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#what a righteous way to get some views

maschotch · 1 year

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You mentioning the fact that they're profilers is so real bc like it honest to god ASTOUNDS me how badly they all read hotch like he so so so so clearly cares for every member of the Bau WAAYYY more than he cares for him self and he's literally never shown otherwise??? Like even the whole drill boss stuff or whatever tf he said he's never aggressive with the group if they mess up he's always understanding but fair and most is pretty much the first one to comfort them (if the script allows) UNLESS he's going through some shit IE the whole divorce plot and foyet AND IT BAFFLES ME HOW EVERYONE FUCKING MISSES IT CONSIDERING ITS THEIR J O B

they’re all kinda bad at profiling each other but istg they have to TRY to understand hotch so poorly… i’m trying to think of a moment where he yells at them when they’re not directly putting themselves in danger or in the immediate aftermath of him getting attacked in his fucking home, but i cant think of anything?? he doesnt like being harsh with them and he learns the hard way with the elle situation that it doesnt get them anywhere. the only time he was unduly upset w someone was with emily in the beginning and that’s only bc he thought she was either a nepotism hire (which she kinda was) or a plant for strauss (which she kinda was)

he’s “strict” but like?? is he?? he does half their paperwork for them and they dont even know it. instead of doing things by the book and getting reid fired, he turned the other way and let him work through his drug problem. maybe he says “no” sometimes, but he usually relents anyway—like when jj has a feeling ab a case or when he calls the fucking vatican for emily. if he was a drill sergeant, would he let garcia keep a bunch of clutter on her desk and dress in bright clothing?? he doesnt coddle them or anything bc that’s not really his personality, but he’s gentle w them and even praises them when he knows they need it. he doesnt always step in and help when he should (i think that honestly has more to do w him being self conscious than anything—he doesnt want a drill sergeant/bully to make things worse), but he keeps a close eye on each of their wellbeing and will quietly urge one of the others to help out if someone’s in a tough spot

sure he doesn’t smile a whole lot and he’s known for his perpetually neutral face, but at the same time it’s not very hard to tell how he’s feeling. he’s effective at his job, he’s good at playing the tough guy, but tbh he let’s things get to him easily. he takes their criticism to heart and does his best to be better. he HATES seeing any of them hurt: ever notice how after what happened with elle he never uses his own agents as bait like that again? he either uses himself (like the fight club episode) or one of the team volunteers and he relents (like emily in the omegaverse swingers episode). they misread his social awkwardness as being cold when really i think he’s just mildly uncomfortable being the center of attention in an unprofessional setting.

it’s wild to me how frequently they misjudge him. i think he kinda knows and almost encourages it?? while still considering their judgements genuine?? morgan is a great example: of all his subordinates, morgan has worked with him the longest, since before he was in charge of the team. so you’d think morgan would have the best insight. but morgan has a complicated relationship w authority figures and tends to be automatically defensive out of habit. essentially, he’s been projecting on hotch since day one and has been blinded by the convoluted series of lenses he sees hotch through: as a constantly rotating mixture of buford, stilinski, and his father. it’s prevented him for actually seeing hotch for who he is, and hotch seems to make no real effort to correct any of those presumptions. but hotch still takes it personally when morgan criticizes him (prob bc it feeds his own negative view of his self worth and uses it as justification for whatever self loathing bullshit he’s on)

basically, hotch knows everyone has skewed perceptions of him and is fine letting their delusions continue uninterrupted—encourages it, even. he’s more comfortable receiving scathing remarks, even if they’re inaccurate, bc it allows him to continue his own delusion ab his place in the world. if they hate him (or if he thinks they hate him), it gives him a reason to hate himself. which is why i think he kinda likes that they’re bad at profiling him. it’s a way to receive that negative attention without actually being vulnerable. it’s a very very passive manipulation—more like he’s allowing them to manipulate themselves—that feeds his self loathing. i think he does it on purpose, so i cant necessarily fault the others for so drastically misunderstanding hotch. especially since they do get better at it over the seasons: they’re able to see through his defense mechanisms a little more, even if they still cant see him clearly

#this is getting kinda long lol and this is technically unrelated so i’ll just say it in the tags:#i think they start getting better at reading him after season 6?#to an extent i think they’re a little aware that they arent seeing hotch clearly #he’s cultivated an odd sense of.. moral superiority? almost? he’s an upstanding guy.. almost otherworldly in his principles #so i think when he BREAKS those principles—lying about emily—purposefully irrevocably unregretably undeniably #their image of him shatters a bit #he’s more.. human #humans make mistakes. humans have weaknesses #even after foyet he was pretty fucking stoic all thing considered. but it’s easy to brush off as a single moment #but the whole thing with emily?#he CHOSE to lie to them. every day. for months #and the fact that they’re suddenly able to be justifably upset with him… making him the target of righteous anger…#idk. it just. it breaks their trust but it also breaks their delusions #he’s not better than them. he’s not at some unattainable moral high ground #he’s just… a guy trying his best. and sometimes his best isnt good enough #he makes a decision thats so out of left field for them that theyre forced to reconsider how they view him #and maybe they realize he’s more comfortable lying than they thought #N E WAY #what were we talking about? lol #asks #aaron hotchner

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kitkatscabinet · 6 months

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Nothing fucks with my baby

Simon Riley x wife reader

Summary: Simon is the Earth orbiting your sun and he'll do anything to keep you safe and happy, even if that means resorting to bloody means.

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: attempted non-con (not by Simon)

@ghosts-cyphera for you pookie, hope you enjoy!

Eight months. It’s been eight long, tortuous months since Simon saw you in person. Eight months of living off brief Skype calls interrupted by work schedules and shitty internet cutting out mid-call, an age since he’s touched you. Since he’s breathed in your scent and cradled you against his muscular chest, since he’s tasted you. Pictures of you weren’t enough, even if you’d gifted him a set of delectable Polaroids showcasing your gorgeous body decorated with black and white lingerie.

Long deployments had never bothered him, not until you’d become the central part of his life. Simon was the Earth, orbiting your sun reverently and fervently. He’d worship you on his knees for eternity if that’s what you desired.

His appetite for you has always been ravenous, but his need for you has been greatly nourished after months of no contact. The door to your shared home swings open with a bang, the anticipation coursing through his veins diminishing his control in a way he knows you’ll scold him for. His bag is dropped carelessly in the foyer as he stalks through the space, a man on a mission to find you. Not even the weary exhaustion after months of shit sleep and shared communal spaces would deter him from his mission.

You’re not in your home office or the bedroom and Simon’s frustration simmers under his skin as he marches straight back out the door. It’s only the knowledge that you’ll be devastated to have missed his surprise homecoming that tempers his annoyance.

Ghost is beyond irritated by the time he arrives at your work, not necessarily at you, he knows how seriously you take your career, it’s one of the reasons he was so drawn to you. Once some lowly private had made a snide remark about you being the breadwinner, scoffing at Simon for letting his wife ‘emasculate’ him like that. It was only Price playing damage control that kept him from a dishonourable discharge that day. He had no regrets, especially after the incident taught people to keep your name out of their mouths.

It’s late, well past working business hours when he keys into the building using the code you’d given specially for him. So it shouldn’t surprise him how empty it is, most of the lights turned off as he made his way to your office, but Simon hadn’t survived over a decade in the military without learning to trust his gut. A distinct uneasiness settles in his body, narrowed eyes surveying the space for anything out of the ordinary as he increases his pace to get to you.

The light in your office is on, the door is left open carelessly and gives Simon a clear view of the sight of you bent over your desk trying not to cry as a man holds a gun to your head and fumbles with your sleek dress pants. Simon thought he knew rage, but any anger he’s ever felt is drowned in comparison to the sheer righteous fury that alights his veins.

He closes the gap in record time, red filtering out the corners of his vision and spraying over his knuckles as he rips the interloper away and viciously lays into him. Any slurred words pleading for mercy are ignored and shut down as Simon’s fist renders the man’s mouth an inoperable bloody mess.

His arm aches furiously by the time he pulls back, chest heaving with breaths that have long since been silenced from the scumbag that now lay dead on the floor of your office. It’s the sound of your shaky sobs that pulls Simon back from the brink, immediately darting towards you, shaky hands stained with blood cradling you against his bulk gently.

He’s vibrating with an explosive cocktail of fury, fear, outrage and relief. You press yourself tighter against his chest like you’re trying to burrow into the safety of his ribcage. Simon can’t bring himself to speak, mouth dry and tongue heavy as he buries his face into the top of your head. The silence is broken by the shaky inhales of your rattling breaths and sobs.

All too soon you’re pulling away, even when he fights to keep you safe and sound against his chest. “Simon? What… what’s going to happen with-” You try and turn your gaze towards the corpse staining your carpet but Simon prevents you with a hand grasping your jaw, preventing you from getting a glimpse at the carnage.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head darling, I’ll take care of it. But first, let's get you home yeah?” He walks you from the building to your car with a supportive arm wrapped around your shoulders, tucking you against his side before sliding you into the passenger seat of your car. It’s a testament to how shaken you are that you don’t protest, remaining silent and clutching the hand that grasps your thigh like a lifeline.

It doesn’t take long to tuck you into bed, wrapping you tightly in the blanket like it will protect you from the horrors of the outside world. The adrenaline had faded from your body making way for the exhaustion. Simon doesn’t leave your side until he’s sure the clutches of sleep have pulled you under, and even then, it's with extreme hesitation that he stands and leaves the bedroom, reaching for his phone to make a call.

Luckily, you don’t wake even once in the hours that follow as he waits for news of the cleanup. He spends that time alternating between checking in on you, watching you breathe peacefully and pacing the linoleum floors that you’d insisted on.

A single knock on the front door pulls him from the spiral of thoughts that threatened to pull him further and further into darkness. He opens the door to an unimpressed Price, who pushes his way in with Gaz and Soap trailing after. Expectantly he stares at them, watching as Price lights a cigar and takes a long drag.

“It’s done. Did you have to make such a mess though son?” It’s an innocuous enough comment but one that raises Ghost’s hackles anyway and he shoots a venomous glare at his captain that would never have been acceptable in any other circumstances. His shoulders tense and it takes everything in him to keep his voice somewhat level.

