitation, and no regrets! Go with what you think is best. 

Elliot: …I don’t think I can get rid of all those things from my mind… But I can try.

Kitsune: Oh, I don’t really expect that, but humans like to think in extremes, no?

Elliot: …You’re right.

Kitsune: Go on, Eli! Go announce yourself. Solidify yourself as the authority inside this prison.

Elliot: Eli…?

Kitsune: A nickname!

Elliot: …[chuckles slightly]

Elliot: [deep breath, then exhale] Good morning, prisoners. My name is Elliot. This place is Aruku-gram prison, and I am the prison guard. This prison serves to judge all of your crimes. I do not know much about you, other than that each and every one of you, in some manner, has caused the death of another. I hope to get to know all of you, in order to gain a better understanding of you and your crime. 

Elliot: Welcome to Aruku-gram. Have a nice life in prison.

#pre-trial #voice-drama #pre-trial-voice-drama #000 - Elliot #??? - Kitsune #ocgram #aruku-gram

[monkey-network]

Good Stuff: Hazbin Hotel

Welcome Back Friends, to the Show That Never Ends

I will admit, while I'm a fan of her overall work, after seeing the pilot I wasn't into Hazbin Hotel. Not that it looked bad, just didn't appeal to me whereas Helluva Boss was more my speed. When the A24 pickup was announced though, I was intrigued because its lacking appeal didn't mean complete disinterest in its potential direction, you feel me? The future is alive now and a full series is finally here, blindsiding you with more shades of red than your blood stream. And you know, color me impressed that we truly got to this point upon the unbearable avarice of online chaos surrounding the creator that had its fair share of critics upon an Everest mass of pisstakers. But I'm not here to rummage all that, I just want to finally review Hazbin Hotel at long last.

So let's start with the presentation

Maybe it's thanks to Helluva Boss, but I've always liked Viv's flair in design and color. Things get to stand out in a way that says yes, she owns it. This is the art of somebody who was THE regular at Hot Topic AND adjacent Spencer's, has an autographed Gir hoodie buried in her closet, probably read Revolutionary Utena or Rose of Versailles in school, and her dream was to bring that vision of her childhood to life. Vaggie I say is my favorite design wise, major pilot improvement where the red and black compliments her cream and grey colors. Can things all look busy and disoriented? Of course, never to an eyesore degree but there can exist... garish clashes, like you're wondering how the boarders no less animators were able to put some scenes together. Then again, it's the rare time I can say "I've never seen anything like this" for a cartoon and it actually means something.

Needs more furries though, we can never have enough Broadway studded furry characters

Storywise, I think will be hard to follow unless you've seen the pilot, which is thankfully still online. Episode 0 I say better introduces the characters and whole initial feeling of the hotel's existence since Charlie introduces it to the citizens of Hell first. The structure of this season I was pretty lost on until I found that good ol' "Monkey connects it to another show to make his point" lightbulb. This is that kind of series that unravels as you go along, so if the first two episodes aren't your tea then you oughta drop this show, or not and "hatewatch" like the sodomite you'll become in your 40s. I was reminded of The Bear or Silicon Valley in that it's not about running the titular hotel but the characters getting it together before operations truly start. Charlie has her goal and deadline, and it's all a methodical stream of how bad or good things can turn out for everyone involved. It's story driven but more focal on the characters, if you follow. Speaking of which, let's finally talk characters... and how they're my biggest issue with this series.

Except Nifty. I can never hate on gremlins

I'll say with the characters, it's NOT that their scripts consist "just of swearing and sex jokes". Whether or not the case, this is me we're talking about. El Superbeasto is my all time favorite adult animated movie, and the Hellverse is tamer by comparison. Won't knock points because humor is "subjective", but I'm never gonna act like I'm above the large swear counts or thinking of the nasty every other minute and beyond the first episode, they lessen the excess. The no shits given humor of Viv's work still feels refreshing.

