#Waiting for Guests by Lamplight

[augustinewrites]

dress + nanami

“i bought you something.”

you frown slightly, eyeing the sleek box that nanami places on the bed.

“but i didn’t get you anything…”

he simply smiles, gently taking your hand and smoothing his thumb over the gold band adorning your ring finger. “allowing me to marry you this afternoon was the greatest gift you could ever give me.”

memories of your little ceremony still linger in the forefront of your mind. you’d married him atop a small rooftop garden filled with this season’s blooms, surrounded by your closest friends and family. you’d never been an extremely sentimental person, but the way he’d gazed at you and whispered vows meant for your ears and yours alone…you’d hold that close to your heart forever.

“no take backs, by the way,” you say when you feel tears prick at the back of your eyes once more. “you’re stuck with me, even though i snore.” 

“your snores are adorable. like a bunny holding a chainsaw.”

“hey!” you laugh, letting him wrap his arms around you from behind, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. 

“just let your husband spoil you, hm?”

nanami loves to spoil you. he’s always had such lovely taste, picking soft, pretty things that catch his eye in shop windows— a pair of leather gloves, a stylish sweater, a diamond bracelet. each gift is thoughtful, always complimenting you perfectly,

you lift the lid of the box, peeling back layers of tissue paper to reveal a delicate, silky white dress.

“kento…” you breathe, feeling his lips curl into a smile against your skin. gingerly, you lift the feather-light dress by dainty straps, taking in the cowl neck and tasteful high slit. 

simple, yet elegant, like him. 

“for you to wear to the reception,” he murmurs, pressing a light kiss to your shoulder. “do you like it?”

“i love it,” you tell him truthfully, turning to look at him. “help me put it on?” 

your husband couldn’t look more pleased, especially when deft fingers undo the back of your bespoke wedding gown and he sees what you’d snuck on underneath.

but nanami is nothing if not efficient, clearing his throat before helping you step out of your current dress and into your new one, the material gliding against your skin like butter.

“you’re a vision,” he whispers, brushing another kiss to the back of your neck. with heat in your cheeks, you turn in his embrace, bringing your lips up to his. 

the rest of the world begins to melt away, as it often does when you’re with him. but it’s different now. it’s different because in the eyes of the law, you’ve chosen him and he’s chosen you. 

so you share eager kisses in the warm lamplight of the hotel room, his hands gentle as they slide over the smooth material of your dress. 

and eventually, up the slit resting atop your thigh. his warm hands rest on your bare skin, setting off sparks of pleasure up your spine.

“we shouldn’t,” you breathe as he plants open mouthed kisses on the hollow of your throat. “we need to check on our guests— you know satoru gets weepy when he’s had more than one drink.” 

nanami pulls back to look at you, pupils blown with desire as he takes in your smeared lipstick and wide-eyed stare.

he responds by pulling you close with his grip on your hips, a groan slipping past your lips as he does so. 

“they can wait,” he tells you, walking you backwards until your knees buckle against the edge of the bed. “i’ve waited long enough to be alone with my wife.”

he’s waited for this moment even when he hadn’t realized he’d wanted this, wanted you. he’s wanted it since the days you’d shared at jujutsu tech, when he’d been a besotted schoolboy, pining after his classmate. 

nanami’s always been a patient man—

he yanks the skirt of your new dress up around your hips and kisses a trail down your chest.

— except when he’s not.

#nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #nanami fluff #[—augustine’s two year celebration!]

[lionofchaeronea]

Strolling at Night Holding a Candle (aka Waiting for Guests by Lamplight), Ma Lin, ca. 1250

#art #art history #Asian art #China #Chinese art #East Asia #East Asian art #Ma Lin #Imperial China #Song Dynasty #landscape #landscape painting #landscape art #ink and color on silk #13th century art #National Palace Museum

[lostcybertronian]

Egotober - Day 1

Prompt: Cape

Prompts by @tracobuttons

---

He adjusted the ties. Adjusted them again so they settled at the hollow of his throat. Made sure the knot was nice and tight, and that the fabric settled in the right way over his shoulders. Studied himself in the mirror, the way his gelled-back hair shone under the lamplight. Frowned. Popped his fake vampire teeth in and bared them. Took them out. Rinsed. Repeated

He was so mired in this ritual that he missed the heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Jumped a mile when a knock came at the door. 

“Dames?” William’s voice filtered through the thick wood of the guest room door. “Are you ready? The party’s starting.”

“I’ll be right down,” Damien answered absently, but the creaking of the door as it opened informed him William hadn’t taken his answer to heart. He turned, and a surprised laugh burst from his mouth at the sight.

William was dressed as Mark, right down to the red, satiny robe and white ascot. If not for his glasses and mustache, he’d be a spitting image. Brother echoed brother, after all.

“Bully!” He exclaimed, his voice too big for the small room, for the music drifting up the stairs. “A vampire. I should have thought of that.”

Damien mustered up a smile, even as his stomach flipped. “It needs something else, though. I can’t think of what.”

William crossed the room. Looked him up and down in a way that made Damien’s face flush. Then, he snapped his fingers. “I’ve got just the thing! Wait right here.”

He spun on one slippered foot and disappeared. Moments later Damien heard the sound of the next door guest room opening, and frowned as he pondered why on earth William would be rummaging through Celine’s things.

Then, he was back, triumphantly boasting an eyeliner pencil. He was up in Damien’s face before the mayor could say a word about it, his calloused fingers gentle as he touched Damien’s jaw, tilting his face this way and that so as to apply a thick ring of makeup below each eye.

“There!” William’s breath smelled like expensive wine. He stepped back, grinned, placed a hand on Damien’s shoulder and steered him back toward the mirror. “It’s perfect. Take a look.”

Damien murmured assent and glanced toward the mirror, but what he was really looking at was William looking at him, his pretty dark eyes glittering. 

He felt his insides twist. Wished things were different. “Perfect,” he agreed, and stepped away from the mirror. Away from William. Away from the feelings he let fester. “Let’s go party.”

#egotober2023 #dilliam #mayor damien #colonel william #markiplier egos #writersofmark #fanfiction #ego shipping #lostandwandering #lost writing tag #fluff #angst

[dujour13]

♦: Slow dancing - have to go with it, chief

@wonda-ch Thanks to both of you. 🥰 This one was nice.

There's a soundtrack to it if you want the full experience.

---

The Queen’s victory ball nearly spiraled into chaos.

First the Cavalry Sculptors started a food fight. Then after the banquet, once everyone was good and tipsy, Siavash played a couple of rousing songs and soon Sosiel and Trever had most of the guests ranged in lines, bowing, locking elbows, spinning each other around and stomping their heels in an Andoren farandole that made the chandeliers shake.

Even Woljif got swept up in it, and light as he was on his feet he picked up the steps pretty quickly. The only problem was the danger his tail posed to his partners’ shins as he spun past. Seelah threatened to strangle him with it.

It was when the Valhalflings pulled the tablecloths crashing to the floor so that they could dance on the tables that the Queen made an urgent sign to the orchestra to tone it down a notch.

At the lull in the music the dancers paused, laughing breathlessly. And then the musicians struck up a slow, romantic waltz and there was a lot of awkward bidding for partners.

Daeran bowed deeply to Ember and offered his arm. Sosiel and Aron immediately flew together as if they had been waiting for this moment all evening. Lann drunkenly threw caution to the wind and invited Queen Galfrey to dance, and then looked like he would die of embarrassment when she assented. Seelah spun around laughing, assaulted on all sides by would-be suitors, until her eyes and hands locked with Arueshalae’s.

Woljif tried to make himself inconspicuous.

Not that he had anything to hide. Everyone knew. With Siavash all but yelling it from the rooftops, not to mention the prodigious Fifth Crusade rumor mill churning out all sorts of sordid tales, he reckoned you’d have to be a deaf hermit in the middle of the Casmaron desert not to know the Knight-Commander had a thing with some street tiefling from Kenabres.

And then there was the clear blue sapphire flashing at his throat, and all it signified to him and to everyone in their entourage. Belonging. Yet also freedom.

So why did the prospect of slow dancing in front of everyone at the victory ball make him want to go invisible and slink away? Or better yet, spread his new wings and fly off with the Queen’s silverware in his pockets?

Must be the public mushy stuff that was putting him off. And he could just hear what Gran would say, rubbing elbows with the toffs like some kind of—

Before he could inch behind a floral arrangement, Siavash stepped up and bent near to the floor in a flourishing bow modeled after Daeran’s, made all the more florid by his ballroom finery: cloud-blue satin with gold embroidery, lace at his throat and cuffs, a sash the color of sunlight at his waist, burgundy trousers tucked into boots so polished they reflected the lamplight. As the leaf-green ribbon tying back his hair had lost most of the battle by now, he laughingly blew escaped locks out of his face as he rose, one hand behind his back, the other raised to Woljif.

“Chief, that get-up.”

“So rob me. Come here.”

“Fine,” Woljif sighed.

Clasping the offered hand he was drawn into an embrace, and the momentum swung him around and into the dance step before he knew what was happening.

Had a hush fallen over the ball or was it just that the Valhalflings had gone hoarse? Or perhaps everyone else had dropped away and they were suddenly alone.

He let Siavash guide his steps to the gentle three-four time of the piano. Like in bed or on the battlefield their bodies naturally fell into rhythm together, every shift of muscle against his chest an unspoken cue, the music moving through Siavash and into Woljif, lifting them along like leaves on a gentle breeze. He pulled him closer. The scent of him, the warmth, the enfolding arms. The tickle of that honey-colored hair falling across his nose. Hearts beating in tandem.

Hearts beating.

He was still here.

Woljif laid his palm to his chest, to the place where the wound had threatened to split him apart and take him away from him.

It was over and they’d survived—better than survived—and that broken, lonely future he’d envisioned at Threshold had not come true.

Tenderly a violin joined the piano as if the music were reading his thoughts.

He realized his hand had clenched the fabric at Siavash’s shoulder and buried his face against his neck to stifle the rising tide of a sob.

The music swelled and spun them together, weaving their steps. With his eyes closed he could imagine them flying side by side, the wind braided in their wake.

Free.

The violence of the Crusade was behind them now. The Worldwound was closed and Siavash’s wound was healed.

The hand at his waist braced for a dip and with unquestioning trust he went with it, the hand steadily lifting him once again.

His own wounds, too, were healed. That gaping hole of need at last closed. Everything was all right. For the first time in his life, clear skies ahead.

That crazy Andoren had grinned and told him “It’ll be fine,” and it was.

Finally.

The chief had made a spectacular bet and won. Wiped the floor with old Goat-Face, swiped a crystal right out from under Nocticula’s nose, crushed Deskari like a bug, told Iomedae where she could stuff her advice, seized the power of a demon lord and turned it into sunshine and butterflies.

And took the hand of the lowliest street tiefling in Mendev and showed him love.

The lips pressed to his forehead moved. “We did it, Woljif.”