“That fucker laid his hands on my wife!” He inhaled shakily as he remembered what he’d almost been too slow to prevent, unable to prevent the rise of volume as he yelled at his captain, “My wife! He’s lucky I didn’t paint the room with his insides!” The baritone of his booming snarl is loud enough that even Soap flinches slightly with widened eyes.

There’s a tense silence but his captain nods, something like approval in his gaze before his eyes slide towards the right and Simon turns just in time to witness you call his name, voice hoarse with sleep and eyes red from tears.

He crosses the space and curls you against him in record time, nonchalantly throwing a dismissive wave towards his team who simply nod in understanding and file back outside. “Were those the boys? You didn’t have to kick them out” you murmured though Simon was already hushing you, leading you back to bed with a firm hand on the small of your back.

“Don’t worry ‘bout them lovie, they were leavin’ anyway” he waved away your concerns, finally kicking off his shoes, trapping you in his arms and pulling you down onto the mattress. You squeak at his actions, giggling as his stubble tickles the skin of your neck.

Despite how pent-up and desperate for your touch he is, Simon makes no move to escalate the situation, settling you in his arms and simply breathing you in. Neither of you speak about the earlier incident, not willing to shatter the peace. Though Simon lets out the occasional hum when your hands trace gentle circles over his heart, focusing on the steady beat of his pulse beneath your palm.

Inevitably the lingering emotions of the day would have to be dealt with, but not yet, Simon would allow himself to relish in the peace just a little longer.

#x reader #cod mw x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #kat’s writing #cod simon riley #simon riley

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snek-eyes · 9 months

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I keep thinking about what slotting the Job sequence in between the Flood and the Crucifixion does for Crowley’s arc, and his relationship to both Aziraphale and heaven.

@amuseoffyre did a great analysis of the importance to Aziraphale's arc here that sparked this thought, but it sent me down a rabbithole because A+C are both having very different experiences here.

Compare how Crowley bounces up to Aziraphale at the flood vs how standoffish he is when the angel shows up to the Job situation. Aziraphale is the one who's all friendly, "Oh it's you!" while Crowley... is pretty businesslike, at least until he gets the chance to start rubbing the reality of the situation in the angel's face.

The flood pissed Crowley off. Job is the first time we start to see the more bitter Crowley we'll get to know. In the Garden he was bemused about overreactions and almost having fun poking this angel with questions about God's plans. Beginning of the flood sequence he was pretty playful. This whole earth thing hasn't been so bad so far, and oh here's that weird angel again, that's fun.

But then he gets hit with God turning on their creation without warning, again. And the flood was at least in God's name ("That's more the type of thing you'd expect my lot to do," he said. Wasn't heaven supposed to be the good guys?). But now with Job? God turns their back and just... doesn't stop hell. Heaven's hands stay clean while hell dirties their evil little claws. Oh, so this is how things are, Crowley realizes. This is the part he's meant to play. Fine.

And seeing how he acts here... I can't help but feel like he'd mostly given up on Aziraphale after the flood. After Crowley went, "Wtf, this is clearly an atrocity," and Aziraphale stuck to "You can't judge the Almighty!" ...well. Giving away the flaming sword was probably a fluke. Just another tool of heaven, that one. Disappointing, but what should he have expected?

So all through their Job interaction he plays up his demonicness, trying to force Aziraphale to toe the party line and prove Crowley's new view on things right, once and for all. But there is a crack there, because not-so deep down Crowley would love for Aziraphale to surprise him again.

(After all... he is lonely. Try some wine with me, or have an ox rib, angel.)

(Fascinated by the difference in Crowley's gleeful "That's just how it started for me, see you in hell" vs. "I'm not taking you to hell, Angel. I don't think you'd like it." And only admitting to the loneliness once he isn't totally alone anymore; I think the original lie was more to himself than anything. He's angry, he's bitter, these righteous angels shouldn't think they're any better than him, not when they can doubt too. But when it comes down to it? No, I don't actually want to drag you all the way there. Something about guns and miraculous escapes, and his comment about Wee Morag, it's different when it's someone you know, isn't it. Hm. Anyways.)

By the end of the Job situation they have a moment where they confirm they are more similar than they thought. But it's not a happy thing. It won't be until Rome when they start enjoying each other's company just for the sake of it. So at the crucifixion Crowley comes up to Aziraphale still prodding at him. You happy about this, Angel? You smirking over how righteous it is? But now instead of, "You can't judge the Almighty," we get "I'm not consulted on policy decisions." Implying he disagrees without really saying it. And that's enough for now, Crowley will take it.

From the flood -> Job -> crucifixion -> Rome, we see Crowley get angry, then more and more resigned and bitter. Until Aziraphale reaches out and pulls him out of it.

#i like how the Job sequence both shakes things up and doesn't at the same time #it's not totally necessary to make the arc work but the context helps you understand so much more #good omens #good omens meta #good omens 2 #good omens spoilers #crowley #v watches good omens #job flashback

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kitten4sannie · 2 months

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ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ᴀᴅᴊᴜꜱᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ

ᴀɢᴇ ɢᴀᴘ/ᴀᴜʀᴀʟɪꜱᴍ ➠ ʏᴇᴏꜱᴀɴɢ

pairing: personal trainer! yeosang x fem! reader

genre: pure smut

summary: you love your weekly visits with your personal trainer. he always stretches you out just right.

w.c: 2.4k

warnings: mean(ish) dom! yeo, sub! reader, 15 year age gap, seduction, teasing, sir kink, dirty talk, praise/degradation, pet names/name calling, auralism, groping, half dressed kink ig?, oral (receiving), fingering, squirting, cumming untouched, brief deep throating, unprotected sex on a yoga mat, creampie

a/n: i done lost it guys TT just imagining having messy sex with mean dilf yeo somehow adds and takes off ten years of my life at the same time like some pemdas shit aughhh… i hope you enjoy this filthy mess <33

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ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ ʙʏ ᴅᴏᴍɪɴɪᴄ ꜰɪᴋᴇ

0:01 ❍─────── 4:28

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ᴘʀᴇᴠ | ꜰꜰꜰ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ | ɴᴇxᴛ

“What do you mean you’re breaking up with me?” you gasped into your phone, holding a hand against your chest, personally offended that your boyfriend of six months would suggest such a thing. “And what about my personal trainer? He’s like fifteen years older than me. Baby. You really think I would do that to you?”

“Y/N, I’ve seen him with my own eyes. I know you’re fucking him, and I’m over it. It’s over,” your boyfriend repeated into your ear, just ripping the bandaid off then and there.

“You can’t do that. We’re not breaking up,” you scoffed, wrapping a lock of your hair around your finger, your lips forming a pout. “Babyyy, come on, you’re being so dumb right now.”

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he quickly said, before hanging up.

“Ugh.” Pissed off, you tossed your phone onto your canopy style bed, knocking one of your limited edition plushies off and onto the carpeted floor in the process. You turned to your full length mirror, glaring back at your scrunched-up face, your hands formed into fists near your tiny tennis skirt. “If he thinks I’m fucking my personal trainer, then I’ll fuck my personal trainer, alright.”

And so, your petty, self-righteous plan of spiteful revenge was set. You were a smart girl. You knew exactly what to do to get your ridiculously sexy personal trainer to break his professional and moral codes. All you had to do was wear something impossibly tight without anything underneath and moan a little louder when he was stretching you out. It was as simple as that. Right?

࿏࿏࿏

Yeosang was everything a woman desired, all the way down to his persistent ability to respect them. He respected you, almost too much in your opinion. Here you were bent over in a ‘stretching position’ right in front of him, wearing a too-tight pair of gray leggings and the tiniest sports bra known to man, knowing damn well he could see the way you had your tits all pushed together for his viewing pleasure in the mirror, yet his eyes remained on yours.

“How does it feel, Y/N? Are you tight anywhere like last time?” Yeosang asked, his voice, like dripping honey, filled your body with a comforting warmth. He studied your stretching form, one hand to his scruffy chin, the other on his hip.

Your knees trembled slightly underneath you, urging you to return to a resting position, eventually sitting on your knees. You looked up to him, your eyelids lowering slightly, a pout on your glossy lips. “Really tight, yeah. I think I need help, Yeo…”

“Then, I need you to lay down on your back for me,” he replied in a soft, though stern tone that made your cunt pulse, getting down onto his knees beside you with a small grunt. “Show me where, Y/N. You can do that, yeah?”

Just as you laid down on the yoga mat, a fresh wave of slick slipped out of you. Damn him. He should be getting worked up over you, not the other way around. How would it be an act of petty revenge if you were soaking wet just from hearing your personal trainer’s absurdly sexy voice?

“Nnngh, it’s right here…” you exhaled, feeling out your stiff hips, looking up at him past your lashes. “I need some stretching out, I think.”

“Mm, I see. Well, let’s get you taken care of,” Yeosang nodded as his lips curled up into a somewhat mischievous smile, positioning himself so that he was in between your spread legs, wrapping his hands around one of your thighs and gently pushing it down towards your body, causing you to gasp. “Just relax for me, sweetheart…that’s it…”

You were about to lose your mind, trying harder and harder not to let out a pornograhic moan the more Yeosang pushed his body weight onto you, your lower halves practically flush together. You wondered if he could feel how wet you were through your leggings, knowing there were no panties to catch your slick. “Yeosang…fuck…”

Yeosang pushed down a little further, nodding his head apologetically. “I know, sweetheart, I know it hurts, but it’ll be worth it,” He gave you a charming smile, his fingers squeezing into the flesh of your thigh, pushing you down further, until the ache of your muscles matched the ache inside your cunt. “Still hurts?”

“No, it feels good now, keep going, Yeo,” you sighed out, your eyes glazing over with lust, gently running your hand over his, sensing a hint of desire when it began to peer through Yeosang’s own lingering gaze, his hands moving towards your other thigh, beginning to give it the same treatment.