Trust me, nothing Adult has trumped the champ yet

My real issue is something I've realized for Vivienne's shows overall: she's not great at making... flexible characters, lack of a better term? What I mean is that when they work, they work purely in service of the stories, its gags, and it's hard thinking about them outside of their shows if we don't count the porn and memes. They're not static, but I think too symbiotic to the narrative. That's where the dominoes start because being inflexible means they have to be more compelling and if they're not, then the story falls apart. And yeah, Hazbin's characters aren't as compelling. I like them, but I'm not invested in them. The crux of this is that while the pacing can fly, none of the characters provide that snappy dynamic you would get with an ensemble. With Helluva Boss, you could throw Blitz and the crew in different scenarios and it's engaging enough just seeing them run amok. A pinchful of episodes and the Hazbin crew don't really do it for me beyond the occasional gag and piecing clues about them together. The musical numbers are great character moments in their own right, like everyone of them are actual bangers, but for only two an episode they are doing the heavy lifting. Again, it's that type of show where every piece comes into play one at a time, so it's conflicting where I want to be into this series but I'm not that into it.

Charlie also makes it somewhat worth it; infectious enthusiasm is my kryptonite

I overall can't fit this show in a box, and I frankly didn't want to. You think I went into this cartoon cavalcade, radiating with juvenile fujo theater kid energy, about a bunch of sailor mouths that can sing gospel from heaven AND hell and have everything click? It's not possible, but that's what I can respect about this and Vivienne overall. This show doesn't posses a "fuck all of you" type feeling, but an "I want to do this, you can join or go" feeling. Not everything works, but it's meaningfully experimental in a way that somehow makes it meta. Like Charlie and the Satanic Panic Plaza, nothing about this should've functioned, this shouldn't have had any saving graces and got left obscurely on Youtube, but it could and many saw that regardless of how well they're able to express. Viv actually committed to seeing this through and this speaks a lot about creators who put in to an non-compromised vision.

You could say, it's always about finding that one person who gets the joke

From the fractions of episodes I got to watch, I'm unsure if this is a hidden masterpiece or a disasterpiece of storytelling or if it's just okay. I don't know if the show's team can stick the landing, but the fun in her work has always been the journey. She put in the effort since way back for me to give her stuff a chance, to actually review Hazbin Hotel earnestly as opposed to belittling things which would've been easy. To conclude, with all its flaws this is enthusiastic, fascinating start to an otherwise predictably unpredictable year that's leagues better than the Velma series because I actually want to see where season 2 goes.

I'm just glad this finally exists, regardless of the hell it took to get here

#Hazbin Hotel #A24 #vivziepop #cartoons #reviews #Good Stuff #long post

[andromeda4004]

So @tawnyontumblr suggested sharing some WIPs for #shareitsunday, and since I’m working on a Good Omens fic for #IneffablyAusten, I thought I’d give it a try.  It’s a GO AU drawing on Northanger Abbey (as you will immediately spot) and it is being equal parts huge fun and a complete bastard to get right.  Here’s 600 words from the first chapter.  I haven’t shared fanfic before; let me know what you think!

They returned to the refreshments table to seek out fresh glasses, while Mr Crowley was attempting to explain some half-remembered newspaper report on a recent lecture at the Royal Society upon marine life.

“My dear sir,” said Aziraphale, laughing despite himself, “you must be misremembering.  It cannot possibly have described dolphins in those terms.”

“Here is a man who did not read the article, and yet presumes to inform me what it said!” said Mr Crowley with a smile, and he sank in a sprawl of limbs onto a fainting couch. Aziraphale took a chair with a far more decorous posture, and the slightest roll of the eyes, which Mr Crowley caught.

"I see what you think of me," he said gravely.  "I shall make but a poor figure in your journal tomorrow."

“My journal!"

“Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Thursday, went to the Lower Rooms; wore my ivory waistcoat with blue trimmings, the Sentimental cravat, plain brown shoes – appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by his nonsense."

“Indeed I shall say no such thing."

Mr Crowley leaned in a little, not enough to be at all inappropriate, but just enough for Aziraphale to notice.  “Shall I tell you what you ought to say?"

“If you please."

“I danced with a very agreeable man, introduced by our mutual friend; had a great deal of conversation with him – seems a most extraordinary genius – hope I may know more of him. That, sir, is what I wish you to say."

Aziraphale hardly knew whether to hold his gaze or glance away.  “But, perhaps, sir, I keep no journal."

“Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by you. These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a journal! How are your absent family to understand the adventures and excitement of your life in Bath without one? How are your various outfits to be remembered, and the particular choice of your cravat, and the curl of your hair to be described in all their diversities, without having constant recourse to a journal? Tell me, Mr Fell,” he leaned in closer, “how are you to turn these few weeks of society living into valuable and pertinent sermons for your parishioners without a journal?  For you are certain to encounter perfect living illustrations on vanity, on avarice, on kindness and on charity – you have already demonstrated a true example of Christian charity since you arrived – and you risk letting the details slip from memory if you will not write them down.”