We—not just the chief. It was true. They accomplished all of it together. In step.

It was his turn to guide Siavash into a dip and a graceful turn.

“Sure lucky I didn’t hightail it and leave you to deal with all of that on your own,” he murmured.

“I never would have managed without you.”

Woljif felt Siavash’s breath hitch in his chest. Where his forehead met his cheek a tear pooled.

“I mean that. My love.”

A whisper: “I know, chief.”

Siavash pulled him so close they could only sway with the music, and so they remained, clinging to one another, unaware everyone else had stopped dancing.

At last Woljif raised his eyes and in the soft lamplight they sought each other’s gaze through wet lashes. Siavash took his chin in his hand and raised it gently, and leaned in for a kiss.

#pathfinder: wrath of the righteous #woljif jefto #siavash #siavash x woljif #fanfic #thanks for the prompt! #silversiren1101 #wonda ch #pwotr pals

[dyrewrites]

Before Deluca -- love

Uniform shrubbery, manicured lawns lit in soft yellows—oil lamps, all—and crowds of giggling faces in clothing too gaudy brought me back to the manor and the masquerade.

“It’s not like before,” Lucient insisted, setting me down only to wrap an arm around me—keep me his, “Everyone is here of their own free will. They’re like us, treasure, or here to be...tasted by those who are.”

Though my hands moved to hold, gripping his waist and pulling him tight, I could feel the eyebrow, the stiff lips. But I didn’t give them words, I wouldn’t. Strange as it was, sense lived in it, buried but there. Plenty fell to our teeth easily enough—as I had his. Our bite was ecstasy and I could understand desiring it. As for the thought of vampires among the aristocracy, well, many did live longer than they ought. They were also known to be secluded, leaving most at night or in covered coaches in the daylight hours. It wouldn’t be a surprise to learn all of them were.

“Not all, treasure,” he corrected as I eyed the crowds, “but many, yet the party itself means less trouble for us,” Sliding my eyes back to the brights of his, lidded, near teasing that they were, I waited for clarification. He gave it too close to a coo, “have you seen any watchmen since we’ve been out?”

Police were a fairly new invention at the time, and many were soldiers or privateers working directly under the King. So they tended toward militaristic uniforms. Of which I had seen none our entire day out. Nor any at the docks when we arrived, or any of the gates we crossed.

“Did this noble and his friends eat them all?” I asked, and his chuckle should have come off as mockery, but it came too light as he shook his head. But he didn’t answer, so I took a guess, “They’ve been paid off…”

He nodded, “For the weekend, which is how long his parties last,” the tight knit in my brows prompted a kiss and chuckle, “We are not attending, my love, and I promise I didn’t know there was going to be one. How could I have? I didn’t pick our destination.”

Tilting my head for that, fighting the smile with how he giggled, I tested, “You didn’t?”

His smile wrinkled, voice taking that deep whine as he flicked his eyes up, “Sebastian chose the port,” setting a slender hand firmly on my chest, he added, “I planned our stay after I learned where we were.”

“When, my love...when did you have time for that, I wasn’t asleep that long,” I didn’t know how long—I never truly did, so blurry that first year—but it couldn’t have been enough time to arrange a full week of activities.

And yet, it was.

“You do sleep soundly,” he teased, grabbing my hand, cool fingers so sweet in mine—burning as they were, hunger gnawing too soon, “now come, let’s get this over with so we can enjoy the rest of your week.”

“Hm,” was all I gave the smirk he offered as we blended into the groups of arriving guests.

Like delicate patterns of embroidery those crowds, weaving through the paths of a verdant tapestry—a grand garden lit softly in the golden hues of lamplight. None gave us more than a passing glance, and I took perhaps too much pleasure in that—as well as their maskless faces. Such color among them as well, clothing and skin alike, none were near so pale and monochrome as those of our last party. I couldn’t guess origin, and wouldn’t try, but I did hear smatterings of languages uncommon in the city. No din those sounds either, they sang a discordant melody, not quite in harmony but sumptuous to the ear.

I caught Lucient smiling at me—at my enjoyment in the mundane—and nudged him for it. He nudged back and gestured with a nod to the entry.

Massive those doors, tall and imposing but not so much as the last manor he brought me to. What loomed ahead of us felt like a home, a magnificent one likely tended by countless servants, but a home. Just inside that entry, its doors spread wide, stood a short man whose layers of ruffles did little to hide the sickly skin of his neck and hands—their dreary blue hue reminding me of drowned men. He was dressed in a draped coat dyed a blue reserved for royalty, trimmed in yellows far too bold, swaying beneath the weight of a high-set and intricately plaited black wig.

Nudging me again, Lucient silenced the chuckle that began in my throat, but it took a firm, “Chut,” to stop the next as we neared enough to see the theatrical manner the noble’s face was painted in and the treasury crowding his neck.

“That can’t be him,” I whispered, pinching my lips after, certain the chuckle would become full and throaty laughter if I weren’t vigilant.

“It is,” he whispered back, “and despite how he appears, he is a veritable nightmare of a creature. So chut lest he notice us too soon.”

“Bienvenue, bienvenue, invités d’honneur, bienvenue chez moi!” Powerful his voice, and deeper than his stature suggested. His accent flowed smooth, pronunciation impeccable—natural, yet something told me it wasn’t—while his tone sung heady, echoed ever so. He repeated the greeting in three other languages—perfectly pronounced every one—before ending with English. Taking care to meet eyes with all that approached, his voice echoed still with what I’d come to recognize as command, “Welcome, welcome, honored guests, welcome to my home!”

And it did, though not us, and not all those around us either. But many, so very many, stood stiff and walked with rigid legs faster through the doors—to the disturbing sound of cackling from those who didn’t.

“That what you meant by nightmare?” I asked Lucient, standing near as still as the commanded had.

He nodded, then sighed, “We are, thankfully, immune to that,but he’s still quite old, quite strong...and quite mad.”

Lucient held me where we stood until everyone else had funneled into the manor before walking me to the entry. The host stood waiting, smiling too wide, allowing his wicked tangle of needle-thin fangs to gleam in the lamplight.

“Look what the kitty coughed up,” that too-deep voice ground with his teasing tone, slate gray eyes firm on Lucient, “Bonsoir, Lucy.”

Holding me tighter, nails digging through my jacket sleeve, Lucient managed to keep the snarl in his eyes out of his voice, “Soir, Jackie.”

Marveling as I was at the vampire noble, how such a small thing could radiate command and confidence at the levels he did and still sing to me of how easily he would snap in my grip...I kept my mouth shut.

He didn’t, “I see you’ve brought a treat with you,” looking me over with a gaze too hot, too hungry, he bit his lip and continued, “but with a pulse that weak he can’t be treat,” turning to smile, sharp and cruel at Lucient, he trilled, “Did kitty make a pet?”

“Not a pet,” Lucient said through tight teeth, stiffened muscles relaxing with my fingers tightening in his.

Our host scoffed, “Not a—” but cut it with a laugh, short and hollow, “you amuse me, Lucy. Bringing such a big puppy to my home and insisting it’s people.” Turning to welcome us, he spoke louder, announcing, “Well, pet or not, you’re guests tonight.”

“We’re not staying, Jacques,” Lucient said it quietly, too quietly.

Those gray eyes were red when they spun and glared at us, smooth voice grinding even as Jacques chuckled through the words, “I must have misheard. Did you say you’re not staying?”

Lucient nodded, shivering in the reds glowing at us,“I came to announce our presence, to avoid you seeking us out, but we’ve no desire to socialize.”

“Share, you mean,” Jacques corrected, eyeing me as he stepped closer—keeping to the raised entry, certain to meet us eye to eye, “You’ve got yourself a shiny new toy and you don’t want anyone else to touch it...but there are rules,” he reached to grab Lucient’s collar but I was quicker—instinctively so—and clenched the ruffles of his wrist in my fingers before his touched.

“I wouldn’t,” I tried for calm, but the flicked eyes he gave burned with my failure.

He laughed, “Oh he is delicious. Loyal puppy, isn’t he?” addressing Lucient, his red eyes remained on me. “My dearest pet you discard, but you visit still, with one on your arm I am forbidden to taste?” Stiffening on my arm, Lucient said nothing and that laugh rang again, deeper, colder, “Of course I know, Lucient,” Jacques snarled through it, slipping from my grip as easy as if I were paper. In a flash of blue and gold he had Lucient off the ground by his jacket, eyes staining my love’s with their glare, “Did you think word wouldn’t reach me, that one of our own wouldn’t rush to spill all the filthy deeds you pinned on them in that whorehouse? She bought you, presented you to me as a gift, doted and faw—”

Like stone his cheeks, granting me no satisfying crunch of bone, only throbbing knuckles and a painted fist. He wouldn’t even do me the kindness of flinching, eyes firm on Lucient, no notice of me beyond the cut of his words.

Until I went for his throat.

When the heat of my skin touched his—ice as he was—Jacques gasped and released my love to grab for me. Slipping out of my hold as the ghost that light made him seem, to clasp my hands in the vices of his own.

“Warm,” he whispered, all that rage faltering in my heat, “he’s warm,” snapping a glare at Lucient he spat as he condemned him, “you’ve made a pet this rare and you deny me?”

“He is mine,” Lucient shot back, reclaiming my arm and yanking me free of those too-strong hands—hands that allowed it, thrown up when he tugged. But he had more to say to the searching eyes, gray again, that watched us, “and he is my partner, not my pet, not some toy to be passed around by you and your séides. A partner, an equal and mine alone.”

“Where is she,” Jacques asked, returning to his stoop, all command drained from his voice as he bent to twist those gray eyes closer, “All you bled, no matter their worth to that foul little Council, they are nothing to me. I care only for the one that owns you. Your Mistress, my pet,” gesturing at Lucient, he leaned back enough to worry of his wig as his voice grew bubbly but sharp, “She favored you above all others, spurning even me in her doting for you, yet they say you’ve ended her,” animated he became, waving his hands about, twitching with them, “That somehow you’ve done what we both know is impossible,” but he returned to glare, close enough to worry, “We are eternal. Sowhere is she...where did you hide my Iulia?”

Lucient shook with the question, having watched as I did how unsteadily the vampire noble stood—how his eyes flickered red to gray—and I whispered what I should have kept to thought, “My love, perhaps we should leave.”

He nodded, absent, but Jacques was smiling when we turned and in front of us before we took a single step.

“Did it say love?” he cooed, giggling into the ruffles of his sleeve, “I see now, I see.” Stepping back, he nodded and splayed all of his thin fingers—and too-long nails—toward me, “the sweet little kitty found himself a sap.” Lucient managed a squeak before he was silenced by the snap of Jacques fingers, “Did you find him before or after you abandoned my Iulia?”

“...after,” Lucient muttered, as his thoughts pleaded, I’m sorry, my love, I wasn’t expecting—

No, I cut, whatever this stronzo is up to, love, it’s not your doing. Let’s just try to get away before we lose any important pieces, yes?