“That’s good, though you still feel really tight,” Yeosang pointed out, pressing your other thigh down against your body, leaning his body weight on you just enough to drive you mad, you cunt clenching around nothing. His other hand slipped around your opposite hip, expertly massaging around with his calloused fingers. “Mm, you’re almost there. Just a little more…”

“Yes, sir,” you sighed out, swearing you heard Yeosang’s breath get caught inside his throat just as soon as you felt something hard and heavy forming against your lower abdomen, hoping you weren’t just imagining it with your overheated brain. “It’s just so hard, Yeo…be gentle…”

Yeosang bit into his bottom lip, coming to terms with your current shared predicament, wondering if you were both on the same page, but not fully knowing if he should cross several professional boundaries or not. Regardless, here he was, already pressing his stiff cock into his very young, very horny client’s cunt through her soaked leggings. What did he have to lose?

“Gentle, huh?” he chuckled deeply, pulling back slightly to admire the sight of your soaked cunt through your slick-stained leggings. “Sure you don’t want it rough, considering the way you’ve been dripping for me this entire time?” He ran two fingers down the legging seam that separated your puffy folds, rubbing them into your clit, making you let out another gasp. “Thought you could hide this from me, did you? I could feel how wet you were getting…”

“Fuck– Nooo, Yeo, I just wanted you to see it for yourself,” you answered whinily, spreading your legs open just a little wider, grabbing at the waistline of your leggings to make the shape of your cunt more pronounced, your pout returning. “Do you like it, sir?”

“Jesus, of course I do. My slutty little client shows off her wet cunt and thinks I wouldn’t like it? Huh? Did you think I would be able to hold myself back?” Yeosang shook his head out of disbelief of his insane luck, taking his time running his calloused fingers up and down your clothed slit, admiring the way the material formed to the shape of it.

Fuck it. You were too desperate now to reclaim any semblance of control over the situation, your act of personal revenge long forgotten, your mind only having enough space in it to think about Yeosang and getting used by him.

“I did it because I want to be your slut, Yeo. Please? Can I? I’ll be so good for you.” You began to move your hips along with his movements, in desperate need of more friction, more pleasure at your disposal, begging him with your glistening doe eyes.

“Of course you can be my little slut, princess. You already are. I mean, just look at you, whoring yourself out for your personal trainer like this,” Yeosang groaned out, just as he lifted your ass up into the air by your hips, licking his lips. “I’ll make you mine, sweetheart.” And with that, he tore your leggings open just enough to expose your leaking cunt, leaning down slightly to take a deep inhale of your warm, flowery scent. “God, you’re completely soaked for me, Y/N. You’ve been wanting this so bad, haven’t you? Just dreaming about my tongue inside this tight hole of yours, huh?”

“Yess, oh my god, please eat me out, Yeo, I’m begging,” you squeaked out from below him, already teary-eyed, ready to beg on your knees for the older man’s attention if you had to.

Yeosang took an experimental lick up your cunt, already collecting enough slick inside his mouth for him to swallow down happily, idly working your clit with two agile fingers. “Do you play with your little clit like this before you go to sleep and think of me, Y/N?” he asked huskily against your cunt, beginning to lap at your leaking hole, teasing it with his tongue. “Huh? Do you think about me stretching you out with my tongue? With my cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you moaned, just as Yeosang’s tongue fully slid inside you to rub at your inner walls, tongue-fucking you in a ravenous manner, his fingers still flicking at and squeezing your clit, your juices dripping down the lower-half of his face. “Fuck…! Yeosang…!”

“Uh-huhhh…” he moaned into you, sending pleasurable vibrations through your cunt, eventually replacing his tongue with two more fingers, fucking you so quickly, you couldn’t even get a chance to breath. “That’s it, baby, you’re so close, aren’t you? Going to squirt for me, yeah? Is my slut going to cum all over my face?”

“Yes–fuck, Yeo–” you could barely call out, your muscles tightening suddenly, your lower half pulsing more and more until you let out an involuntary cry, clear liquid squirting out of you and pouring onto Yeosang’s face, spilling onto the yoga mat, and soaking into the material of your torn leggings, some dripping along your abdomen.

“Oh my god, that’s a gooood girl, look at you…” Yeosang praised shakily, gently slurping up your squirt from your twitching cunt, moaning into it, his softening cock resting against his cum-covered inner thigh. “What a good little slut you are, Y/N.”

“Good enough for cock?” you simply asked from below, reaching up to spread your cunt apart further for him, all while gazing up at him with barely open eyes, still swimming in your post orgasm bliss. “Wanna be stuffed, Yeo. Please?”

Your adorably filthy behavior alone made Yeosang harder than he’s been in a long time, making him want to join in on the fun. He wasted no time positioning himself so that his knees were on either side of your head, slowly lowering his joggers until his long, veiny cock sprung out in front of your face. “I think you should lube up my cock for me first, princess, with that naughty mouth of yours.”

“Yes, sir,” you obeyed, opening your mouth wide enough to take what you could of Yeosang’s impressive length inside, gagging immediately when he began to fuck into your throat, dribbles of spit leaking down your chin. “Mmmfff…”

Gutteral groans routinely escaped Yeosang’s throat, continuing to pump himself into your mouth, unable to release himself from the tight, warm confines of your now bulging throat. “God, you’re taking me so fucking well, princess. Wish I could cum down this pretty throat of yours…” He suddenly pulled out, resting the tip of his heavy cock on your saliva-streaked lips, letting you lazily lap up the beads of pre-cum that spilled from it. “Gotta fuck you, though. I know that slutty cunt needs to be filled with cock.”

“Fuck, yes, sir, give it to me,” you purred against his cockhead, sucking and slurping on it like it was candy, only stopping when he pulled away to lower himself down your body, until his cock was slowly pressing into your willing hole instead.

“Doesn’t matter whose cock, huh?” he asked in his low, honey-like voice, wrapping his fingers around your hips, massaging into them like before, only this time he was sliding you onto his pulsing length little by little until he had completely bottomed out inside.

“No…!” you admitted breathily, the shame you felt only increasing your arousal, barely able to hook your thighs around his waist when he began to quickly pump himself into you, your hole swallowing his thick cock up each time.

“You’ll let a–fuck–older guy…someone who’s your personal trainer…nnngh…use you like their own personal cum dump and–” He pulled out suddenly, only to plunge himself deep into your cunt, making you cry out. “–pump you full of his cum as long as you’re getting stuffed with cock. Isn’t that right, baby?”

“Yeah, you’re right, Yeo,” you exhaled out, reaching up to your sports bra to slide it up until your tits popped out, just in time for them to began bouncing each time Yeosang slammed himself into you. “Fuck me like the slut I am…Please, sir…”

“Oh godd, I’m gonna fuck you so hard, Y/N, gonna fuck your goddamn brains out,” Yeosang gruffed out in between brutal thrusts, resorting to grabbing and holding your wrists down so that you couldn’t get away from him, drilling his aching cock into your squelching hole like he was getting paid to do it.

Yeosang did indeed fuck your brains out. He fucked you until you didn’t know which way was up or down. The only thing that brought you back to reality was something warm and thick gushing inside you, Yeosang’s warm hand holding your own down against your abdomen, his nasty words barely reaching your hazy mind.

“You feel that, princess? All the cum I’m filling this whore-hole up with?” he asked you softly in between harsh pants, a few beads of sweat sliding down his sharp chin and landing onto your flushed face.

You could hardly move, let alone speak. “Uh-huh…”

“I want to see it…Want you to see what I’ve done to you.” Yeosang slowly pulled out of you, milking the tip of his cock, groaning softly, leaving a few more spurts of his load on your puffy cunt, a few drops of it getting onto the torn hole inside your leggings.

He gently turned you around, so that you were facing the mirror on the wall, reaching past your spread thighs to spread open your cunt with his thumbs, laying his lips against your ear, “Look. You got cum leaking out of you, your leggings are all torn up, and you got squirt all over the mat too...Do you see what a mess you’ve become for me, Y/N?”

“Yeah, I see, Yeo. I love it…” You gazed at his hazy reflection in the mirror with hearts in your eyes, wishing you had seduced your personal trainer at an earlier date.

Inhaling your flowery scent once more, Yeosang pressed a kiss onto your cheek, nuzzling it. “That’s my girl.” He tilted his head to the side, his hands rubbing into your sore hips. “Same time next week?”

fff taglist: @itza-meee @chnt1 @k-hotchoisan @wonyobie @vampiregirl215 @yuyusbunny @christmastodoroki @luvt0kki @pieyoon @goldnhwa @choisanboobenthusiast @icyb3rry @maximofftrash @choism @yunhosmelonbar @nebulousbookshelf @astayinwonderland @slutologyy @10nantscompanion @ddaeing @pandagirl-016 @Randomgirl11-posts @staytiny816 @horanghae8 @smally97 @ateezzzser @crispybaguettes @bubblegumbird @midnightmaja @i2nsstuff @asimpelslut @svt-dinosaurus @wisejudgedragonhairdo @deathbyyeekies @firefox79 @wildesreblogs @everyonewooeverywhere @raspberrysannie @Whatintheninerealms @channiespup @abby-grace @seonghwaddict @mxnsxngie @jeongwangjessmina

Apply for the taglist here ⇢ ♡

#cultofdionysusnet #cromernet #wonderlandnet #ateez #ateez smut #ateez yeosang #yeosang #yeosang smut #yeosang x reader #ateez fic #ateez imagines

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f1byjessie · 3 months

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A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS ━━ LN4.

sometimes the right words are hard to come across, and sometimes everything you need to say can be captured in an image.

( lando norris x photographer!reader )

━━ part one.

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tagged: landonorris

yourusername a smiley lando is the best lando in my books! to celebrate the end of the 2023 season, here's a handful of my favourite photos from throughout the year!

view all 3,171 comments

mclaren What a happy lad! We can't wait to see that smile again in 2024 😁🧡

↳ yourusername you and me both! 🤝🧡

user she's got the dream job omg

↳ user IKR??? imagine just getting to follow lando around and take pictures of him all day, i'd be dead within the first hour

↳ user he'd smile at me and i'd be asking “what are we” on god 😩😩😩

↳ user is that literally all she does??? she just follows him around and takes pictures??