Aziraphale took another gulp of wine.  Somehow his mouth had contrived to go quite dry.  “And what will your journal say in the morning, Mr Crowley?”

He looked away into the crowd, and was silent a moment.  “That I learned angels truly do exist.”  He drained his glass.  “Thank you for your company, Mr Fell, but I have taken up too much of your time already. I shall circulate a little, and let you do the same.  It was a pleasure to meet you.”  With a wry smile, he bowed, and was suddenly gone.

____

That night, after he had taken his candle to his chamber, Aziraphale found in his valise a leather-bound notebook he had brought with him for the purpose of making notes if he had the opportunity of visiting the library.  He turned a few pages in, to a fresh sheet, trimmed his pen, and sat down at his desk to write.

October 21st, 1813

Tonight I met a most unusual man…

#share it sunday #ineffablyausten #ineffably austen #good omens fanfiction #fanfic WIP #never written fanfic before #northanger abbey #shareitsunday

[docholligay]

saw this and thought of you

Yes, thank you!

God I know I talk about this all the time, but I am so annoyed with and over the utter boring ass banality of the very rich. I think you owe it to all of us, if ytou are going to suck deep the wealth of the world like you are an active child and it is a Hi-C box, to at the very least do it with some style.

If I were Kardashian wealthy, you wouldn't see six jars of Vlasic pickles in my pantry. I don't have Vlasic pickles in my pantry now, because they are not very good and my wife and are at a place in our lives where I can afford to buy pickles that are good. JIF? I mean, really? There are a dozen artisan peanut butter companies out there putting out a much better product than JIF. Snyder's pretzels? Fucking VEGGIE STRAWS?

Probably the issue is that these women do not enjoy food, and no I'm not saying that because they're thin--I'm thin, though admittedly not hollywood level thin, but about 15 pounds off from being so. I'm like a size 4. I love food. It is possible to love food very much and be thin. I say that because clearly they have no thoughts on the quality of that food. If I were this level of wealth, not only would you not see these low-level brands that don't even put out anything particularly good, but you would see much more variety in the pantry. Where is the flavor? Where is the drama?

Why does one NEED six jars of Vlasic? At least three jars of JIF? I can't tell the Kardashians apart so I don't know which one is the Khloe, but does she have a family of 8? What could possibly be the excuse for stocking up this much on household goods that may or may not see a lot of use? Is a weekly trip to the grocery store too onerous, don't pretend with me Kardashian, I know you aren't making it.

And the answer is because this is all about conspicuous wealth. There's no fucking reason for pasta to be in several small arranged dry goods containers, either--even my bulk couscous is just in one big poptop. But this is a new kind of wealth porn, one that is about SPACE, and ORGANIZATION, and its imagining that your life would be together and organized if only your pantry looked like that. This is the equivalent of a parked porsche in the garage. Its job is not to ferry people, or in this case, to actually be used, but to convey order and wealth. This is the kind of being rich that boring white women cream themselves over. The idea of essentially having a grocery store in your house, everything faced and ready for you.

Which is why someone wrote an article about it, I suppose.

It's as ridiculous as it is boring, and while I do in fact have GRANDIOSE ideas about what I would do if I were wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, it has never ever been this wide-aisled, all white, 'barnwood', organized and untouched bullshit. My pantry would simply be a much larger mess than it is now, but I would still have a million hyperspecific sauces and spices and it would still all be falling down and there would be the amount of food I NEEDED, not six fucking jars of vlasic pickles.

#submission #VLASIC PICKLES

[imaginethebeautifulworld]

For the fic title and character thing!! ‘Glass shatters, grass bends’ with maybe Liet?

Oh I adore this one! I wish I had more creative energy because I'd actually like to explore this more in-depth.

Lilli sees more than the Others suspect.

She has seen the births of empires, their accessions into halcyon glory, witnessed firsthand the refracting, crystalised glory shimmering from atop chalky pedestals. She's witnessed firsthand the arrogance, the rapaciousness, the alleged altruism scarcely concealing avarice.

She sits quietly, listening, watching, as the small fractures creep ever further, as dust begins to fall like snow from the weathering glass houses, the columns supporting the mighty slowly eroding away before, finally, predictably, they crumble.

Oh yes, Lilli has seen countless great houses fall, weathered by time or shattered from forces both within and without.