A smile, small but mine, spread on Lucient’s face before Jacques ruined it.

“Oh, oh, oh,” he tittered, eyes flicking to ours as he stabbed one of those fearful fingers up to waggle it at us, “I know that look. You’ve claimed this one, haven’t you, Lucient?”

Shivering, Lucient remained calm, if firm, “That is none of your business.”

“Right, it isn’t,” Jacques agreed too easily, smiling too wide, “but it is rare to hear the thoughts of one you’ve claimed. My pet and I shared that gift, were you aware?” Lucient twitched, proving he wasn’t and Jacques chuckled, “I will find her, reclaim her, and do you think this love you’ve tricked yourselves into feeling can save you from my wrath—or hers—when I do?”

Sticking on what mattered to him at the moment, Lucient huffed, “It isn’t a trick but I wouldn't expect you to understand, the most you’ve ever felt for another was ownership. When's the last time your heart even beat?”

“It doesn't,” Jacques said flatly, slipping behind us, back toward his home as he continued in a dismissive tone, “We've no heart to give, no soul to share, only lifetimes of blood and lust that is positively scrumptious.” I turned to watch him, but Lucient didn’t—choosing instead to fume. “You're young yet,” Jacques continued, eyes on me, “weighed down by the thump, thumping of that barely living lie inside you…but it'll stop,” he waved a hand as he spun, walking through the open doors, “Do return when it does, perhaps when all that naivete has drained you'll allow me a taste of the big, warm puppy you’ve made.”

We were beyond the maze of shrubbery before Lucient addressed a question I hadn’t asked, “My Mistress was warm too. Not as warm as you, treasure, and unable to stay in the sun so long, but she felt alive in a way few of us do. I imagine that’s why your heat threw him,” To himself, he added, “a boon, that, it could’ve been worse...”

Distracting from the sorrow growing in his eyes, I asked, “He called her his—”

“Pet, yes, and claim,” he finished for me, grabbing my arm tighter, “It’s a common term for...most, yet not all. But he is her maker, just as she is mine...”

Far from the manor then, from the lights, he shined. Skin, hair, eyes, all of him luminescent in the silvery blues of the sun’s reflected light and, turning him to me, I cut him off. He stared, watching, waiting, and I let him. For a breath, another, until his lips twitched to speak he waited. And I silenced him with my own, feeding him the heat of my tongue and warmth of my thoughts, as you are mine, my love.

Pulling free, I left him swooning and savoring my taste. “Mm, so perfect you are,” he whispered, “I ache to reward it.”

And I couldn’t help but ruin the mood, “Puppy gets a treat?”

“I take it back,” he said flatly but, as he walked ahead of me, he looked over his shoulder with a quirk in his smile, “I'll go to the library alone.”

“Library?” I asked, eyes on the approaching lights of the city—dim as they were with how few lamps it possessed—but he didn’t answer, or slow, and I chased, “Wait, no, you don't mean it,” giggling, he continued faster, but not enough to blur, to leave me behind, “My love,” I called again, and he ignored me again, “Lucient!”

He was in the city when I caught up, slow as I had to go with all the bodies filling the streets—despite the dark, Paris did not appear to sleep. Up against a wall I found him, waiting for me and smiling.

Salacious tone on full display, he asked if I enjoyed my walk, “Bonsoir, belle, bonne balade?”

I groaned, pulling him against me to snip, “Do you know how difficult it is to chase you while keeping to a reasonable speed?”

“Oui,” he teased, kissing my neck.

“You're terrible,” I told those kisses, chuckling as I did.

“And you love me,” he reminded through more, draping his arms over my shoulders and leaning back against the wall.

Following his lead I returned each soft touch of those lips and the use of a native tongue, whispering, “A un livello impossibile, ti amo.”

Gasping with the heat of me against him, he begged, “Say it again, treasure…”

“Ti amo, Lucient,” I cooed through nibbles of his ear.

“Mm, Je t’aime, Ludovico,” he returned so sweetly.

Love was rare among our kind, we would learn—again and again we would. Few vampires could claim it, and those that did were fairly young, new, as we were then. Agelessness came with caveats, more so than the weaknesses we endured. Minds were not meant to live so long, bodies not meant to restitch so often. Many were driven mad and numb by the endless stretch of time they suffered. Companions they ached for, filled their long lives with, would wither in one way or another. Yet we did not. The opposite seemed true for us, it was only when we were apart that we lost ourselves, maddening and numbing, succumbing more and more to hunger and lust to feel whole again, real again—no matter how it stung to touch another.

This is not to say we were unique, no, I could never claim absolutes. But we never met others quite like us—and I still haven't.

#writeblr #snippet #writing #novel #before deluca #vampire romance #scene #it's a big one #>.> #no warnings though #i don't think #tell me if i missed a thing

[aethernoise]

9. yawn

Early Alyx and Aymeric fluff set right after Terms of Surrender. 785 words.

-

The offer to “make herself at home” at the Manor had led her to an almost laughably luxurious bath (even the guest washroom had the largest bath tub she’d ever seen, let alone used) and time to stretch out on the sofa in Aymeric’s study. It wasn’t quite long enough to straighten her legs, but lying on her side afforded her some much-needed physical relaxation. Her lower back ached, her shoulders were sore and she suspected she had a new bruise on her arse from an ungraceful meeting with the ground the previous day. 

Despite the nearly perfect napping conditions, Alyx was wide awake. Her head was buzzing with the vaguely anxious thrill of waiting for Aymeric to return. She tried her best not to stare at the clock on the far end of the room, but the tolling of the distant Vault bells informed her that the hour had changed over.

Truthfully, she had no idea how long she was going to wait - but the combination of a preciously blank schedule and the bubbling of anticipation that filled her entire being granted her a rare amount of patience. 

Besides, she considered, this would be normal for them. A mismatch in free moments was to be expected. Their duties required more of them than they had to share, at times - thus had been part of the terms laid out and accepted clearly by the both of them just bells prior.

As she stared into the quiet hearth, she chose to focus on more pleasant thoughts: the effortless strength he’d used to sweep her up into his arms and onto his desk, the completely unburdened and playful laugh at her reaction, the tingling heat in his voice when he confessed what he’d rather be doing than preparing for a meeting with the Master of Coin. 

Alyx swallowed, and rolled over slightly to stuff her face halfway into the sofa cushion. When he did arrive at home, what then, she wondered. Should she ought to attempt some sort of seductive greeting? No, she decided immediately, knowing she could never take it seriously enough to not burst into giggles with the attempt. She certainly wasn’t wearing anything particularly enticing: her traveling clothes were even plainer and bulkier than usual due to the temperamental rain in the Shroud. 

Then again, she thought with an exhale, he had already seen her at her worst (or close to it). He was likely the greater problem. She had no idea how many layers of that damned armor were included in his usual ensemble, but gods, how nice it must feel to be rid of it after a long day in the public eye. She wanted to help. 

Alyx yawned and closed her eyes, smiling to herself while she conjured the warm memory of Aymeric asleep beside her in his loose cotton sleep shirt. She didn’t even notice she had fallen asleep herself until his voice roused her some time later.

“There you are,” he said (almost with relief), “When I could not find you I feared you had left.”

Alyx squinted into the lamplight. She sensed it was quite a bit later now, but Aymeric was there, kneeling beside the sofa to loom over her like a soothing shadow. He smiled and smoothed the hair from her face with a featherlight touch.

“I deeply apologize for making you wait so long,” he said, “My excuses are exhaustive, but excuses nonetheless.”

She grinned sleepily and tried to sit up. “S’alright,” she said groggily, “’m happy to see you.”

She could see his face light up before he bent to kiss her forehead. “And I you, dearest.”

Alyx propped herself up on one arm to meet his eyes and then his lips, sharing a slow, soft and comfortable kiss. It was different than before - no urgency, no giddiness, just pure, soothing affection. Afterward she struggled to open her eyes again.

There was a quiet chuckle in his voice: “May I take you to bed?”

Her eyes snapped open.

“To sleep,” he amended quickly (was he blushing? It was too dark to tell for certain), “I daresay we both need it.”

It was her turn to laugh. “I don’t know,” she answered, “You might have to carry me.”

With the same astounding lack of effort he displayed earlier in his office, he scooped her up into his arms and stood in one swift motion. She made a less than dignified squeaking sound in reaction.

“Granted, with pleasure,” he said with a tired smile. She nestled against his chest with a sigh as he brought her down the hall to his chambers: just to sleep, but sleep better than either of them had in many days. 

-

#my writing #emmerwrites #alyx and aymeric #aymeric/wol #wolmeric #aymeric de borel #ffxiv fanfic #ffxiv fanfiction #you love to see it #i plan on writing more of this to eventually include in BW&M #maybe another prompt will help inspire me #anyway i did not edit this much #pls pardon the dust #ffxivwrite2022

[jodithann827]

Pretty Woman 1/11

Rated: Explicit/ posted on AO3/ tagging @today-in-fic

Link Here

Friday Evening

Los Angeles

9:35 pm

Present Day

Music, steady but deafening. Hors d'oeuvres and alcohol, fancy in the hopes of impressing the social media executives. Mindless chatter between acquaintances, superficial at best it would seem, not a necessity but rather an expectation. Money, but not from fame outside the group.

“The most premiere hostess, as always,” she hears.

Diana Fowley, prim and proper and always put together, dressed to the nines, looks to her left to see a fellow attorney from her firm. She maneuvers through the crowd to reach her guest; not an easy task for her five-foot, nine-inch frame.

“Darla,” she draws out, “it’s so good to see you.”

She reaches for the woman, kissing each of her cheeks. Diana’s chestnut hair, which reaches her shoulders and curls perfectly around the ends, falls forward.

“Oh Diana, thank you for the invite. The party is marvelous, as usual. Any excuse to drink and be among friends. It’s about time Fox showed his face in the city again,” Darla continues.

“Oh, you know how he is,” Diana says, waving the hand that isn’t holding Darla’s elbow. “He’s here working the Lamplight deal. Hopefully, it’ll be solidified within the week.”

Darla nods her head in understanding.

“Is he still with that British woman?” Darla asks, knowing how Diana has pined after her boss for too many years. Diana rolls her perfectly outlined eyes.

“I never seem to know what’s going on in Fox’s head.”

“Where is the evening’s most eligible bachelor?” Darla questions, eyes searching the room. Diana’s eyes roam as well, looking for the guest of honor.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. Come, let’s get you some wine.” Diana whisks her away, hoping Fox will show himself soon. Knowing he must keep up performances in all aspects of this trip if he wants the deal to go through.

Through the crowded room, in a deserted corner, the guest in question focuses on a person speaking through the other end of the phone.

“Phoebe, please,” Fox Mulder states, his voice smooth and eerily calm. “This could be a make-or-break business deal for me.”