↳ user there’s probably a technical term for what her position is and i just don’t know it, but bc there’s so much going on around the track at any given moment, sometimes the press and other media workers are focused on something or someone else, so she’s hired on by mclaren to specifically focus on mclaren to make sure that there is content for mclaren or mclaren sponsors to use. she’s not just lando’s photographer, she also takes photos of oscar, the pit teams, and the other staff that work in the garage, but she was hired on when lando started so her portfolio is pretty full of him. hope this helps!

user didn't know i could need so much orange in my life but here we are

user LANDO NORRIS SUPREMACY

oscarpiastri i see who the favourite is 🫤

↳ yourusername you literally SAW me picking photos for your post too

↳ oscarpiastri yeah but you posted his first 🫤

user guys this is the face of the 2024 wdc winner take it in now

user i could write a 50 page thesis on the importance of these photos and what they mean to me and how the serotonin they make me release could replace my depression meds

user lad’s like a mini danny ric with how smiley he is

landonorris best photog right here folks

↳ yourusername you're only saying that bc i always get your good side

↳ landonorris i'll have you know that all sides are my good sides 🤨

↳ yourusername whatev helps you sleep at night luv 😊

In 2019, when you took on the job of being McLaren’s lead photographer, you hadn’t expected it would garner you the amount of attention it has, or that it would slingshot your career to levels of success you never could have anticipated, or that you would get a best friend out of it.

When you first met him back in those early days, you’d thought Lando Norris was an arrogant, pretentious, self-righteous prick who thought he was hot shit because he was a Formula One driver. However, he’d quickly proven you wrong when he’d admitted to you that a lot of the confidence was an act━ carefully constructed to hide his insecurities about his performance both on and off the track.

“I mean, we’re drivers, yeah?” He’d said. “But we’re also actors. We’ve got these personas that we have to uphold even out here on the paddock, and I’m always worried I’m not playing the part well enough.”

It hadn’t made a lot of sense to you then, you thought he was pulling off the persona of Total Douche remarkably well, but in Shanghai, things changed.

After the Chinese Grand Prix, things were dour. Lando had DNFed━ the first in his Formula One career━ which contrasted greatly with his previous accomplishment of P6 in Bahrain. Carlos Sainz hadn’t been doing very well, either, and it didn’t paint a very pretty picture for McLaren so early in the season. You’d thought he’d throw a hissy fit, tear Daniil Kvyat apart for his role in the crash, or at the very least throw some shade his way, but he hadn’t done any of that. He’d accepted his fate with grace, joked to the media about how boring the race had been because of what had happened, and then gone on to congratulate Carlos for at least finishing.

What was even more shocking, was that despite his disappointment and the frustration he must’ve been feeling, instead of going back to sulk in his lonesomeness or drown out his feelings with booze and loud music at some club, he’d comforted you later that evening.

The morning of the race, as you’d been getting ready in your hotel room, you’d gotten a text from an unsaved number admitting to you that they’d been taking part in a months-long affair with your boyfriend but had been previously unaware that he was already taken and therefore wanted to let you know to clear their conscience. You’d managed to hold yourself together then━ mostly because you’d already done your makeup and, quite frankly, didn’t have the time to sob it all off and then attempt to salvage it━ but as the day drew to a close and the adrenaline of the race and its excitement wore off, and with nothing else to keep you distracted, you were struggling to keep yourself composed.

Lando had somehow noticed in that weirdly perceptive way of his that something was off, and he’d sat with you, asked what was wrong, and listened when you━ through tears━ explained the situation to him.

“He sounds like a total fucking muppet,” he’d commented after you’d said your piece, and he’d done it with such a deadpanned expression that it had startled a genuine laugh out of you. Because yeah, you’re (now ex) boyfriend had been a muppet.

After that━ and after all the rom-com and ice cream binging you’d both done in his hotel room afterward much to the chagrin of Lando’s nutritionist and the displeasure of his PR officer━ you’d rescinded your initial judgment of him. He was significantly less dickish than you’d originally thought, and it let you finally understand what he’d meant when he’d talked about putting on a persona.

The cocky, know-it-all prick that Lando pretended to be half the time was all just an act to hide his overly self-critical nature fueled by his insecurities.

By the end of the season, he’d gained a little confidence of his own and had subsequently toned down the assholery when he no longer needed to “fake it til he makes it,” and you were calling him your friend.

It’s 2023 now, and he’s since been upgraded to best friend status━ a role he takes very seriously, and constantly reminds you of.

“I’m your best friend━” case and point, “━you have to come to Bali with me. Literally, like, what am I gonna do without you there? Do you expect me to just go by myself? What if I get lost? Or what if somehow the mafia, who have unknowingly had a hit out on me for years, track me down there and I’m kidnapped and ransomed off for billions of dollars? What will you do then?”

“You just want me to take pictures of you,” you answer, rolling your eyes only because you know he can’t see you through the phone.

He gasps in mock offense. “I cannot believe you think I value you so little! I want you to take pictures of me and be here to help me make fun of awkward tourist spray tans so I don’t feel like a total asshole for being the only one who laughs.”

You laugh at that. “Well, unfortunately laughing at bad fake tans doesn’t pay the bills.”

“But taking pictures of me does.”

“Yeah, when McLaren is paying.” You turn back to your laptop, a photo put on pause mid-edit splayed across the screen. It’s of Lando, as most of your photos tend to be despite your attempts at keeping things even between the McLaren boys. It’s the last of the images you need to send over for their 2023 sendoff, and when it’s finished you’ll officially be without work for a painstaking two months. “I’m on break too, technically, until they need promotional shit for the new season.”

He huffs, and you can almost imagine the childish pout on his face. “What are you even doing, then?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want Lando to know about your winter plans, but because you don’t really know how he’ll react, which means it could be anything between genuine happiness for you and congratulations, or abject horror and feigned screams of anguish. He’s always been dramatic like that, but even more so now that he’s comfortable enough with you and himself to have crawled a decent way out of his shell.

Even still, he’s your best friend and it would make you a pretty shitty person if you didn’t tell him.

“Believe it or not,” you start, wringing your hands together, “but Manchester City actually hit me up with an inquiry. Asked if I’d be interested in working with them on a project documenting their training throughout the winter months. I said I would love to.”

He pauses for a good long moment, and you prepare for the screaming, but all he says is━ “Man City? You traitor. I thought Man United was our forever!”

“Be so fucking real right now, Lando Norris,” you answer, laughing as you do so. You’re relieved, at least he hasn’t gone the feigned anguish route, but you also can’t tell if he’s happy for you or hiding his true feelings behind humor like he’s prone to doing. “You know damn well you only watched them for Christiano Ronaldo and he hasn’t played with United since 2009.”

“Technically he played for them in the 2021-2022 season,” he grumbles.

“Yeah,” you deadpan, “and he was dogshit. We both agreed to pretend it never happened.”

He groans, “I can’t believe this. My day is ruined and my disappointment is immeasurable.”

“Oh, get over yourself. It’s only for the winter. I’ll be back in McLaren Papaya by February when they need me snapping shots of you and Oscar next to the new livery,” you promise.

The reality is that it’ll probably be sooner. McLaren has always been good about getting you back at HQ pretty quickly, either to get some snapshots of the beginning of Lando and Oscar’s pre-season return or to just capture some material of the engineers at work to promote their readiness. You understand why they can’t keep you around all year━ no Lando and no Oscar means no you━ and with the sheer amount of content you capture and edit for them throughout the season, they’ve got enough to last them the handful of weeks you aren’t working.

Unfortunately, you aren’t working with a driver’s salary to keep you sustained over the break and rent certainly hasn’t been getting cheaper. In past years, your bank account has been chirping with crickets when you’ve returned to work after the winter, and that was before your landlord had decided to make your life a living hell.

You have an important job, but it’s by far the most important, and sometimes sacrifices have to be made. Working in sports media taught you that early on.

“Who knows?” Lando’s voice snaps you back. “Maybe Jack Grealish with his perfect hair and perfect calves will steal you away and you’ll be in sky blue forevermore.”

You laugh, “Jack Grealish is a happily taken man, and although he does have perfect hair and perfect calves, I’m more of a Haaland girl anyway.”

He guffaws. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You’re so far gone that you already have a preferred player. Jack Grealish is England’s poster boy! Everyone loves him whether they like City or not!” He heaves a dramatic sigh. “Christ, I can already feel you slipping through my fingers. I give it a week over there at Etihad before you call me up telling me I can find a new best friend because you’ve replaced me with Phil Foden and Julian Alvarez.”

“For someone who supposedly hates Manchester City, you’re certainly well-versed in their roster.”

“Well duh, I need to know my competition,” he says, like it’s obvious.

“Ah, yes,” you snark back sarcastically. “Because you, a Formula One driver, have to be worried about the football players of Manchester City.”

“Apparently I do if you’re calling yourself a Haaland girl now!”

You burst into cackles and he’s following shortly after with chuckles of his own that eventually peter out into a comfortable silence. You are really going to miss him for the few months you aren’t working with him.

The Formula One schedule is so jam-packed across the season that it typically means you’re getting to see him every day for an hour or two at least, if not for the entirety of the time he’s at the track. You follow him and Oscar to their sponsor obligations, their interviews, and everything in between. It’s honestly rare if you’re not getting a moment to goof off and dick around with one another━ and it’s even rarer for you to not actually see one another face to face in passing at the very least.

The off-season is your least favorite time of the year for this very reason, and though it makes you feel a bit full of yourself to think so, you imagine Lando doesn’t enjoy this time of year much either for the same reason.

“I promise I won’t replace you with any of the City boys,” you say after the silence has stretched on a moment longer.

He huffs again, but you can envision the smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose even if you do, I’ll just show up to a match and steal you away again.”

“As if. Have you seen Grealish’s calves?”

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footballfansofficial BREAKING: Manchester City Forward Garrett Ward caught with mysterious woman revealed to be well-known Formula One photographer Y/N L/N! The two were seen sharing a romantic evening on Friday, the 5th of January, ringing in a passionate start to 2024. Garrett Ward has been with Manchester City since 2021 but was out on loan to a lesser-known Championship League team until 2023. He has just recently begun to play for his team again, but an injury early into the season has seen him benched for a majority of his time back. Y/N L/N is a photographer for Formula One racing team McLaren and has been working with them since 2019. Recently, she has been working with Manchester City to help promote a new docuseries following the men’s team’s winter training. Check the link in our bio for the full article!