And yet, she's seen Others who have thrived. Fellow Nations who have allowed themselves to grow, to change, to adapt, compromising what was Known and what was Believed and what was Dictated for new dichotomies, for new ways of life, for a new way to prosper.

She remains one of those who has allowed Time and Change to shape her, has embraced the shifting sands as they danced across her fingertips, forming something new and unexpectedly beautiful with each passing era.

She pirouettes among the shifting winds, lets them guide her through the ever-changing world.

Lilli has seen empires rise and fall, dances away from the delicious temptations of pursuing her own, knowing all too well the consequences should she allow that Darkness to claim her.

After all, glass houses always shatter.

But grass?

Grass bends.

Thank you for your patience! I wanted to write this the moment you sent it, but I didn't have the right words until just now. Thank you for the ask, Lovely! ^_^

#aph liechtenstein #hetalia liechtenstein #hws liechtenstein #ah i loved writing this one! #such a good idea anon! #aph hetalia #hello lovelies! #it has been a WHILE huh #title prompts #fanfiction #this ended up being less a concept and more an actual short story whoops

[thebibi]

he also sucked blood..but it was an act of love, vs dracula and the roomates' being an act of avarice, he tried to save his old professor's life from infection vs dracula claiming/infecting young jonathan and now lucy

Yes, an act of love vs an act of predation is very relevant. However, I do think its very interesting how Jack's vampire coding aligns with the more negative traits....also, even though it was an act of selflessness, I think its interesting how Van Helsing seems tethered to Jack just like how Lucy and Jonathan were tethered to Dracula. It feels more than just fluid exchange, you know?

Thank you anon! You wrote this to me before Van Helsing's introduction so I didn't publish it until now.

#dracula (novel) #jack seward #dracula #abraham van helsing #thebibi answers

[cherirb]

HIII THISIS ME FORMALLY ASKING ABOUT BG3 AND YOUR TAVS AND WHATNOT... OR ANYTHING REALLY !! IVE BEEN MEANING TO ASK BUT IW AS SOSO SCARED. FOR SOME REASON. (AND IF YOU ALREADY MADE A POST SOSORRY MY NOTIFS ARE ALL FUCKED UP AND WHATNOT YOU KNOW HOW IT IS)

HI. I AM MAKING THIS POST NOW I KNOW I SAID I’D MAKE IT EARLIER AND I REALLY WANTSD TO BUT. I HAVE BEEN SO SO BUSY AND ALSO THERE JS THE BURNOUT. YOU KNOW HOW IT IS. Anyway thank you for asking it finally gave me the kick in the butt I needed to Make The Post!! Yippie! Under the cut bcs of length etc etc <3

Okay so first is my main girl Peony!! She’s my durge and I love her <3!!

Some info:

She/it. Kind of a girl but not really. Transfem <3

Asmodeus tiefling and a war cleric of Tiamat!

Using her to romance Astarion

She’s super pink because I love pink and it’s my favorite color. Yes it’s self indulgent no I don’t care. Heart <3

Similarly, her name is Peony because peonies are pink and I like them. Heart x2 <3

Aside from that, though, the main inspiration behind her design is that I love love love how pink and red are both Valentine’s Day colors / “girly” colors and the colors most heavily associated with blood and guts and viscera. Wanted to play around with the idea of a character who is kind of the physical representation of that. Of the way pink and red are associated both with violence and with love and femininity. The duality of the heart as both a symbol of romance and as the thing that keeps your blood pumping etc etc

As such, she is very much the embodiment of that concept! At first glance, she’s very soft and sweet and feminine and doting, but her behavior is pretty much the antithesis of her appearance! She Is An Asshole. And a violent one at that! She has very little regard for what is good or right or just or moral, but she isn’t just out for what’s best for her either, she likes violence for the sake of violence! Even if causing it isn’t in her best interest

This doesn’t mean that she doesn’t have any kind of an interest in sex and romance and stuff tho. She does! The kinds of relationships that appeal to her are just a bit Fucked Up

Gets weird about the sight of guts and organs and blood and viscera, for example. Kind of girl who would be posting on tumblr about the inherent eroticism of cannibalism if tumblr existed in dnd

Annoys the rest of the party when she stops to examine and poke through the blood and guts of every corpse she passes. She’s not even LOOTING, she’s just Admiring, and everyone else can’t stand it (“let’s just get a damn move on already!”)