“It’s always about you, isn’t it? Well, I cannot do this anymore. I refuse to drop everything here and come to you when you need something. I will not put my life on hold for you, Fox. Furthermore, I refuse to be your beck and call girl,” Phoebe says in her clipped Cockney accent.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Phoebe,” he utters.

“We had some good times together, but maybe it’s for the best, Fox. I promise I’ll be out of the apartment by the time you get back next week.”

“Phoebe, wait—” he starts, but the line has already gone dead.

Fox slowly sets the phone down, his body sinking into a nearby chair. He chews his lip, contemplating his next move. Fox always has a plan, moves and counter moves, always knowing his next one, be it in the business world or his personal life. He doesn’t love Phoebe, though he’s sure he was fond of her, at least at some point. Suddenly feeling restless, he jumps up, weaving through the crowd.

“Fox,” Diana calls when she spots him. She quickly catches up to him, matching his strides. “Fox, where are you going?” She follows him out a side door leading to the garden, then past that to the valet.

“I suddenly feel the need to be alone, Diana,” he broods, eyes scanning the sea of vehicles. “Is that your car?” She follows his eye to her silver Mazda MX5 Miata.

“Oh, don't be silly. Come back inside,” she attempts to persuade. “You and I can find a quiet place to chat. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Diana, I need to get out of here. Please.” He looks her in the eye, and Diana sees something she hasn’t seen in at least nine years: turmoil.

“I understand, Fox. At least take the limo,” she insists.

Fox’s eyes roam over the cars, settling toward the back of the pile. He waves to a man with long blond hair and thick black glasses perched on his prominent nose.

“It’ll take Langly at least twenty minutes to get the limo out. Give me your keys. Please,” he asks, holding out his shaking hand expectantly, a person used to getting what he wants from others. Diana hesitates but pulls her keys out.

“I can go with you, Fox. I don’t mind,” she purrs, attempting to slide up next to him, her nails stroking his arm. It’s no secret that Diana has been trying to pursue Fox for years, their working relationship be damned.

“Go back to your party, Diana. To your guests. I’ll be in touch later.” He gives her a peck on the cheek, as he would in any situation.

Without waiting for her response, he takes the keys from her outstretched hand and gets in. He drives away, missing Diana’s last comment about his inability to drive in a city that is unfamiliar to him.

After driving aimlessly and with difficulty for fifteen minutes, Fox realizes he’s not any closer to his hotel. Backing up the Miata, Fox hangs to the left, passing a sign reading Hollywood Boulevard .

Hollywood Boulevard

10:00 pm

Dana Scully carefully observes herself in her bathroom mirror, slowly applying her evening makeup. Dark red lipstick to match her fiery, long and wavy locks, and black eyeliner to bring out the blue in her irises. Blotting her lips together and giving herself a wink in the mirror, she then grabs her bag and coat and heads out the front door of her tiny apartment. She feels confident in a blue-washed miniskirt, a white skin-bearing tank, and knee-high black boots as she heads to the stairs. Before she makes it to the bottom step, she hears the booming voice of her cranky landlord, Alvin Kersh.

“I don’t care what the excuse is. You live in an apartment, you pay the rent. The rent is due on the first of each month, so this shouldn’t shock you! If you don’t pay, I will have no problem throwing you out on your pretty little ass.”

Dana peers down to the floor below, where Kersh is laying into a tenant. She pauses for a moment and then backtracks slowly up the stairs to her apartment. Throwing the door open, she walks into the bathroom, reaching her hand behind the porcelain toilet tank. Coming up empty, Dana sighs, rubbing her temples with her slender fingers. Heading back to her living room, she briefly contemplates leaving through the door, but not being in the mood to tangle with Kersh this evening, she swings her bag over her shoulder and heads for the fire escape. Once outside, she carefully maneuvers her way down.

Entering the bar on the bottom floor of her apartment building, Dana greets the bartender. Her eyes adjust to the smoke as she scans the crowd. They land on a woman: tall, slender, and just three years older than Dana herself, surrounded by a small group of people talking, laughing, and smoking. The woman turns, sees Dana, and breaks into a megawatt grin.

“Dana! Hey! Good timing. Carlos is buying shots,” the woman calls out over the music.

Dana storms over to confront the woman. “Where is it?” she demands. Silence. “Missy,” she punctuates, “where is the money?” Her voice is stern and low.

“See, I was going to tell you,” Missy stutters, scratching her left arm with her right. Dana waits, less than patiently, for her to continue. “See, I was going to take it to Kersh, but then my friends knew a person who knew a person who has some healing crystals and rocks. Plus, we needed more weed and Carlos was here, and I wanted to get him some drinks… I ended up buying the first few rounds…” she trails off like a child expecting a scolding.

“You spent our rent money on booze, pot, and hippy-dippy crystals?” Dana roars, a little more loudly than expected, and heads turn to look at the pair.

“Well,” Missy starts, eyes cast downward, the weight of her poor decision hitting her like a truck. Dana sighs. “I only need to work off $200 more,” Missy adds.

“Missy,” Dana hisses in admonishment, then huffs a breath and heads towards the exit. Missy grabs her purse and follows.

Outside, the air is cool and filled with smoke. The street is a flurry of activity. Working girls hang on corners, cars zoom past, some stopping, the men inside looking for a good time.

“I’m sorry, Dana, really. But we can make it back in an evening. I mean, you can, for sure,” Missy assures her, trying to keep pace as Dana continues to walk toward the boulevard. “Dana, talk to me,” she pleads, when Dana suddenly turns around, Missy almost runs right into her.

“I can’t keep doing this, Missy. Sometimes I feel like I’m the big sister.” Missy recoils, stunned.

Dana, ignoring her sister’s obvious offense, turns on her heel and keeps walking.

“Look, Dana, when you followed me out here and then freaked out over your choice to leave home, I gave you a place to stay when you had nowhere to go. I introduced you to the right people and taught you the tricks of the trade. I take care of you the best I can,” she reminds her, playfully bumping into Dana’s shoulder.

Dana softens, stops walking, and looks at her sister, her best friend.

“I don’t need someone to take care of me, Miss, I need a sister I can count on.” She sighs heavily. “I don’t know Missy, sometimes I wonder. Is there more? There has to be more than this,” Dana says sadly.

An approaching car honks at them, the driver yelling, “How about a freebie? It’s my birthday!”

Without missing a beat, Missy fires back, “Not in a million years!” and turns her attention back to Dana. “What about getting a pimp?” Missy suggests, though she knows it’s a losing argument.

“No Missy, no pimp. All he would do is take our money and boss us around. We say who, we say when, and we say how much,” Dana reminds her, and Missy nods in understanding as soon as the words leave Dana’s mouth. “I just need to make enough money to…”

Their conversation is interrupted by a low rumbling. They turn to see a fancy silver Miata, the driver clearly appearing to be out for a leisurely stroll, not driving down a high-paced boulevard.

“Well well well, what do we have here?” Missy exclaims, looking in the direction of the car. The Miata pulls off to the side, mere feet from where they are standing. Missy turns to Dana. “You should totally go for it. You look hot tonight,” she says, a hopefulness in her voice. Dana looks over at the car, contemplating Missy’s words. After a split-second hesitation, she nods and pulls Missy into a hug. “Don’t take less than $250 and call me when you’re done,” Missy tells her sister, wrapping Dana up tight. “Be safe,” she whispers into Dana’s ear.

As Dana struts towards the car, she hears Missy yelling, “that’s it, work it, girl!” hoping to boost Dana’s confidence.

“Hey, baby. You looking for a good time tonight?” she asks, amused that his face is buried in a map.

Startled by the unexpected presence in his window, the man lifts his eyes and meets her gaze.

“I could actually use some directions,” he responds, hopeful.

“I can get you where you need to be, but it’ll cost you five bucks,” Dana flirts in a sultry voice.

“You want me to pay you to give me directions? That’s crazy,” the man retorts, incredulous.

“Well, I'm not the one who's lost. And the price just went up to ten,” Dana informs him.

He pauses a beat, looks her up and down, and nods. Dana opens the car door and slides into the passenger side.

“Do you have change for a twenty?” he asks.

Dana looks at him, snatches the bill, and replies, “For twenty I’ll take you there myself.”

The pair drive down the boulevard, Dana vocalizing directions every so often.

“This car is amazing,” Dana comments after a few minutes of silence, “is it yours?”

He glances over towards her, smiles, and replies, “Not quite.”

“Is it stolen?” Dana asks, losing sight of her flirtatious character for a moment.

The man barks out a laugh, keeping his eyes on the road.

Dana gives him some side-eye.

“What’s your name?” He asks after a minute.

“Whatever you want it to be, baby,” she replies seductively. He raises an eyebrow and Dana relents. “Dana. My name is Dana.”

“Dana,” he says, drawing out each letter sound.

“How about you?” Dana asks suddenly.

He hesitates for a moment, then says, “Fox.” Dana arches an eyebrow right back and stares at him.

“You’re kidding,” she deadpans.

Fox shakes his head. “I’ve never been a huge fan of my name. When I meet people, I usually ask them to call me by my last name, Mulder. Most people oblige. Most.”

“Well then, Mulder, it is. You can call me Scully,” she says, surprising herself. Hooking 101: you never tell clients your last name.

“Scully. I like the sound of that,” Mulder responds.

They drive a few more minutes in silence, Mulder following Scully’s directions dutifully. He steals glances at her and notices her eyeing the wheel

“You like the car?” he asks

“This car is amazing. It drives…,” she says, at a loss for words. She’s never been in anything quite so nice.

Mulder manages to navigate the car over to the side of the deserted road. “Come on,” Mulder tells her, “you drive.”

Scully’s jaw hits the ground, and she jumps over to the driver's side when Mulder vacates it. Once settled, she turns to look at him, tells him to “buckle up”, puts it in drive, and takes off. Mulder gives her a surprised look as the car glides down the road as if made of air.

“I have an older brother who was really into cars when we were younger,'' she explains. Mulder nods, quiet for a minute. “So, Mulder, you seemed uncomfortable driving. Is it the not-stolen car or not knowing your way around Los Angeles?

“My first car was a limousine,” he tells her matter-of-factly. “I’ve never had much practice driving.” After a few seconds of quiet, he adds, “I have no idea how to get myself around this city, even though I am here quite often for business”

Scully nods, not sure exactly how to respond.

After a few minutes of more silence, Mulder suddenly wonders aloud, “So, how much money do you make?”

Scully arches an eyebrow at him, but responds, “I never take less than $250.”

“A night?” he states.

“An hour” she replies. Mulder looks at her for a moment, astounded.

“What?” she asks him.

“You make over two hundred bucks an hour, and yet you have a safety pin holding your boot up?” He says, gesturing towards her footwear. Scully shrugs. “You’re joking, right?” he asks.

“I never joke about money,” she tells him, dead serious.

“Neither do I,” he admits.