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user OMG GARRETT WARD??? NOTORIOUS BACHELOR GARRETT WARD???

user who is she? like genuinely how is she relevant 🤔

↳ user no literally cuz like who even gives two shits about formula 1?

user girl works in f1 why can’t she stay there

↳ user i’m sure there are plenty of drivers who’d smash her idk why she needs to try and get footballers too like bffr 😒😒😒

user aint no way this bitch is kissing my man rn

user literally what does he even see in her??? she’s not even cute AND she’s wearing man united colors 💀💀

user Y/N L/N??? I THOUGHT SHE WAS WITH LANDO NORRIS???

↳ user LITERALLY ME TOO?? like she posts him all the time on insta so i just kinda thought they were an item or smth?? trouble in paradise maybe

user she’s fucking ugly wtf

user i wish these footballers who get with regular women would realize there are so many better girls out there that would ACTUALLY treat them well and would support them in their careers. like i bet this girl doesn’t even know anything about football. she works in f1 and that’s where she should stay bc nobody cares about that shit round here. she probably doesn’t even know the first thing about how football works, but i bet she’ll be at matches pretending like she knows what’s happening. garrett ward is gonna flush his career down the troilet for this chick bc she’s gonna convince him his busy schedule ain’t worth it and then city will be down a great forward for good, and it’ll all be her fault

user i mean she’s kinda pretty tbf

↳ user stfu she really isn’t

↳ user she gen looks like any random bitch off the street

user these comments are not it…. 😬

↳ user maybe you f1 fans just don’t know how to handle constructive criticism

↳ user is the constructive criticism in the room with us rn?? cuz all i’m seeing is bullying and hatred directed towards an innocent woman who’s only “crime” was going on a date

user ok so she can take photos?? 🙄🙄 maybe she should get a real job

↳ user she’s probably only with him so she can mooch off of him like a fucking gold digger

user AINT NO WAYYYYYY

user it’ll last a month max 😌 i’m calling it

user ayo lando come get your girl

━━ tags: @maih23 @urfavnoirette

━━ a/n: here we have it! took me a bit longer than the start of american smile did, but lando's story is officially here! (and it's a whopping 2.9k words to start us off). first and foremost, before we get started, garrett ward is 100% an oc and obviously does not play for manchester city, and this is bc i would feel absolutely horrible portraying a real person in the way that garrett will be later on. gather from that what you will haha! regardless, i hope you enjoy this first part and stick around for the rest!

#formula 1 #formula one #f1 #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula one x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #social media au #lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #ln4 #oscar piastri

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someguyinc · 8 months

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yknow a take on morgana pendragon's story i see often is that if merlin had told morgana about his magic in that moment where they were in his chambers alone that she wouldn't have turned to become evil,, i disagree,, i think that morgana as a character would have eventually turned to become evil and bitter even with merlin as a mentor if she'd learned his secret early in season 2.

let's not forget merlin himself is NOT the most stable of mentor options (not that gaius or kilgahrah or ANY of the druids were a great help either) but he didn't know what the fuck he was doing,, just trying his best consulting that outdated spell book and had cryptic messages from a conniving dragon who MIND YOU still wanted morgana dead and was manipulating merlin the whole time and gaius was a traitor to most magic people like,, he literally was pro-gaslight morgana

merlin also loved arthur, however you view that love (romantic, platonic, brotherly, whatever) merlin loved arthur more than he did magic. we see this multiple times with merlin choosing what kept arthur safe and happy over him doing what would be best for the old religion (fuck them too but that's another post),, major example being the episode with the disir where he straight up tells him there is no place for magic in camelot (which is crazy considering he IS magic made flesh but anyways)

morgana HATED. uther, she hated everything about him and for awhile she disgusted that hate as righteous fury, raining down terror and pain onto innocents (even other magic users) and justifying it as payback. she hated arthur as an extension of uther because that's what uther raised them both as (again another post for another time) and tried to kill him without even asking what his stance was on magic (i believe arthur would have immediately done some introspection and realized he was wrong but thats imo)

i think that eventually,, their two stances would have come to blows (merlin's love for arthur above his magic/morgana's hatred for uther above all else) and morgana would still go to immeasurable heights to murder uther once more, merlin would have stopped her (or tried) because he knew the pain it would cause arthur even if he hated uther too, and morgana would've hated merlin for getting in her way,, her anger triumphing her love for arthur (see: s1ep12: to kill the king)

i feel like often times i just see morgana painted as someone who just needed a little love and light,, when in reality she's been heavily abused and pit against arthur since she was like 10/11 (however old she came to Camelot) and is now a grown woman who is realizing she hates her abuser and everything he's done and wants to destroy him and everything he loves !!

likewise merlin was manipulated and gaslit and forced to become a compulsive liar and would've NOT !! been good for morgana and eventually everything would've gone to shit !!

they are worsties for better or much much worse

#bbc merlin #some guy talking #merlin #arthur pendragon #morgana pendragon #the worsties #merthur #let women be evil #stop trying to paint them as justified meow meows #she is sinister and that is important to me !!#mergana fiendship #merlin meta

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ridestomars · 9 months

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GIRL U WANT – S. HARRINGTON

𖥻 summary: steve harrington is in love with his coworker, y/n, and max mayfield can't stand how annoying a lovesick steve is. 𖥻 pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader 𖥻 warnings: y/n is used!! it's kinda told from max's point of view. idiots in love (obv), max and steve have a little sister-older brother relationship. bad grammar ig. not proofread (yk the deal). 3k-ish words.

💭 liv's thoughts: look at me rewriting my wip list works. this is another one that has been sitting on my docs page for ages, and i finally got the courage to fulfill it. i hope you guys like it!

DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU'RE UNDER SIXTEEN.

“Look at you with your mouth watering, look at you with your mind spinnin'. Why don't we just admit it's all over? She's just the girl you want”.

People say patience is a virtue, but Maxine Mayfield begs to differ.

She doesn't believe in that "good things come for those who wait" crap, because nothing nice ever came her way for just standing there until something happened. The only thing she got from waiting around was a terrible yearning sensation of what could have been if she wasn't such a wimp. That is why Max doesn't exercise the righteous quality of patience, preferring her natural impulsiveness instead. Her restlessness is just too precious not to be used – Seventeen magazine insists on telling her that it's just a thing Aries girls do.

Her effort usually pays off, but when it doesn't, there is nothing better than a "fuck you" to tend the wounds. Rejection is always a possibility, but being disappointed because of it isn't, and with time, you learn how to deal with the negative responses… despite that, Max likes to consider herself too persuasive to ever be declined.

But she has to admit that her intrinsic sense of fearlessness can make her a little insensitive when it comes to people's fear of rejection because, to her, it's just all so simple. Though she tries to be understanding, others' stupidity can become a bit too much for her to handle, and she almost always finds herself on the verge of scolding them for their inability to be bold. It was like when she first started dating Lucas: she had a very serious talk with him about his embarrassment to complain about his wrong orders to the servers because he fears being met with a rude attitude – she still walks up to the workers to point out that his order came with pickles when he didn't want any, but just because it's him.

For some time now, Max found herself in an annoying situation. Over her boring vacation evenings, she began visiting Family Video a lot, and began picking up on something that grew to be infuriating: Steve's and Y/N's constant bullshit. Their (initial) quiet pining was cute, at first, because it made her feel like she was watching a real-life rom-com, with an exciting "will they or won't they?" plot line… reminiscent of the late-nights where she would pretend to be asleep on the living room couch to catch the new Cheers episode, to see if Diane and Sam would finally get together. Yet, as the days passed and their never-ending coyness appeared to only grow stronger, her hopes started to falter. In fact, the situation began to get so obvious that it started to get on her nerves. Big time.

She was an observer, and easily noticed the lingering looks as they talked, one getting distracted by the other's lips, or the way their brows furrowed when attempting to flirt. Or the jealous blush that dusted over Steve's cheeks whenever he saw you talking to a good-looking customer. And then, whenever you weren't at work, she hears his grumpy huffs that turn into infatuated sighs as soon as you walk through the door, apologizing for being late. It wasn't hard to miss your affectionate words about him when he wasn't around, as if talking about your co-worker would make his absence more tolerable.

What was sweet, quickly turned into tiresome when the instances of you two almost kissing turn into a daily thing. She can't count the times when she caught Steve leaning his face closer to yours, taking the courage to make his move, but right at the last second… the plan totally backfires. You either bump heads (Max physically cringes whenever she remembers the scene) or too distracted, ended up turning away from the other. Either option brought a burning ache to the chest.

The blatant crush you have on each other followed Max everywhere she goes as if she was doomed to hear about it until the end of times. Steve was never necessarily reserved about his infatuation – although it seemed like everyone knew about it, except the one person that should –, and since he gives her rides everywhere, she found herself listening to him babble about the gorgeous gleam in your eyes and your shiny hair. The guy sees you as something sacred, and yet… he never admits that he actually likes you, despite the fact that you are all he ever talks about.

To him, you are a piece of heaven on Earth, the person who understands him the most and makes him feel good about himself, among other incredibly elaborate platonic compliments.

Max knows Steve is pretty much the most idiotic guy to ever exist, but he isn't stupid. It's obvious that he just doesn't want to admit his feelings because, if he does, he will have to do something about it, and being blind to the fact that you feel the same, he doesn't want to risk it. If things went wrong, his heart wouldn't be able to take it.

The only question roaming Max's head is: he is secure, but at what price?

It all makes days like today even more unbearable.

They have been sitting inside Steve's burgundy BMW for almost five minutes now, with the clear window closed, the A/C turned up to maximum speed, and Madonna's 'True Blue' playing on the radio. After their arrival at Family Video's parking lot, Max had asked for a minute, just one fucking minute, to fix her shoelaces and Steve used it as an opportunity to daydream as he stared out the windshield. His eyes were set ahead, and she didn't need to look to know who he was staring at.