Also, I wanted to make her a war cleric of Tiamat *specifically* to further play into this concept. Like, everyone assumes clerics are good-aligned healers for the most part, so I wanted her to not reflect that AT ALL. She worships the living embodiment of avarice and hate and prays for MORE death and gore, not to heal it

In terms of backstory, I don’t have it Super figured out, but I imagine that she grew up in the hells amongst the large scale suffering and violence there and began to resent life and goodness as a result. She also developed her Fixation with viscera as a fucked up coping mechanism. Can’t be traumatized by the blood and guts if you train yourself to like seeing them, after all

Beginning to worship Tiamat is definitely where she really started to REALLY go downhill, though. Devoting yourself to hatred and malice and war is bad for you, it turns out!

I imagine she started this worship as a second Fucked Up Coping Mechanism. If the world is going to be cruel no matter what you might as well embrace it and worship that cruelness, yeah? Make yourself a part of it. Can’t be the victim if you’re the perpetrator, and it’s every man for themselves after all

Is drawn to Astarion initially because he’s also mean and a bitch! Like he’s not an asshole in the exact same way as her but she likes his Vibe. Is DEFINITELY suspicious of him at first, though. She can pick up on the fact that he’s Hiding Something, even if she doesn’t know exactly what. She actually respects it though! Doesn’t mind someone with a couple secrets, and she’s got a few herself anyway

She IS nosy, though— like a massive gossip— so she definitely does dig deeper until she Figures It Out. Doesn’t ever bring it up because it’s good to have blackmail and she isn’t THAT fond of him yet but she Knows

When he tries to bite her she initially gets angry because she assumed he was trying to sneak up on her and kill her. Not because she was offended at the concept of someone plotting to murder her, though, but because she thinks that it’s cowardly to SNEAK UP on someone and then kill them. A real “fight me properly if you want me dead bitch!!” moment

Then she finds out that he just wanted her blood and very much just went “oh? Is that all?” about it. Like doesn’t even bat an eye in the slightest. What already being Weird about blood and viscera does to an mfer

After they start getting closer, I’d imagine that they both have an “oh I can make them so much worse” moment about the other. But it’s like multiplying two negatives and getting a positive and instead of making each other worse they actually end up making each other better! They both realize that maybe they Do care, maybe they Do want good things for the other (and therefore for themselves) and are both very pouty and bitchy about it at first

In terms of her relationships with the others, I’d imagine it varies! She likes Lae’zel almost as much as she likes Astarion, and they get along pretty well. She thinks Gale is so so boring and tries to avoid him at all costs. Wyll has good stories but he’s also a goody-two-shoes. At least he can give good advice for slaying demons, though. She thinks he’s meh, overall. She sees SO MUCH of herself in shadowheart (manipulated/groomed into serving an all powerful evil deity) and it makes her SO uncomfortable. She doesn’t want to admit that serving the literal personification of violence and hate is Bad For Her, even if she can see how bad serving Shar is for shadowheart. So she tends to avoid her to avoid that uncomfortable feeling you get when you recognize your suffering in another even when you don’t want to admit that you’re suffering at all. She also feels that Karlach is a goody-two-shoes (much like Wyll) but tieflings have to stick together. She’s biased towards her and likes her, overall. However, seeing someone who’s suffered to the degree you have still be kind when you’ve chosen to be cruel is a hard pill to swallow, and while there’s definitely some resentment there for that, by and large it just makes her want to be Better, even if she wont admit it

Aside from the Angst, I imagine that she does have hobbies and interests just like everyone else. She’s still a Person, after all

She likes flowers, and in a world where she can settle down and be happy I picture her being an avid gardener! In this same world, I think she could use her obsession with viscera in a productive way by becoming a butcher! In fact, she probably DOES become a butcher, after she settles down post game

Cares probably a bit too much about her appearance for someone who doesn’t really like people all that much

Physical touch is her love language! She’s bad with words and doesn’t know how to pick gifts, quality time feels awkward when you haven’t yet learned how to act around people without assuming that they mean to do you harm (and that YOU mean to do THEM harm) and acts of service just aren’t her thing. But she sure as hell does know how to drape herself over you like a cat or hug you so tight you can’t breathe! Big on PDA. Of course, all of this happens after lots of discussion and boundary setting and Time, when it comes to Astarion specifically

Speaking of PDA, Karlach’s warm hugs (post engine fix) are her favorite :)