The car arrives in Beverly Hills, and Scully pulls up to the curb in front of the hotel Mulder asked her to drive to. Exiting, they stare at each other awkwardly.

“Will you be ok?” he asks her, not quite knowing what else to say.

“Me? Yeah, I’ll be fine. I always am. I'll catch a cab back with my twenty bucks,” she tells him, holding up the twenty he gave her.

“Well, goodnight. And thank you,” he says, turning towards the hotel. Scully makes her way over to a bench, plopping herself down. After a minute of watching her, Mulder strides over. “No cabs?” he questions.

“I like the bus,” she explains.

Mulder looks around. The valet is looking down, attempting to mind his own business.

“$250?” he asks her.

She looks up into his hazel eyes, pauses, and nods. Mulder offers her a smile and cocks his head in a way that conveys come on

#the x files fanfic #x files #dana scully #fox mulder #au fanfiction #ok

[nuclearanomaly]

2 – Bolt

Ameliance Leveilleur knows about the comings and goings of her home, she is after all a mother.

wc. 969 (nice) | End of Endwalker | Light 6.0 Spoilers

Fire crackled in the heath as Ameliance Leveilleur sat, the needle held deftly in her hand catching in the light of the fire as she worked. Beside her in his own chair Fourchenault sat slumped, asleep, papers—presumedly Forum work—still half held in his lap. Despite the aversion of the Final Days and the fact that there was no longer the need for an Exodious the demands of the Fourm had not lightened, if anything they had only increased.

Behind the chairs the door to the room opened, the quiet sure steps that followed told Ameliance it was house staff before they appeared at her elbow. Bending low and speaking softly to not disturb the sleeping master of the house beside them.

“Pardon the intrusion my Lady, but you wished for us to inform you when the Scion Estinien next appeared in Ninira’s quarters.”

Ameliance smiled, gently setting aside her needlework as she rose from her chair.

“Would you like us to inform him to leave? ‘Tis late and—”

Ameliance cut them off by gently touching their arm, “that will not be necessary. Thank you.”  She raised a thoughtful hand to her chin, “instead I would ask for you to prepare some of the cucumber sandwiches that were served when he and Alphinaud came for tea. Have them ready to be brought to Ninira’s quarters, and a pot of tea as well.”

The housemaid bowed. 

Leaving Fourchenault and her needlework behind, Ameliance made her way up the winding stairs and through the halls of the Leveilleur estate house. Ninira’s quarters were easily identifiable by the staff member ever posted outside the door so that she retained some privacy but so there was never anyone far from her, less she finally wake. 

As she approached the house staff bowed, “Lady Ameliance. I haven’t actually looked inside.” he informed her in a quiet whisper once he’d straightened. “But I’m sure I heard the balcony door. It’s just that he flees back out through the balcony quick as anything when he hears the door open.”

“Thank you, I will handle this from here.” She responded quietly as she stepped up to the door. 

The blessed house staff, as wonderful as they were, lacked one thing, a mother’s finesse. Many a time she had asked them to check in on her children to see if they were sleeping, to be informed that they were like babes. Only to check in herself later and find them having constructed a fort of pillows and blankets, reading by lamplight. 

Silently opening doors was something that Ameliance had perfected over the years; between slipping into studies to bring Fourchenault a meal—or blanket—and leave him undisturbed, to checking in on her children when they were still small. She had had many opportunities to practice. 

Now she stood poised, hand on the handle to Ninira’s quarters and carefully, slowly, she turned it, waiting until it had pressed down as far as it would go before slowly inching the door open in silence. 

It had been at Fourchenault’s insistence that Ninira, once stable enough by the standards of Sharlyan’s best doctors, be moved to the finest of the Leveilleur guest quarters for privacy for the remainder of her recovery. So it was within a comically large room, and in a comically large bed, dwarfed by pillows twice her size that the Warrior of Light slept. Yet to wake after her harrowing journey to the edges of the universe. 

Of course doctors and Scions alike were welcome to stop in and check on her or keep her company whenever they wished, and often did. However one Scion in particular rarely came with the rest and rarely did he bother to use the estate’s front door. He sat now at Ninira’s bedside, one of Ninira’s limp hands held carefully in his own; his thumb gently caressing across the back of her bandaged knuckles. With his other, he reached to fix some of her hair that had fallen back into her face, brushing it aside before gently caressing her cheek.

Ameliance smiled as she watched. The set of his jaw, the nervous furrow in his brow. In many ways he reminded her of Fourchenault, which was probably also why she found it very endearing to see just how in love he was. 

Quite suddenly he became aware of her presence, whether he had caught her out of the corner of his eye or simply sensed her watching she would never know, regardless, he lurched to his feet. Unfortunately his sudden movement also toppled the stool he had been sitting on and as he tried to back up towards the balcony door he tripped over it sending himself and the stool crashing to the floor in a tangle of legs and furniture. Unable to help herself, Ameliance burst into laughter. 

“Now there is no need to get so worked up.” She commented lightly as she strode into the room proper. As she did Estinien reappeared from where he had fallen beside the bed so red faced and disheveled that Ameliance had to stifle another laugh.

“I apologize for startling you.” The man looked more like a caged animal, his gaze flicking between herself and the still open balcony door as she settled into a chair in the room’s accompanying sitting area. “I was informed that Ninira had a visitor, though I must say that most tend to use the front door when visiting the houses of others.” 

Estinien’s flush deepened slightly at the comment and once again Ameliance had to withhold another laugh. Instead she gestured to the other open chair across from her. “Perhaps we could keep Ninira company together? I have refreshments on the way and it would be a nice opportunity to talk without my son feeling the need to talk for you.”

#ffxivwrite2022 #ameliance leveilleur #Estinien Wyrmblood #Estinien Varlineau #estinien x wol #Ninira Nira #Endwalker #endwalker spoilers #I can not remember what term the staff of house leveilleur and I am too lazy to watch back cutscenes they are just housemaids and staff now #and all the npcs in the hall are named smh #anyway no ending bc im out of time and bc idk where this is going anymore #this has lived in my brain since EW tho #uhhhhhhhhhhhh idk too lazy to proof read again so this is what it is #writing: mine

[edgelord-dl6]

@cuttingcanine​ asked: [ WINDOW ] sender climbs through receiver’s window

   it’s a balmy summer night in LA, and Franziska von Karma has devised yet another excuse to return stateside and occupy the first-floor guest bedroom of her ‘little brother’s’ fancy duplex townhouse. Up atop a hill, the breezes reach her open window satisfyingly ( they’d better, for all the money Edgeworth had spent on this place ) and make for a peaceful night spent reading case notes on a brutal murder by lamplight--

   until the window allows something else to slink inside.

   --before she can even grab the whip still curled in her rolling suitcase like a sleeping snake, her chair is loudly toppled and her fist is around the throat of the intruder--!

oh, wait.

   “Are you INSANE?”

   “Do you think this is some foolish American cinema film, you dog-brained idiot foolish freak!?”

#cuttingcanine #|☛ globetrotting ♞ franziska roleplay | #|| HE IS WILD FOR THIS ONE #|☛ answers ♞ filed |

[storms-path]

FFXIV 2023 Day 30 - Amity

“...And so, it is my great pleasure,” Arashi managed to make it sound halfway sincere, “to introduce the esteemed Blade Hagen!” A polite ripple of applause echoed through the hall as Fareena took to the stage, looking smugger than she’d ever been and dressed in Bozja’s latest fashion.

It had all started with what should have been a good idea. A cross-cultural exchange of combat teaching between Bozja, Doma and Ala Mhigo, meant to nurture bonds between the three nations and encourage growth and diversity amongst their pupils. Arashi had entertained the idea over one too many glasses of wine with Y’sthola, Lyse and Krile, and soon one thing had led to another and letters were drafted and delivered. Doma’s response had been carefully worded, happy to hear the idea out but careful not to promise anything too much. It had her sister’s touch all over it. Bozja’s, on the other hand, had been rather more blunt.

“Swiving yes we’re doing this. I’ll see you soon.”

The response had been hand-delivered by a rather harried Hrothgar, followed mere minutes later by Fareena bursting through Arashi’s office doors and proclaiming herself guest speaker, teacher and resident arse-kicker. Arashi’s consent was apparently considered unimportant in the matter. It was an unpleasant but much-needed reminder of why, ten years after the Final Days had been averted, Arashi kept as much distance from her old adventuring companion as possible.

Fareena waited for the applause to die down and immediately launched into a long, rambling tirade about herself, her gunbreaking skills, her ability to “wipe the floor with all of you wet-eared saplings” and what inventive cruelties she would unleash on all those foolish enough to take up her offer of teaching. It sounded to Arashi like the worst possible way to advertise herself as a guest teacher, but looking over the assembled students Arashi could see the spark of interest alight in an unsettling amount of her students. I thought you were better than this!

Something in the crowd caught her eye. A familiar pair of eyes stood towards the back of the room, though not familiar for the right reasons. A large hood covered most of the figure’s face, but there was no mistaking her to someone who truly knew her. Sanda noticed her sister’s eyes on her and winked, then melted back into the shadows. How long has she been here? And why, more importantly, didn’t she just come and say hello? Arashi knew why even as she thought it. Sanda always did enjoy her little games.

Fareena seemed to be finishing up, from the way her gesticulations had slowly calmed down. Arashi resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the far-too-arrogant woman’s empty boasts. Then she felt a hand on her thigh, squeezing gently. To her left Lyse smiled sympathetically. To Lyse’s left Arashi could see the other teachers looking at anything else except for Fareena and her unending ramblings. Arashi tried to think of something encouraging to say to them, but the words died on her tongue. They’d learn to deal with Blade Hagen eventually. Or else they wouldn’t and they could collaborate on making Fareena’s stay as short as possible.

There was a sudden ripple in the crowd, a worried murmuring spreading through her students. Arashi stiffened, suddenly alert. Someone was moving towards the stage, moving with purpose. A slight figure, dressed in tight, black fabrics that covered every inch of their body. Fareena either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Lyse was already on her feet, Flowing Lily rising next to her with blade in hand. Then, in a single instant, all hells broke loose.

The figure leapt into the crowd, knives glinting in the lamplight. Aiming directly for Fareena’s throat. Just as quickly Fareena’s gunblade was ripped from her back and into her hand. Clashing against the knives with a resounding clang. The attacker leapt back into a crouch a few feet away on stage… then ripped off their mask, grinning. Fareena grinned back, extending a free hand towards her assailant. Sanda took her hand with a laugh, pulling it high into the air as the pair bowed elaborately. Arashi sunk back into her chair with a groan, barely registering Lyse making sure none of the other teachers tried to gut the headmaster’s wayward sister.