This was starting to get depressing.

"Steve," Max calls, as harsh as ever. "Stop".

As if he had just been electrocuted, Steve turns his head to stare at the fifteen-year-old. Eyebrows furrowed and nostrils flared, he defends himself, "But I'm not doing anything".

"Exactly, you moron," she grumbles. "You gotta tell her".

'No more sadness, I kiss it goodbye. The sun is burs-', Max interrupts Madonna by turning off the radio, stopping any possible distractions.

It's clear that Steve doesn't like where this is going, because his face contorts into that sour annoyed look that makes her take a deep breath. This is going to be difficult.

"Tell what to who?" pretending to be clueless, he purses his lips, but his eyes don't lie, quickly drifting back to Y/N's figure. There was no escape now, not with Max's sharp gaze bearing down on him.

"You're so full of shit".

"Hey! Language, Maxine," he reprimands, "I honestly don't know what you're talking about".

"You're in love with her," she motions to his co-worker who was still blissfully unaware of the car parked outside.

And her words rang as an absurdity to him.

"Max, for the love of-," his protest is interrupted by the girl and the know-it-all tone he hates so much.

"Steve, you're so into her it's ridiculous," her blue eyes narrow at him, hardening her expression. He scoffs, crossing his arms as he looks in the other direction, trying not to give too much away.

They stay like that for a few seconds, with him staring out the window, refusing to take part in the discussion, and Max glaring at his blushing, conflicted face.

But then, he breaks.

"Fine," Steve breathes out, "I mean, I'd make out with her… like, platonically, you know?"

The word comes out as if he had just remembered it existed, and Max doesn't buy it for a second, "You can't make out with someone platonically, Steve".

He takes her harsh delivery with a contemplating face, letting it all sink in. It wasn't groundbreaking, but it did break his argument, and he finds himself agreeing with what she had said… and he gets a grip.

"Why am I listening to a thirteen-year-old?" he mutters, in disbelief. Huffing, Steve turns back at her, already gripping the door handle, "You know what, smarty-pants? I gotta work".

"I'm fifteen, Harrington! And we're not done!"

Max trails behind him as he gets out of the car in a hurry, stepping heavily into the pavement. As Steve bursts through the glass door with the girl in tow, they catch the attention of everyone inside Family Video. He gives you and Robin an embarrassed smile, stepping onto a random aisle, trying to hide from the curious stares.

From the corner of his eye, Steve realizes that he still hasn't gotten rid of the stubborn girl, so he gathers the cluttered tapes and organizes them, in a failed attempt to avoid Max's inquisitive look. Moving the Pretty in Pink tapes around, the redhead crosses her arms, still staring.

"You should learn a thing or two about that movie, you know?" she says with a quiet voice.

"What are you talking about, Mayfield?" he asks with a defeated sigh, clearly getting annoyed by her.

"Duckie didn't do anything about his crush on Andie, and had to settle for being her best friend in the end," she spells it out for him, "While she got to make out with Andrew McCarthy. Arguably more good-looking and charming than Jon Cryer".

Steve rolls his eyes, but the situation does ring out an alarm at the back of his mind. What if… no, let's not go there. "What are you trying to say, wise-ass?"

"I'm saying," she continues, not willing to let him take a breath, "Are you truly willing to miss your shot? Stop being such a coward and go for it!".

"You talk as if I actually have a chance".

There it is.

This was what she wanted to hear.

"Steve, the girl is almost putting up a bright sign saying 'Go for it! Ask me out, you idiot!'".

Drifting his eyes away from the tapes he was organizing, Steve watches as you laugh at something Robin had said. His gaze softens as he contemplates the scene, his hesitancy quavering every time the sound of your laughter reached his ears. This time, seeing the longing look in his eyes made a gentle, sympathetic feeling grow inside Max's chest, so different than the impatient annoyance she was so used to.

"Look, Steve," her green eyes droop with friendly warmth. Though she might say that this is such a rare sight, that is what he sees every day when he talks to her. "I'm just saying what I noticed, and even if I'm wrong, which I'm not, by the way, you gotta take this off your chest. This is your chance!".

Staring down at her, he can only blink. Her encouraging words are settling in his mind, screeching as they do so, and he wonders… the gears inside his head spinning out of control, smoking everything so bad he almost can't see anything. Steve feels a bit out of breath.

But, impatient as always, Max keeps going as if she hasn't just collapsed all of his plans to stay in your friendship's comfort zone. With the wisdom that few possess, she continues, "I know you're still hung up on your Nancy-heartbreak and everything, but you're standing in your own way on this one, Steve. I can't tell you what the future holds, but I'm sure that you'll feel a lot better after you tell her about it".

His intentions to continue ignoring it all are crumbling to dust inside him right now and her words make him feel defenseless, too vulnerable to continue disregarding his own fear of possible rejection.

"That doesn't make sense," he scoffs, though his voice is soft and quiet, "Why would I want to do something like that if I don't know what the outcome is? She might just turn me down, and I don't think I could…"

Eyes drifting back to your breathtaking figure behind the counter, he stops himself before finishing the sentence. His face lit up with an astonishing expression of realization. Steve lets out another defeated sigh… maybe Max was right.

With a knowing smile, she tells him, "Because you know she's worth it".

xxx

Steve has had his head in the clouds ever since his little chat with Max earlier and could barely concentrate on having any work done throughout the rest of his shift. It didn't help that he also couldn't escape the sight of you from any corner of Family Video, and had to take several breaks until closing hours to avoid his head from exploding.

Pacing back and forth inside the employee's break room instead of helping you put everything away (not exactly the top priority on his list right now), Steve tries to muster up even the slightest string of courage to talk to you about his feelings.

Now, on top of being an absolute wimp, he can also add useless when thinking to his list.

He takes a big breath as he replays what Max had said, and almost unconsciously, snippets of Billy Joel's 'Tell Her About It' start echoing with it. The combination was able to help him make an outline of everything he'd like to say to you.

"I like you. I don't want the chance to slip away. It's okay if you don't feel the same. I just wanted to say something before it's too late", he mutters to himself, still walking in circles. "If yes, then, ba-ba-bam, charm her up. If heartbreak, retreat. I'll be fine. Fine. Just fine. A-okay".

Steve feels the same rush as he felt before going to his High School basketball matches, and he can only hope that the results will be far more positive. He takes another deep breath, shaking his arms before he walks over to the door. His fingers touch the door handle, cool under his fingertips. This is his chance. The store was closing, there were no customers around, and Robin had left early for band practice.

Let's do it, he thinks to himself.

Determined and possessed by a sense of overconfidence, Steve snaps the door open, letting it hit the wall with a loud noise. The sudden movement turns your attention on him, and he can feel his cheeks burning bright under your gaze, his faux bravado trembling below the warmth of your eyes. The quizzical look you gave made him question his own ability for the dramatics.

"It, uh, got stuck", he offers an embarrassed smile.

Good. Already starting with a lie.

"Yeah," your expression turns into amusement, "it gets jammed all the time".

The kindness in your voice makes him feel a little better about himself, maybe he wasn't being such a fool in front of you. His heart started to thump inside his chest, blood pumping in his ears like thunder as he walked closer to where you stood, just behind the big counter. With an intense gaze set on your face, he watched as your eyebrows furrow in his direction again.

"Is there something on my face?" you lift your hand up to your cheek, wiping it off in a hurry.

"No! It's just-," he interrupts himself, suddenly realizing that this script wasn't supposed to go this way. What is he meant to say now? Under your expectant gaze, it's not like he can think of anything intelligible. "It's not that".

"Oh, okay," breathing out, seeming relieved by the information, you bring your hand down. With a voice that dripped with curiosity, you ask, "Why we-were you staring, then?"

Steve feels so stupid now that he can only blink down at you, his head getting fuzzy by that cute look in your eyes and the way your lips quirked up, stifling a smile. Yeah, he's a goner.

Before he could actually think about what he was saying, he hears the sound of his voice echoing through the empty video rental store, "I don't wanna be a Duckie".

"What are you talking about?" you laugh out loud, though it's clear that you're not laughing at him. His words took you both by surprise, and he couldn't expect any other reaction.

"Sorry," Steve apologizes, chuckling along, "I didn't mean to say that. What I wanted to say was… well, by the look on your face I think you already know".

Again, he just blurted it out without reflecting on it first. But it was justified.

For the first time, he saw something different in the way you looked up at him. Maybe it was just him being impacted by Max's words, but Steve swears that he has never seen that mellow tenderness gleaming in the color of your eyes before… or at least, he had never noticed it like this. He feels like an even bigger idiot now for not realizing it sooner.

"Know what?" your question comes as a sign of your unawareness of his new understanding, and it makes a sweet smile grow on his face.

"I like you".

The three words come out in a far more relaxed way than he had originally imagined his confession to be. Clearly, his realization made a wave of true confidence wash over his body, putting him back in his element of ease. And to say it out loud was a relief like no other.

But when he was met with no answer, just that shocked look on your face, his smile faltered.

"It's alright if you don't feel the same," he reassures, "I just… I didn't want to keep waiting around, wasting more opportunities by never telling you how I feel, because if you feel the same, I really don't want you to get away just like that. And uh- I don't want to be just your friend, but it's fine if you-"

"I like you too", you talk a bit louder than him, interrupting his train of thought, without any remorse. "I, uh- never said anything because I thought you didn't like me back".

He is still, like a statue in front of you, processing the information.

And it seems like an eternity before he cups your face, the palms of his hands resting warmly over your cheeks. His long fingers graze against your temples, and just the feeling is enough to ease your hammering heart, but as he leans closer to your face, you can feel your own breath ricocheting against his lips.

Steve stares at you through half-lidded eyes, as if he is waiting for your go-ahead. And it's only when you softly nod up at him that he presses his mouth against yours, letting his lips wrap around your bottom lip in a soft, loving peck. His mind was misty with increasing thoughts of you, your candy-flavored lips, and the smooth texture of your cheeks, along with the feel of the roots of your hair on his fingertips. You were breathing in each other in your kiss, and your breath came faltering against the other cheek. It was truly world-shattering, something you had never felt before in your life.