Predictably, she’s a carnivore who loves to eat meat. For her, the rarer the better (much to the disgust of her campmates and especially Gale, who won’t cook raw food, no matter how much she asks)

Probably takes up wood carving at some point as a more Productive coping mechanism, just so she can do something with her hands and a knife that isn’t violent. Her favorite things to carve are bunnies <3 (they’re her favorite animal)

Speaking of bunnies, she’d probably get a pet rabbit postgame as she learns to trust herself with delicate, vulnerable things again. It’d be a white one, and she’d name it Sugar, I think :)

Okay I think I will shut up now. I have thought literally SO MUCH about her and I’ve already written a barely coherent essay full of random stuff but!! There is still more in my brain. I will maybe talk about Seraph later, but this is already an essay so I’m leaving it at that! Thanks again Kosmo for asking and I’m so sorry about the length of this half incoherent ramble!!!

[bubheart]

Secrets left for the moon.

Characters: Keith Howellx"you"

For: @xxsycamore and @queengiuliettafirstlady ccc different universe, same love. ♡

Prompt: D-3 Enemies or Soulmates? Yes.

Words count: approx 900-1k

Notes: Banner is my fanart…

I have loved you from the very beginning. Long before I knew what to call it, I knew its taste in my mouth. I have loved you without words, without sounds. It was you and I, not yet us but it was happiness.

Or so I used to believe.

Tonight, a ball is held in the castle to celebrate the start of the noble season, when aristocrats gather in the capital. Nothing too unfamiliar, nothing too genuine either. Picture here the stiff smiles of men, there the copious perfumes of women as they all try to conceal the face of their putrid avarice.

Some of them approach me, hands rubbing against each other, eyes scrutinizing every one of my movements. They say “Your Highness, I am most pleased to see you in good health!” with their mouths, thinking “How boring! This prince is a ghost.” in their hearts. And they laugh. Mocking my lack of charisma and drive.

My head spins from embarrassment. Still I can feel the corner of my mouth splits into a smile and my throat rips itself to reply “Thank you very much.” My own hypocrisy lingers on my tongue, like the stinging acidity of a lemon. So I let my body rest in the warmth of the chandeliers and drown my consciousness in the clamor of the violins. Slowly. Painfully. Erasing my very existence in the shadows of the illuminated ballroom.

Thump thump…thump thump…thump thump

Aah, there you are.

The rhythmic pounding of your heart resounds in my head. It has always been. On sleepless nights, I try to follow its song in my dreams where I would chase the faceless image of you. A fog with no form and no warmth when you slip through my fingers.

But the sun is a jealous god. It rises in the sky from the other side of the world too fast, too early, pushing the shy moon relentlessly behind the horizon. It burns the last whispers that remained unsaid on my lips. My love, our secrets are left for the moon.

Yet this time is different. This time, your heartbeat continues to grow louder and louder in my head while my own heart tries to reach it. Harder and harder, crashing itself against the cage of my ribs like waves on the shore. The heat rises in the room. I can feel beads of sweat dampening my shirt making it stick to my skin.

“Ah!”

In a jolt, my hand clutches at my chest, my breath catches in my throat.

It hurts!

A sharp pain like I’ve never felt before pierced me. A dagger had found a new home in-between my ribs. Did my heart finally break free from its cage? I can’t say. My head is a swollen water balloon ready to pop and spill its content all over the ballroom floor. The heaviness of carrying a water balloon as a head seems almost too much for my neck and in a flash of delirium, I wonder if it will not simply snap under the weight.

It’s hot.

It’s burning.

I’m on fire.

Before I realize it, my feet are already dragging my body towards the balcony, desperate for fresh air. It’s a cool spring night outside yet the soft breeze that gently rustles the leaves on the trees doesn’t chill my scalding skin. My ragged breath echoes distantly with the muffled sounds of a walz. The clicking of heels and a voice brings me back.

“My apologies but I saw you looking unwell. Should I call for someone?”

I whirl into the direction it comes from. I see you standing before me. Finally. The warm orange light of the ballroom candles meets the softer blue light of the moon on your skin. The golden beads that constellate your clothes shine like stars. And suddenly, I’m an astronomer longing for the skies. Everything comes into focus again, a calm reassurance settles in me.

I have found you. My soulmate.

“…Yes. I’m alright. Thank you for your concern.” a man replies in a low, confident voice. “I wanted a bit of fresh air and we have such a pretty moon tonight.”