Of course they had planned this whole stunt together. Of course they had. Fareena had the crowd’s attention again, and she used it to its fullest. “You see? A good gunbreaker can stand against any foe, no matter when or how they strike! You want to learn? Then seek me out and I’ll teach you! But,” Fareena turned to gesture at Sanda beside her. “If you’d rather learn how to strike silently and swiftly at your enemies, my good friend Shinobi Washi will be glad to take you under her wing! Make your choice and make it wisely, sprouts! We’ll have you grow into adventurers yet!”

Arashi massaged her temples in a vain attempt to halt the blossoming headache. This was going to be a very long moon.

#ff14 #ffxiv #final fantasy 14 #final fantasy xiv #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2023 #arashi washi #sanda washi #fareena hagen #lyse hext #getting most of the gang back together for the final prompt #and going back to the future again #arashi thought she'd be free of fareena's bullshit when she hung up her sword #arashi was a damned fool and should have known better

[fairiesofgensokyo]

The fairy maid awakens in the middle of the night, she’s alone in a room, tucked into a bed. She remembers... cleaning windows... and... oh no. Oh no no no!

She didn’t finish!

She sits upright with a jolt and looks down, she’s not in uniform? Whose clothes are these? Wait, no, there’s no time for that, she needs to finish her cleaning! If it’s discovered that she’d gone to bed without finishing, she’ll be in big trouble! She grabs a blanket and wraps it around her shoulders, slipping out of the room.

It’s Nighttime already!

This is... one of the guest rooms? Oh no no no! Fairy maids weren’t supposed to sleep in these rooms, how did she get here? She lifts the edge of the blanket up onto her head like a makeshift hood, and quietly scampers down the halls, only the lamplight to keep her company. She goes to the corridor where she’d been working, there’s no sign of her rag and bucket, did someone put those away? Wait, the window...

The window is clean!

Did she... finish? She doesn’t remember finishing, she only remembers... a lot of pain, cold, tired, and... blackness. She looks down at her hands, they’re still red and sore from the work, she raises one to her head and finds... a bandage? Wait, did someone find her? Did someone else put her there? She looks back at the window, grimacing at the sight of some little brown smears near the bottom. When her gaze reaches the top, she realizes what has happened. The top of the window is cleaner than the rest, the part she’d missed was the more clean part! There’s only one person who could have done that.

Sakuya!

The maid falls to her knees, her face flushed with terror. If Sakuya finished it, then that means she knew she’d failed to finish it herself. She just sits there, staring up at the glass, unsure what to do next. If Sakuya knew, then it was all over, right? Was that why her uniform was missing? She wasn’t going to be a maid anymore? She can’t even remember where she lived before, what would happen to her when she got kicked out? She can’t move, she’s paralyzed by her thoughts.

#fairy maid #I leave her fate to another resident of the mansion

[nerdgirlriot]

Another whirlwind day at the parks. We only do two full days at Disneyland because we have a specific plan for what we want to do, and we always have the mindset of rolling with the punches and having contingency plans when things don't go to plan.

Yes, technically I am a Disney adult, aka a millenial or Gen-Xer with a decent amount of disposable income and a slight obsession with Disney. I know what to do, I plan ahead, I watch a lot of Disney Park Youtubers, I know what to do and where to go and how to maximize my time in the parks, all without spending anything extra on Lightning Lanes or Genie +.

You may ask, what's your secret? I say, I try to go with the flow.

We don't rope drop anymore. The last time we did was for the opening of Rise of the resistance, the Star Wars ride in Galaxy's Edge. The virtual queue required guests to physically be in the parks to use the app. Thankfully that's not required anymore. So, our usual plan is to get up at around 8am and grab the free breakfast offered by the hotel before it shuts down at 9:30. Then we wander into the park and check on stand-by wait times and if anything is under 30 minutes, we consider riding it.

This morning, we started at California Adventure, looking in the shops for all the new anniversary merch. I wish there were more Oswald the Lucky Rabbit stuff in general, though his ear hats were available. But I don't wear ear hats or ear bands at the parks. I did more searching of 100th anniversary medallions. One of the shops on Buena Vista Street had a kiosk so I bought its collection of 4, Steamboat Willie Mickey, classic Minnie, Oswald, and an image of the DCA Walt and Mickey statue.

Wandered into Cars Land and did Mater and Luigi's rides. We don't usually do Radiator Springs Racers anymore since the queue never really goes under an hour. We had a reservation at Lamplight Lounge for lunch, but we managed to squeeze in Toy Story Midway Mania before our check-in time arrived. It's been a while since I'd played, my arm got sore. I always seem to get the beaver prize for this ride.

Lamplight Lounge was just as tasty and filling as ever. We ordered steak nachos and the brussel sprout Caesar salad to share while we watched folks get launched at the Incredicoaster. Fun!

I even managed to get into the virtual queue for Runaway Railway again, at the expense of our poor server who had to repeat herself because I was too distracted by my attempt. Checked at 1pm for a 6:30pm return time. I didn't care, though because I got in!

Got stuck on the Little Mermaid ride for a surprising amount of time, right when your seashell eases down that short hill as you go "under the sea". It was long enough that my back was starting to ache from the pressure of leaning backwards. I am old.

Park hopped back to Disneyland, did Autopia and Mr. Toad again, browsed through the shops. I had a healthy amount of redemption dollars from my Disney Visa card, and I was hell-bent on getting souvenirs. In addtion to the 100th anniversary medallions, I picked up a couple of new pins, Mr. Toad in his Motor Car and Fix-it Felix and Wreck-it Ralph. Also paid for a few snacks on the points as well. Ice cream for J. and a pickle for me. Yes, I said pickle. I love the Disneyland pickles. Highly recommended if you're a pickle fan. And I am.

It was started to get really really cold and I wasn't wearing enough layers and I was considering giving up on getting on Runaway Railway and just head back to the hotel room to rest before the 9pm World of Color showing. But as we were settling into the room I got an alert saying that my boarding group for Runaway Railway was being called and I had an hour to get in line for the ride. I'm so glad I opted for a hotel across the street because we got back in record time and we were able to ride Runaway Railway again!

After that, we went back to DCA for World of Color. Had a hot link corn dog for dinner while we waited. The new WOC show is special for the 100th anniversary of the Disney company, and it's meant to show how even one person can change the course of things. It started with Walt and then every other Disney character featured sure had the HERO'S JOURNEY thing going on. I liked it, though not as much as the OG WOC show.

By the end of the night, I was freezing, I couldn't feel my fingers, so we called an end to our Disneyland adventure and headed back to the hotel room, where I had a nice long warm soak in the bathtub and started to feel human again. It got to the point where my fingers didn't have fine motor control and I got a glimpse of my future when I will be old and unable to unbutton pants without struggling. Yikes.

So, checking out of the hotel tomorrow morning, will grab breakfast and will hopefully be able to check in early at the Marriott for Gally!

Onwards.

#it's my life

[onceuponanaromantic]

fortune favours the bold

(Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial​‘s prompt: The Last House on the Left. Here you get a bit of Seph from my WIP, A Match Made in Hell’s backstory, though as per normal, no need for the context to understand this. Enjoy!)

If she wanted to pull this off, it would take everything she had ever learnt about deception.

             She squinted at the glittering lights, the bustling crowds, and ran her fingers through the pink chiffon of her skirt. The champagne-coloured draperies all over the elegant ballroom were lined with gold, all the better to catch the lights falling off the grand chandelier up above. The doors themselves were closed, with no obvious lock, but she knew better than to try them.

             After all, even if this was not declared outright, this was a celebration of her capture.

             They weren’t looking at her directly. None of the vampires were, and she had become particularly sensitive to being watched. It had only taken one slip, after all, and it had cost her everything she had fought so hard for.

             She pretended to sip from the flute in her hand, grimacing as she dripped a small amount into a plant as she swept past. The roar of conversation never rose beyond a concerted murmur, but still low enough for her not to be able to make out exactly what everyone was saying. She fought the urge to press her hands onto her ears, still unused to the added sensitivity to sound.

             “And you must be our lovely guest of honour!” She turned to look at the small woman behind her. Her eyes were dark as night and malevolent, even as she smiled with all of her white teeth and her blood-red lipstick.

             “I am.”

           The woman hooked her arm through hers, her heels narrowly avoiding her feet. “Stephanie or something, was it? It’s so nice to have you here with us.”

             “Seraphim.” The woman waved her off, the jewelled blue hem of her skirt swishing as she strode, dragging her along.

             “Can I call you Steph? It sounds so much nicer.” She grinned again, dragging her forward.

             “Actually, I was mostly wondering where the bathroom was?”

           “Oh, let me join you, I was just about to go myself.”

             She dragged her through the ballroom, looking elegant and sweet as she smiled at the other guests, but with a grip hard enough that she would have bruised if she still felt things through her skin.

             The woman continued to talk to her, trying constantly to elicit more information about her. She smiled politely, hiding her discomfort by parrying each question with all the grace of someone whose training consists of excessively nosy relatives.

             “I’ll meet you outside here, shall I? It’s so nice to have met you.” The woman darted off towards one of the toilet cubicles, her heels clacking on the marble tiles.

             She slipped off her shoes.

             She waited for the sounds of the toilet to drown her out and then she ran.

             She had only a few minutes until her absence was noticed, so she had to hope that her calculations about this place were correct. She slipped past the servant’s entrance, careful not to dirty her shoes as she murmured her own apologies, twisting between dishes and people alike.

             She closed her eyes and ran for it as soon as she got to the exit, before slowing down just outside towards the back. No doubt, they would have been told what she looked like, even if it was as a guest, which means she had to change her appearance.

             “Enjoying the party?”

           She relaxed her stride, put a smile on her face as she nodded to the security guard. He didn’t smell like the horrid iron, bitter earth scent of the other vampires, just cigarettes, so she took her chances with asking how to hail a taxi.

             The moment he turned away to go inside, she ran again.

             She knew about the sight she must be making, her chiffon dress flapping in the dark as she ran, barefoot, down dirty alleyways and through the puddles of lamplight as she took off towards somewhere they wouldn’t expect her to go.

             She reached her location quick enough, not even out of breath despite having crossed nearly half the island in an hour. Granted, if she could, others could too, but that would require them to actually understand the damn island. Which they didn’t, or they would have caught her a lot sooner.

             “Sorry, uncle, can tell me how to get to this place ah?” She stopped at a void deck, next to a stone table. The old man looked at her, squinted at the address on the tiny piece of paper she had in hand, and looked back at her. She shivered under his gaze, but stood firm.

             “You go seventh floor, turn left, last unit.” He looked her up and down again, probably wondering why she was here. “Your boyfriend ah? Don’t go right ah, they got some big dog.”

             “Thank you, uncle!” She said, before slowing her speed to something a human could reasonably run at and running off towards the lift.

             It was a gamble to hope they would still take care of her, with everything she had become. If they threw her out, she didn’t know where to go. Maybe she would try breaking into a school again and hiding somewhere. Anywhere was better than going back.