As you slowly, and almost reluctantly so, pull apart, Steve feels a small chuckle bubbling up in his throat. Seeing your amused expression, he smiles.

"We have so much time to make up for".

LIKES, REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK ARE APPRECIATED! steve masterlist | main masterlist | navigation ── hey! wanna talk? leave me a message after the beep. currently accepting requests for steve and eddie.

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#liv talks about stevie #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington

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hero-israel · 5 months

Note

Let me tell you being a former Christian this shit goes so much deeper than a lot of born Jews realize. The Christian worldview (specifically Calvinist/Puritan) seeping into and pervading all of modern leftism is honestly frightening. But also it's very funny.

They believe that there are Good people and Bad people, and that any mistake or lapse in judgment or instance of not being educated is a Mask Off moment, showing who is a member of the Elect and who is not. If you fuck up, that's not just a fuck up, it's Revealing. You are damned, were always damned, you were just good at hiding it, and now we know the truth and are doubly angry because not only are you evil, you lied about it. The only recourse is to shun you, and if that leads to your death, so be it. Anyone who's seen any micro celebrity get canceled saw this in action.

And the only way you can prove you're a member of the Elect is to operate as if you have nothing to hide. You have to loudly and proudly proclaim your righteousness. If you don't have anything to hide why would you be worried? Privacy is suspicious. You Must Speak on everything they deem important or else you obviously agree with the Bad People. There is no room for discussion or healthy debate. There are no loopholes or subclauses or other points of view to consider. You're with us or against us. If you don't constantly go around saying you're with us, you're probably secretly against us. The only way to convince your neighbors, whom you inherently distrust, that you're one of the Good Ones, is to perform righteousness, parrot righteous words. The only way to redeem yourself is by grandiose acts of self flagellation, perhaps being the right demographic, or by accusing others of Heresy.

The goal is not to bring good into the world, it's to recruit more people into the same thought patterns (that's kind of all Christian denominations though). Because if you can convince your community that you're one of the Elect, that means G-d preselected you for Heaven, and you're golden. No repercussions or consequences baby. The only material benefit for you is that you "get" to proclaim you're going to Heaven and everyone has to agree with you. If anyone doesn't they're probably going to Hell anyway. You're on the right side (of history), so why should you ever self reflect or grow? Why should you question anything? Why should nuance or empathy exist? This is about Right and Wrong. We know where we stand, where do you stand?

Every single aspect of American culture and politics, right and "left" alike, was planted by the pilgrims, and it is so fundamentally antithetical to true Leftist thought. Remember all the actually successful Western Leftist movements were started in Europe (and Israel cough cough)... because they kicked all their fucking psychotic Calvinists out. Those people went to America and that's a big big big reason why we don't have any near as much of a robust Leftist movement as even socially conservative European countries (and Israel cough cough). And what's funny is I still find myself slipping into these thought patterns, which is so not compatible with Jewish philosophy or theology. It's been years and I'm still not done.

It's a hell of a drug to kick, so I definitely don't trust white goysiche college kids who've been antitheists for about 6 months since they left their Republican parents' homes to have any great success in unlearning and unprogramming from this. Which is kind of obvious in that I see them acting just like their conservative Christian parents every day on every social media platform, swap out a gun toting white Jesus with some noble savage idea of Palestine, absolving the West of its sins against the Global South.

It is a cult structured around spiritual isolation, antisocial behavior, and it is inherently against any kind of political movement that centers and celebrates the Community. It is designed to tear communities apart and foster obedience to whatever authority can force itself on them. And this has been going on for almost 500 years, there is nothing we can do about it.

Thank you for the insightful look. Their "purity culture" approach definitely had to come from somewhere.

#Leftist antisemitism #Christian antisemitism

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flowercrowngods · 5 months

Text

⚔️ bard!eddie/knight!steve part 2 (~6k)

After the confrontation with Lord Harrington, Eddie is riddled with feelings of anger, guilt, and shame. At a lavish banquet, he finds his world turned on its head once more and he begins to understand just who his love really is.

⚔️ read part 1 here (~4k)

Eddie spends a maudlin few days wallowing in newly found misery and dramatically bemoaning the lack of inspiration and muse, to which his uncle merely instructs him to help him in the smithy, claiming that physical exertion would help with the wretched guilt.

Eddie is loath to let go of his feelings just yet, though, hoping they would turn into self-righteous anger at the Lord after all. But he has no such luck. Night after night of pondering the Lord’s words and the hurt expression Eddie was met with not even a fortnight ago leave not a shred of doubt as to who is at fault. For years, unwittingly or not.

But wit is not what will get him out of this mess, no. It can only be cleared by sincerity and vulnerability — something that Eddie has sworn to never show this town again, only worsening his predicament.

It tears away at him for days upon days, leaving him unable to sing, unable to play, unable even to sleep, cooped up though he is in the room of his childhood. It is a time he longs for with an aching heart, if only to take back his promise to never be vulnerable within these walls again, if only to be sure he doesn’t betray himself more than he betrayed Lord Harrington and both of their hearts.

Time, seemingly done with Eddie’s mental back and forth, eventually pulls the floor from beneath his feet one night when he finds a written invitation from Princess Chrissy to attend her banquet tomorrow night as both highly esteemed bard and dearly welcome guest.

At the banquet, Eddie knows, he will see Lord Harrington again, and there will be no way to avoid him any longer. He imagines there will be more scalding glances, more sharp words from a sharper tongue, and more of his honour questioned.

And the Lord would very well be in his right to do so.

With a deep sigh and an even deeper pit in his stomach, Eddie goes on his pitiful journey to find some rest beneath the sheets.

~*~*~

It is always a lavish affair when Princess Chrissy decides there is something to celebrate, and despite his nerves and a horrible anxiety that has been his steady but unwelcome companion all day, Eddie finds himself smiling at the view of the ballroom.

It occurs to him how far he has come as he takes it all in, his eyes surely wide as saucers at the display of grandeur and opulence before him. Men and women alike dressed in finest fabrics and the brightest of colours, servants bustling about with wine and delicacies for the Princess and her guests.

Years ago, the people of Hawkins took it upon themselves to chase him out of the city, and not even the Princess’s grace and friendship were enough to make him stay where clearly he was not wanted. And now here he is — highly esteemed bard and dearly welcome guest. He cannot help but feel vindicated and proud, having spited Hawkins and her people like this; he has sailed with pirates and travelled with adventurers, learned from master craftsmen and sung for emperors.

All of it to show this city that he is more. That he is better.

And yet, he reminds himself with a heavy heart, he cannot sing today, and Hawkins will be the victor once more.

Eddie reaches for a goblet of wine offered to him by a most curteous girl flashing him a shy but charming smile, and it is almost enough to improve his mood, almost enough yet for him to gain the courage to approach the Princess about his predicament. He follows the servant with his eyes as he brings the wine to his lips, stalling the inevitable just a second longer, when suddenly they fall on a familiar, tragically glorious figure clad in the deep blue colours of his family.

Lord Harrington, tinged in hues of gold more than anything else as the light of the flames dancing along the walls and ceiling alike catches in his hair in a way that Eddie has heard will make kings succumb to madness, is laughing along to the excited gesturing of a woman Eddie cannot seem to recognise. But it is not she who has caught his eye. It is Lord Harrington, standing there with a look so impossibly gentle and a dress so regal that it makes Eddie’s legs weak and his heart ache.

Where is that pompous air that Eddie remembers so well? When was it replaced with elegance and beauty so blinding, accompanied so wonderfully with that smile on his lips? And how can a man who has been wronged so endlessly still smile like this, look like this, hold himself like this? Like the world is but an old friend he likes to carry on his shoulders so it can have a better look at what is ahead.

Like the kindest songs must always have been about him, wittingly or not. Like he is more, so much more than what Eddie thought him to be. Like he is exactly who Eddie needs him to be. Wants him to be. Has dreamed him to be.

And still, despite the fondness in his eyes and the lavish joy displayed by everyone in the opulent room, Lord Harrington has a steady hand on the sword by his hip. It is only for display of his rank as a knight and as a Lord, likely blunt and too light for proper defence, let alone offensive strikes against a sudden enemy.

But Harrington’s hand is woven around the hilt. Clinging to it, as though reassured by its presence. As though anxious were he not to feel it by his side, cold metal and leather resting against his palm.

His words echo in Eddie’s head again. Making a mockery of me, stealing from me every chance to tell my tale in my own voice, in my own tempo. Entire kingdoms will know before I will have had the chance to wake up from a nightmare, and they sing about it, sing about pain they did not have the misfortune to suffer, sing with a smile, with booming voices because you make them. And yet the only one without a voice remains the one who slew the beast.

Stealing a man's right to flee from the horrors he lived through, acquainting every tavern in this kingdom and the next with his horrific and desperate deeds.

Can he not flee? Can he not lay down that feeling of horror even on a night like this? Need he cling to his sword, any sword, like that, even unconsciously? Did he forgt about the sword on his hip before the Knightmærs? Was it Eddie who made him cling, who kept him from forgetting, even for one night, that dangers tend not to lurk in the well-lit corners of a golden ballroom?

The guilt threatens to devour him wholly, and Eddie might just let it if only some of the weight were taken from Lord Harrington’s shoulders. Desperately, Eddie tears his gaze away from the Lord’s hand and back up again, travelling over ocean blue and sunset gold, drinking him in more hungrily than the wine in his hand.

As though summoned by Eddie’s pathetically beating heart, Lord Harrington chooses that exact moment to look up and away from his partner, and by some cruel twist of fate, out of the hundreds of eyes in this room, he meets Eddie’s. The gentleness fades, the smile paling into something tinged with regret, and it takes every ounce of strength Eddie has not to cross the room and fall to his knees to beg forgiveness.

He swallows and lifts the goblet to his lips once more, his breath hitching as Lord Harrington mirrors him, and they both take a slow, excruciating sip, their gazes never once wavering.

I will not sing tonight, Eddie promises, wondering if it is at all possible that Lord Harrington has the gift of clairvoyance and knows exactly what Eddie is thinking. I will do right by you, even if it is too late. Even if it costs everything.