He smiles at you without making any abrupt movements. Embarrassed, you almost fumble over your words to apologize for interrupting his contemplation.

“Would you do me the honor of joining me?” he continues, always charming.

Don’t do it. Don’t get closer to him, I beg you! But I can see your cheeks flush at his proposal. Shyly, you move towards his outstretched hand. Until you grab it. I have never cursed my own passiveness as much as now. I can’t even talk! I can’t warn you about the light that glows in that man’s eyes when he looks at you. I am here but my lips are tied! All I can do is hear you both sing the melody of love in canon. You smile unaware that my heart breaks a little bit more each time you look at him that way. He is not who you think he is!

Anger builds up in me. I was burning before but now my body is growing numb from the cold that took over. The grounds are shaking under my feet as I silently watch, standing at the border of insanity. I want to break this man’s hand as he brushes your hair behind your ear. It takes everything in me to not rip his heart out as he slowly touches your cheeks. Murderous urges are gnawing at me from the darkness.

He leans in, his lips a breath away from yours. However right before he kisses you, as you await it with your eyes closed, he turns his gaze towards the French window but you and I are the only ones reflected in it. The man’s eyes meet mine. His face distorts in a wicked smile then I understand.

I am him and he is me.

Keith and his alt and a soulmate. That was the concept…I did my best to convey it. I hope that you liked it and that there wasn’t too much typos. Oof…

#ikepri #ikemen prince #ikemen prince keith #ikepri keith #keith my man ❤️ #different universe same love ccc

[misscrazyfangirl321]

kate and monroe, flower shop au?

She blows into his shop with an unnecessarily firm slam to his door; a few terracotta pots shake from the force of it. Monroe bites back a groan, bracing himself, before pasting on a smile and stepping out of the back.

"Welcome to Flower Language. Is there anything I can help you with?"

She huffs. "Yeah, what kind of flowers do you give a complete jerk?"

What? Does she mean him, specifically, or is this more of a hypothetical? He opts to treat it as the first. "Um, I don't?"

"There's this guy," she continues as if he hadn't spoken, "And he just really ticked me off, so I want to tell him what a jerk he is, but he's super smart, so I want to do it in a way that seems smart, you know?"

He blinks once, then twice. "So you want to get him flowers?"

"To tell him he's a jerk, yeah."

This is so not what he gets paid for. On the other hand, he does actually know flower language, which it turns out most people don't actually care about; they just want to know what's pretty and cheap, and are offended when roses aren't the latter.

Fine, then. "I mean, there's the Turk's Cap Lily. It means hatred."

She actually lights up, bouncing a little on her feet. "Perfect! Do you have any of those?"

He points, and she follows his gaze, then nods enthusiastically. "Anything else?"

"Well... Scarlet Auriculas mean avarice."

"Ohhh, yeah, that's good."

In spite of himself, a smile flickers on his lips as he searches his mind for other flowers that could work. He's always enjoyed trying to put together meaningful bouquets, even though this isn't quite the meaning he prefers. "And there's Foxglove for insincerity. Plus, if you can find some dandelions, that means depart, which-"

"I think I love you. Not like that," she adds quickly, wrinkling her nose-rude, but okay, "But just. That's perfect. Thank you so much."

He helps her put together her bouquet, mentions a couple of places she might be able to find the dandelions, and sends her on her way. Huh, he thinks afterward. That was very weird.

-

They run into each other at the grocery store nearly a month later, and curiosity wins out over the urge to keep his mouth shut and get his shopping done, so he clears his throat. "How did it go with the flowers?"

She pauses, giving him a blank stare for so long that he regrets ever speaking, before recognition dawns, and she goes sheepish. "That... Turned out to be a huge misunderstanding. He's actually a really great guy, and I felt really bad."

"Oh." That's a bit of a let-down, honestly. He was hoping for something more epic than that. Now he just feels like a jerk himself. "Sorry."

Shrugging, she grins. "I mean, it worked out. He's my boyfriend now."

With that she walks off, leaving Monroe to try to figure out (once again) what on earth just happened.

-

(Yes, this is drawn straight from this Tumblr post.)

#kate freelander #monroe calvert #sanctuary #grimm #answered #thanks for the ask! #lattes of love #my fics #my writing #mine #missy's eu #right on schedule captain #which of her possible love interests is the guy? idk. could be will. could be declan. mayyybeee henry. #who knows