             The lift door dinged open. As she walked through the fluorescent lighting, with the chirping crickets finally registering in her ears after she relaxed from having gotten far enough away, she pressed her fingers tight enough to the bodice, adjusting it before it tore. She cursed, but gave up, finally reaching the door.

             She rang the doorbell.

             Someone yelled from inside. She waited.

             The door opened.

             “Whose delivery—Seph?”

           She looked at the tired girl wearing a school T-shirt and shorts, eyebags in full display and hair a mess, through the metal grille. “Hi, Erin. Can I come in?”

             “Sure. What the hell happened to you?”

           “A lot. But you don’t have to make any promises, I just… needed somewhere to go.”

           “Of course.”

             The door swung closed behind her.

#syl's writing #flash fiction friday #there's this bright spot before the whole Tragedy that leads to seph's presence in AMMIH happens #the last house on the left

[talesfromtheasterism]

WITNESS (VII/VIII)

cw: horror, violence, abuse. Read from the beginning here.

Six hours. Her shivering legs barely held her above the cave floor. The light and the shadows blurred together. Kneeling and panting, trying to regain her bearings in a passage with only one way forward. The pain of the brand numbed her thoughts. Every time she reached one of its pits to the abyss, she had stood for a minute, the compulsion washing over her. Walking past each time took everything she had. Maybe it was coming back for her. Maybe it was boiling up the cavern to burn more of her away. She dared not look back. Six hours.

The lamp’s reserve of blood was almost dry by the time she had shambled back to the mouth. After the lantern had flashed, the guard had heard the altercation from miles away. The battlements were deserted. None were to fight a Witness. None were to see one, or hear one, or know one exists. The walls were a symbolic comfort.

Stumbling to the opening. She wearily knelt down to take the cloak and don it over her cursed flesh. Back through the divide. Onto the dim street. Quieter than the outlands. The same pain. No need to feign a submissive gait this time. Nobody looked close enough at the cloak to see her clothing in tatters underneath. None of them would dare imagine what marked her, for their own good.

It was early evening, for lack of a better description. With no sun to rise or set, the Whisperers aligned their schedules with streetlamps lit by imagined hours, burning down their fuel to a moody, simulated night. Enough working men walked hastily back to their homes to almost resemble bustle. But the Commune’s drab gardens and greyscale brickwork were as subdued as ever. Now, with the burning on her back, all Luna could feel was disgust. There was no day or night here. Faking the transit of a sun only deepened their terror of the moonlit world around them. Denial. Reclusion. This whole city was a perverse lie to run from a painful truth. A small, flickering part of her wished that monster to sear its way past the walls and blow it all away.

The Azur household was a modest but stately abode on the crossroads edge of a long row of tenements, where the stone had weathered from a drab light to melancholy dark. But the lamplight over the door was warm. Finding it locked, she fumbled a stolen key. Father must still be at work.

Back into the soft, restraining quiet. The most timeless and least alien wood panel décor the Void’s tumorous trees could provide. Faint emerald drapes, well-maintained floorboards that hardly creaked. Candleholders of a bronze-like metal, pulled from the ground-like rock. With father’s job, they lived well enough. Before retreating to the lounge, she took some bread, and set a kettle to boil on the stovetop. Tea. What else was there to do? No doctor would tend her wounds. She left the kitchen while it steeped, lest the brand poison the leaves.

Retrieving the mug, she sat down in the plush guest’s chair, facing away from the frosted window. A slender table held father’s expensive brew in mother’s favourite cup. It was bigger than the others. She had never been allowed to drink from it. She kept the cloak on, and leaning back in the chair pressed it onto the smoothened brand, but it could hardly make the pain worse. It had settled into a fierce, homogenous ache now. The mask was a strange comfort. She pulled it down and sipped deep, ignoring her tongue burning. The quiet let her hear blood pulsing in her ears. Time to wait.

They were back before she had finished the mug. As usual, they had met outside father’s work, so that any groceries his wife had selected could be irately taken back to the seller if they weren’t up to standard. They hung their coats quietly. Father peaked from the short hall into the expansive lounge.

The family froze. Luna’s eyes didn’t have the strength left to be defiant, but she managed disinterest. The cup slowly raised, and her mask slowly lowered.

His berating ticked along its clockwork procession, jumping between derisions and disappointments with what thin relevance he cared to tie them with. His tone was low and dangerous, waiting for a protest so he could propel it to a thunderous high. Mother waited behind, casting as many concerned looks at each of them. Their taciturn daughter remained wordless, denying him an excuse. The cloak hid her deeds for now.

Nevertheless, he undid his belt, lecturing as he removed it. A little of Luna’s energy returned seeing it. When father took a fast step forward, a lot more returned. She rushed to her tired feet quicker than she thought capable. Father’s face widened when he heard the blade slide loudly from its sheath. A tirade on a proper lady exploded into a bellow, calling her bluff. Wrongly.

The leather belt, and a pinky. She misplaced the cut on purpose. As both parents screamed, their daughter was silent. Delusionally incensed, the unwounded hand lurched for the mantelpiece, but above it, the mounting was blank. The wife fainted to the floor as the man turned again to his daughter, but the daughter had turned as well. A cloak lay on the carpet, and her back was silhouetted against the window. A charge and a yell were paralysed.

Whiplashed and struggling to comprehend, he staggered back, and Luna darted forward to take his place, with years of secretly honed finesse. The acid had singed a blackened patina into the blade, but it was still sharp as she held it against the man’s jugular. This? From his own child?

Luna read his mind through his gaping eyes. A lifetime of disgust escaped her mouth. Each word a slow, twisting dagger.

“I trust you will agree, that I am no daughter of yours anymore.”

Silence.

Part 7 of 8. Next. Previous.

#asterism #tales from the asterism #creative writing #horror #fantasy world #stars #writeblr #writers #writers on tumblr #writing #fantasy

[artemisdreaming]

My fear is that in the depth of night,

The flowers will fall asleep and depart. So I light the tall candles,

To illuminate their beauty

Su Shi (1037-1101)

Image: Ma Lin, Waiting for Guests by Lamplight, 1250 Song Dynasty

From Wiki:  “Waiting for Guests by Lamplight was painted in the Song Dynasty by Ma Lin, son of famous Chinese painter Ma Yuan. Using shi i (English: poetic ideas), Ma Lin painted the evening scene based upon a poem by Su Shi. In it, a man sits in the door of a pavilion during a full moon. A gentle mood is set by soft, low-lying fog before the mountains and crabapple trees. Leading up to the building is a line of candles specially placed near the blossoming crab apple trees - to "illuminate their beauty".

#Ma Lin #Su Shi #Waiting for Guests by Lamplight #Poetry #Lit #Literature #Flowers #Song Dynasy #Asian Art #Chinese Art #Art #Art History

[honey-dewey]

Between Old Friends and New Lovers

Pairing: Shane ‘Dio’ Morrissey/GN! Vampire Reader

Word Count: 3,000

Warnings: blood, biting, mind control, but it’s all very minor.

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell​

A/N: This is my first time making a header of sorts for my fics! I quite liked how this one turned out. 

The prompt for this week’s Writer Wednesday was given, as always, by the lovely @autumnleaves1991-blog​, and the masterlists are created by @clydesducktape.

The manor was always cold. Not that you minded much, but sometimes the ever-present chill in the air drove away your guests. Again, you didn’t mind all too much. Guests were never your forte. But he, well. He was always different. 

“Your Grace?” Your lady in waiting, Camille, came into your study, bowing her head down. “You have a visitor.” 

“Is it his visiting day already?” You asked, checking your date book. 

Camille nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. It is.” 

You smiled, putting down your pen and moving from out behind your desk. “Thank you kindly Camille. Send him to the sitting room and inform him I shall be down momentarily.” 

Camille left, and you hummed to yourself, straightening out your papers and setting your pen back down next to its respective inkwell. As you worked, you reminisced on the day you had met your favorite human being. 

Two years prior

You sighed, listening to the rain slam against the windows as you worked on a few neglected pieces of paperwork. It was mostly finances, but it all had to be done, and so you were doing it. Tonight was supposed to be horribly rainy, with scattered thunderstorms and no sign of stopping until the sun rose. You didn’t mind. It made hunting harder, but you didn’t need to hunt for a while. 

A sharp bolt of lightning lit up your study, and you finally shut your accounting book, deciding your work could wait until after the storm passed. You stood, pushing your chair back in. Office work was annoying at best. You’d much rather see people in person, share a cup of tea, and continue to build your reputation as the mysterious gothic Duke/Duchess who lived almost entirely alone. But paperwork, it seemed, was easier to send, and it meant most people could avoid your often intimidating presence. 

“Camille!” You called through the manor, shutting and locking the study. “Camille?” Usually your lady in waiting was somewhere nearby, working on her own work within earshot. But now, you had to tune your hearing up past what was normal to hear Camille’s pattering heartbeat and nervous breaths. Why was Camille nervous? She’d been serving the manor for three years, she’d stopped being nervous in the old building last year. 

“Camille!” You shouted, moving towards the sitting room she was inhabiting, worried for her safety. She should’ve alerted you immediately to a guest, and you were starting to grow concerned. Her heart rate spiked, only for a moment, and you heard her rushing footsteps coming towards you. 

“Yes, Your Grace?” Camille asked, rounding the corner and looking up at you through her eyelashes. “You called?” 

You nodded, dialing back your hearing so Camille’s close voice didn’t overwhelm you. “Have we got a visitor?” 

Camille bowed her head, nodding slightly. “I was just setting him up in the sitting room,” she said quickly. “I was about to come get you as soon as he was settled.” 

Smiling at the reassurance, you began to walk to the sitting room, where Camille had just come from. “Walk with me,” you said, and Camille hurried after you. “Is the man lost?” 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Camille said, walking a pace behind you. “He said his car broke down and he saw the manor. He asked for shelter from the storm.” 

“How is he?” You asked, already envisioning the man settled in your sitting room. “Healthy?” 

Camille nodded, her face going pale. “Yes, Your Grace,” she responded. “He’s young and seemingly in good health.” 

The sitting room doors came into sight, and you smiled, turning to Camille. “How do I look?” 

“Perfect,” Camille responded, glancing at the ornate silver-backed mirror in the hall. Only she showed up, standing beside the silhouette of your clothes. You straightened your collar, running your fingers over the two neat lines of shining buttons before adjusting your gloves and pushing the sitting room door open.

Immediately, you noticed the smell. Deep and foreign, you had to dial your senses back further than you normally would to stand it. Leather and cologne and a deep internal lust mixed with the smell of the city. He was from New York City, you could practically taste it on him. He looked odd, but no odder than you, decked in all black and leather, every bit of metal on him glimmering in the low lamplight as he moved. You took a breath, but no silver. You were safe. 

Looking the man up and down, you tried to silently determine whether he was one of you. You knew that the younger generation preferred to stay in cities, and called themselves goth in order to maintain the aesthetic. But despite his unique, timeless features, the man smelled organic and human, and you could hear his heart beating, a steady constant in the back of your hearing. 

Your guest stood, and you smiled politely. “Welcome,” you said sweetly, clasping your hands in front of you. “I apologize for not welcoming you to the manor myself.” 

The man smirked, looking you up and down. “No problem,” he said smoothly. “Nice place.” 

“Thank you.” You sat in a chair in front of the fireplace, crossing your legs and gesturing for your guest to sit beside you. “Family estate. Would you like a fire?” You noticed the man was wet, and you assumed he’d been caught in the storm. 

“I wouldn’t mind one,” the man agreed, and you gestured Camille over. 

“Camille, would you mind starting a fire?” You asked. “And when you’re done, I would love some tea.” 

Camille nodded, exiting the room and leaving you alone with your guest. 

“May I have your name?” You asked politely, turning your full attention to the man. 

He nodded. “You can call me Dio.” 

“Dio.” The name turned over like a fine wine on your tongue. “A bit of a presumptuous nickname, don’t you think?” 

Dio raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said slowly, in a tone that told you he knew exactly what you meant. 

You stood, moving to stand in front of the fireplace. “I mean, calling yourself a god. Albeit in a different language, but still. Even I wouldn’t go that far.” 

“Even you?” Dio questioned, leaning back in his chair. “Explain.” 

“Well.” You gestured around at the ornate sitting room, at the dark embroidered seat cushions and the deep wooden surfaces surrounding you. “It does seem rather on brand for someone of my status, does it not?” 

Dio’s smirk returned. “Of course,” he said, digging through his pockets and pulling out a box of cigarettes. “Instead you call yourself Duke/Duchess.” 

“It would be improper of me to not,” you pointed out. “It is, in fact, my title. You, however, have no title, Shane Morrissey.” 

Dio’s face went pale and the cigarette dropped from between his fingers, hitting the carpet below his feet with almost no noise. “How-“ 

At that moment, Camille pushed the door open, rolling in a cart with firewood and a tea tray. While she busied herself with the fire, you sat back down, taking Dio’s cigarette from the floor, lighting it on Camille’s match and handing it back to the stunned man. “I usually don’t allow guests to smoke,” you said casually. “But I suppose I can make an exception. Just this once.” You pushed an ashtray across the table, smiling. “You were saying?” 

Dio blinked, wide eyed. “How do you know-“ 

“Your name?” You finished for him, accepting an empty teacup from Camille and nodding to her when she set the tray on the table and left once more. “I could see your identification card in your pocket when you reached for your cigarettes. But if you would prefer to be referred to as Dio, I will do so.” 

Dio seemingly relaxed. But he was still on edge as you poured yourself some tea. 

“It’s a lovely black currant tea, if you’re interested,” you said, not even looking up as you poured the thick black tea into your cup. “I see Camille brought two cups.” As you spoke, you took the cream jug and poured a splash into your tea, setting the jug aside from the rest of the set. “I promise it isn’t poison,” you added sweetly, taking a sip of your tea. 

Despite your humorous remark, Dio still seemed cautious, waiting until you had taken a sip to pour himself a cup of tea. He didn’t add sugar, simply sat back and cradled the cup in his hands. You wondered if he was still cold. But the fire was going and you could feel it warming your skin, even if the feeling of warm and cold were long since lost to you. 

“So, Dio,” you said, watching Dio take a sip of his tea. “You live in the city, don’t you?” 

“Yes.” Dio’s voice was guarded, hesitant. He was scared of you. 

You hummed, nodding to yourself. “I haven’t seen the city,” you admitted. “Do you enjoy it?” 

Dio shrugged. “It’s alright.” 

You sighed. “Dio,” you said firmly, forcing his attention to snap to you. “Do I scare you?” 

“What?” Dio asked, surprised. “I mean.” His eyes went glassy as you waved your hand, forcing him to tell the truth. “Yes.” 

“Why?” 

Dio’s hand shook, spilling tea over his skin. “I-“ he faltered, blinking a few times, face pulling tight. “I don’t know.” 

You waved your hand again, releasing Dio from your hold. “Maybe I should explain,” you said, standing and setting your cup down. “I am (F/N) (L/N), sole heir to my name and the last remaining Duke/Duchess of this land. I have held my title and estate for over twelve decades, and I am a vampire.” 

Dio was silent, so silent you had to wonder if you had broken him. But eventually, he nodded slowly, setting his cup down. “Okay,” he said softly. “Okay.” 

“You’re not dreaming,” you added helpfully. “Nor is this a hallucination caused by the tea.” 

“Yeah,” Dio agreed quietly. “What about Camille, is she?” 

“Oh of course not!” You said, sitting back beside Dio and picking up your cup again. “No, we don’t keep preternatural staff anymore. Her family has been in service to my family since long before I was born, and she seemed happy enough to have the job once I reached out. I do pay quite well.” 

“Anymore?” Dio wondered out loud. “Tell me more about vampires. I want to know.” He leaned forward in his seat, and you grinned. It was rare you revealed yourself to a guest and were met with anything less than terror. But Dio seemed downright enthused. So you poured yourself a new cup of tea, adding a generous amount of cream this time, letting Dio see that it was not cream, but blood.

“Well. Where to start?” You mused. “I come from a long line of vampires, one of the longest in fact. My family, my bloodline if you will, was once well respected, but during the witch hunts, most of my kind died out. My mother survived and lived in this manor, alone, for centuries until she found me. I was lost, a wandering child, and she took me in and cared for me, turning me when the time was right.” 

“So where is she?” 

“Long dead,” you said, peeling your gloves off and setting them aside. “I’ve been the master of this estate for, oh, I guess it must be almost ninety years now. Yes, I inherited it during the depression.” 

Dio nodded, his cigarette long since forgotten in the ashtray. “So, how do you survive? How much blood do you need? Are you like Dracula? Do you have any powers? What-“ 

“Dio!” You cut him off with a raised hand and a chuckle. “I cannot possibly answer your every burning question right now.” You stood, looking out over the storm, which was fading. “Here. Let us make a deal. I will send you home safely, with no complications, and in turn, I will entertain you once a month, on the first Saturday, and I will answer one question. Only one, until you are satisfied.” 

Dio nodded, glancing out the window. “How do I know you aren’t just messing with me about the vampire thing?” He asked softly. 

You smiled. “Come with me.” 

He followed you out into the hall, where you guided him to the mirror just outside the sitting room. “Look,” you said, gesturing to the mirror. “It’s an old heirloom. Silver-backed, so I don’t appear in its surface.”

Dio gently reached out, touching the mirror with feather-light fingers. “You’re not,” he breathed. “It’s real.” 

“It is,” you agreed. “Now, get going Dio. I’ll see you in one month. Don’t be late.” 

Two years later

You opened the sitting room doors, seeing Shane sitting in his usual spot, right by the fireplace. He was already cradling his teacup, your cup sitting on the table, perfectly set up to your liking. 

“Shane!” You said happily, and Shane stood, allowing you to hug him tightly. “You’re on time.” 

“When am I not?” Shane asked, pulling away and sitting back down. “Shall we?” 

You laughed. “We shall.” 

Your cup was full to the brim of blood, no tea this time. It was a feeding day, and as much as you hated it, Shane promised he didn’t mind. 

“Actually,” you decided, setting your cup down without taking a sip. “Perhaps we should do this a different way.” 

“What do you mean?” Shane asked, worried. “Did I make it wrong? Camille brought me the teapot. She said it was your favorite.” 

You shook your head. “No Shane,” you said. “You’re perfectly good. In fact.” You stood, offering him your hand. “You’re more than good.” 

Standing, Shane let you lead him to the window, looking out over your night-darkened estate. “I don’t understand.” 

“I don’t want some stranger’s blood,” You purred softly, pushing Shane’s shirt collar down. “I want you, Shane. I want to taste you on my tongue, to have your life filling my belly and making me warm.” 

Shane gulped, his skin heating. “Really?” 

“Would I lie?” You asked, almost pouting. “My love, I would never. Say the words, and I will make you feel amazing.” 

Nodding, Shane put a hand to the window to brace himself. “I give you permission,” he said, voice wavering. “You may feed from me.” 

You smiled, putting your mouth to his neck and kissing, trailing to the perfect spot. He shivered, moaning softly when you nipped at the tender flesh of his neck. Curving your lips up at the shameless sounds you were eliciting from Shane, you finally found the sweet spot and dug your fangs in. 

If you thought Shane was vocal when you were just teasing, you were in for a surprise. As you lapped at the blood pooling on Shane’s skin, he writhed under you, moaning and breathlessly whining your name, both hands pressed fully to the window to keep stable. You licked a warm stripe up the curve of Shane’s neck, chuckling as he breathed heavily. “Do you like that, my love?” 

“Yes,” Shane gasped out. “Yes, I do, Your Grace.” 

You hummed, running a finger through the smeared blood and turning Shane around so he could see you suck his blood off your finger. “You taste exquisite,” you moaned around your finger. “So perfect.” You moved in again, licking up the last of the blood. 

Shane breathed loud against you, his breath disturbing your hair as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. “More,” he begged as you pulled away. “Please.” 

“No more my love,” you said, wiping your mouth on a nearby towel. “I will not push you, especially on your first feeding.” You gently pressed the towel to Shane’s skin, occasionally pulling it away and checking on the wounds. Two perfect little puncture holes, still seeping the tiniest bit, marred Shane’s smooth skin. “I’ll call Camilla, have her clean you up properly.” 

While you two waited for Camilla, you lay beside the fireplace, Shane laying in your lap as you held a book, reading aloud to him and stroking gently through his hair. 

“I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under the lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck, she actually licked her lips like an animal.” You smiled, flicking the page and watching Shane’s eyes slide closed. “Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat,” you read softly, urging Shane to sleep, to rest as you read. 

Camille came in, carrying a tray of healing supplies. You gestured for her to leave them on the table, and she did, smiling at the sight of Shane in your lap before she ducked out of the room. 

“My love?” You asked, laying the book down and grabbing the bandages. “My love, may I see your neck?” 

Shane reflexively turned, showing you the side of his neck you’d fed from. You carefully dressed the wound, humming to yourself as you did so. 

“I never got a question today,” Shane murmured, startling you. 

“Oh.” You set down the roll of bandages, carding through Shane’s hair again. “What do you wish to ask today?” 

Shane leaned into your hands, grinning slightly. “Can I be your boyfriend?” He asked softly. “In a strictly non-vampire way.” 

You smiled, nodding. “Of course, my love,” you answered. “Of course.” 

As Shane’s eyes fluttered shut once more, you picked up the book, determined to finish at least this chapter. With Shane in your embrace and the warmth of the fire surrounding you, you continued to read your newly christened boyfriend to sleep. “I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited—waited with a beating heart.”

#NYPD Blue #shane 'dio' morrissey #dio morrissey #dio morrissey x reader #dio morrissey x you #Pedro Pascal #My writing #writer wednesday