In the end it is Lord Harrington who looks away first, his attention caught once more by his companion, and Eddie withers as he sees the gentleness returning to his gaze. He is not quick enough in tearing away his eyes, however, because Harrington’s companion, another bard, he assumes fom the look of her, turns towards him just a second later — and if looks could kill, Eddie would find himself dead six times over.

Fate does not possess the grace to let him die on the spot, however, the daggers in the bard’s eyes not sharp enough to end his life, but more than sufficient to snuff out any sense of bravery he could have possessed to approach Harrington anytime soon. Eddie finds himself almost grateful for the admittedly rather lame excuse that only comes to prove his cowardice, but he decides not to dwell on it for now.

Or he tries, as he downs the wine in one go and lets his eyes travel in search for familiar, friendly faces, and finding the Princess already approaching him with a smile so bright and warm it alleviates the anxiety thrumming through him.

“Eddie!” she says, smiling even wider when he remembers to bow before her — something they had to practice a lot when they were children and she would sneak away from her lessons and appearances to play with him instead. It feels like a lifetime ago; she is the prettiest person he knows — always has been, but she kept the spark of glee even as an adult. It makes him weak in the knees with happiness, having her friendship so deeply ingrained in his soul even after all this time.

Her eyes travel over his doublet made of silk so deeply red it appears black if the light plays a trick on your eyes. It is one of his finest possessions, and it takes everything within him not to preen in front of her.

“And to think of the way you scoffed so offhandedly when I told you ages ago that silk would suit you. You have grown to be so very handsome, my dearest friend, I can hardly take my eyes off you lest I have to fear your untimely disappearance once more.”

Eddie smiles, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks, entirely aware that he had not yet enough wine to solely blame it on that.

“I am here to stay for the time being, Your Highness, so fret not. If only to show Hawkins how right you were, my dear, for I do look fabulous in silk.”

Chrissy laughs, a joyful sound echoing through the hall and pulling many a pair of eyes toward them, but Eddie pays them no mind even as nervousness makes an eerie reappearance in the forefront of his mind.

“I cannot wait to hear you play tonight,” the Princess continues, unaware of Eddie’s dilemma. There must be something in his face, though, for she reaches out to take hold of his hand. “You will, right? Tell me you will, Eddie. What reason have you to look so filled with gloom?”

Eddie turns his hand to hold onto hers, propriety be damned even as he hears a gasp or two followed by scandalised whispering. For Hawkins, everything he does is scandalous, even merely existing. Holding the Princess’s hand is but another item on the list.

“Forgive me, my Princess, but I cannot play tonight.”

“But—“

“It is the Knightmærs that you long to hear, and it was always a dream to fill these halls with song sprung from my own feather, believe me. But it seems I am a fraud, and I need to do right by someone first before I will ever take to my lute again.” After a moment of silence he adds, “If you should like me to leave, I understand. But I will not sing.”

The Princess looks at him for a long time, reading something that might be written behind his eyes, but she keeps a hold of his hand.

“He sought you out, then.”

Eddie’s heart falls as he grasps the meaning of her words. She knows about Lord Harrington and his involuntary ties to Eddie’s renown. Everyone in this room might know, might have heard of his deeds, might have seen his wounds as he returned from the battlefield that seems to follow his every step, while Eddie was out in the world living a lavish life with the title he earned from another man’s tales of valour and agony.

“He did,” Eddie whispers. “And I need to make things right. He never deserved that.”

She frowns, a crease appearing between her brows that does nothing to hide her gentleness and beauty. “Never deserved that? But Eddie, you made a hero of him! You wove battles he fought out of he goodness of his heart and the bravery in his bones, wove them into tales grand enough to outlast even the passing of time itself! I know many a knight who would kill to be made into that kind of a hero.”

Even as she speaks, Eddie shakes his head, vehement to contradict her and make her see what he himself took so long to understand.

“It is not I who turned that man into a hero, my Princess, that was his own doing. What I did was turn him into a legend, turn him into something untouchable by real emotion when he… seems to be so full of them! I took his story, all of his stories, and made them my own, stole the words out of the deepest dungeons of his heart and wrote epic ballads about pain that is strong enough to bring the bravest man to his knees with sorrow and— I took from him what was only his to give. The right to grieve. The right to be his own person. The right to his story, his pain, his own consequences to come from actions he was forced into.”

Eddie swallows, beginning to understand, really, the scope of his actions as he speaks the words for the first time, and his throat rapidly closes up on him.

“I took all of that and made it my own, and in the end it was only I who gained something. And worst of all, he never complained to me. Never exploded in my face or, or exposed me for the fraud that I am. In fact, it was I who confronted him about disappearing whenever I would sing my Knightmærs, because I found myself with hurt pride and—“

A breath, forced into his lungs to keep the tears welling in his eyes from spilling.

“That man,” Eddie finishes with unsteady voice but iron conviction. “He deserves the world. He deserves better. He is a hero and he deserves to have a choice, but he is too good to make it. So I am making it for him.”

He tears his wandering gaze away from the silhouette that seems to always pull him in, no matter how hard he tries to stray, and lays them on the Princess.

“I am not playing tonight.”

Chrissy, too, has tears in her eyes after his speech, and she reaches up to cradle his face with both of her hands. Warmth floods Eddie where before he was bereft, and it takes everything in his power not to lean into her hold. Not when people are watching them. Gentleness like that is reserved for quiet, dark corners on stormy days long since past.

“Oh, Eddie,” she says, her laugh a little wet. “See how much you have grown. You are the best person I know; always have been. You are forgiven, my dearest, loveliest friend. I shall not make you play, and I shall not stand it if people disapprove of it.”

Relief washes over him, his body still trembling ever so slightly from his passionate outburst and fear of rejection, and he smiles as he casts his eyes down.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

She hums and wipes at the wetness beneath his eyes before retrieving her hands.

“Anything for you, Eddie. Anything in my power.” She turns to leave and Eddie has not the strength to ask her to stay, not when he knows she has royal etiquette to follow. But before leaving him to his heart still heavy with guilt, she speaks again, “It will be fine. I know it will.”

God, I hope so.

Eddie doesn’t dare to look and see if Lord Harrington and his bard were in earshot just now. Instead, he turns swiftly and retreats to one of the lavish balconies to clear his head with some fresh air. He finds it blissfully empty as he takes a trembling breath.

It will be fine. I know it will.

Eddie breathes, crisp air flooding his lungs that he does not feel all that deserving of, but he is grateful for it nonetheless. He cannot blink away the image of Lord Harrington’s downturned eyes, the smile that adorned his lips but a moment before fading in the face of Eddie’s presence. He cannot keep his heart from racing, hammering away rapidly at his ribcage, mimicking a spooked bird’s fluttering wings. Aiming to get out. Out, out, out, away from its hold and back where it belongs. Back to the man dressed in the blues of his family, the colour of his name, like armour against any sorts of attempts dared by lowly boys who think themselves to be bards of great renown.

It aches, his heart. And with every beat against his chest, the pain only carries further until it reaches his eyes with stinging force. It is a pain of guilt and sorrow, mixing with a longing so deep that it cuts him in half, torn though he is.

Just one more breath and the air will be enough to tear him apart down the middle, right through his heart that is long past saving. The feelings he has been harbouring for years for a love unknown have not disappeared with Lord Harrington’s accusations. Instead, they merely gained a face and a name, turned into something real. Shifted, just so, to make room for the reality of Lord Harrington and every tidbit of information Eddie can learn about him, even when he tries not to listen, even when he tries to let go of misguided emotion for a man whose heart he has broken and abused already.

But everyone talks about him. Now that Eddie knows where to look, he sees the respect for Lord Harrington in everyone’s faces. Sees the gratitude, sees the fondness, sees the reverence.

Eddie closes his eyes against it, but it only serves to make the images more vivid. Lord Harrington positively gleaming in that ballroom, shining as golden as the sun right before she bids the day farewell, looking so fondly upon his friend. His bard. His companion. Looking so regretfully upon Eddie. Looking until he could no longer bear it.

He needs to leave. It is sudden, that urge, filling the cracks of his being and glueing him back together with that all too familiar feeling that he’d thought himself to have moved past on the same day that he left Hawkins all those years ago. But it is back now, getting stronger by the second, urging him to leave, leave, leave.

He will talk to Lord Harrington and beg for his forgiveness later. Tomorrow, surely, or the day after. In a fortnight at the latest, or in a month. But for now, he has to leave. Needs to leave. Must.

On unsteady feet, and with an unsteadier heart yet, Eddie turns abruptly and all but stumbles his way back through the large doors and into the ballroom, which has filled with even more guests and even more servants and even more people who will steal the air from right beneath his nose.

It leaves him frazzled and shaking, and his heart falls anew when he realises that he needs to cross the room to leave.

As if pulled in by string or higher power, Eddie finds Lord Harrington immediately, the man’s broad back turned toward him. His hand still rests on his sword as he watches his friend — the bard with daggers in her eyes — approach the dais, lute in one hand and flute in the other. It’s a thin one, and made not of wood but of some kind of metal, and Eddie feels a flash of jealousy at her blatant display of talent and proficiency in more instruments than one. Even greater jealousy still when Lord Harrington keeps his attention on her — oh, and how well Eddie is acquainted with his attention, heavy and intense and leaving him hungry for more. Starving.

He yearns for it. Longs to approach the stage and join the other bard as she begins to play, if only to be in the vicinity of that attention. That affection. All that gentle intensity.

But he can’t.

So he turns, twisting away from the mirage he so longs to touch, feeling phantom tingles on his palms where he imagines strongly enough. Entangled in the web of guilt, longing and imagination, though, he twists a little too far and nearly falls over his feet in his haste to get away. And then he quite factually runs into a figure he’d hoped to never see again, much less share the same breath as them.

Before Eddie can utter an apology and continue on his way out of the ballroom and back to the safety of his childhood bedroom where the ceiling is a little closer to him and the air won’t feel quite as stuffy, Jason Carver’s voice cuts through the room and his patience alike.

“Munson,” Carver sneers, somehow managing to look down on Eddie even though they are of the same height. “So the rumours are proven true at last! I did not think you possessed the gall to show your face here again. But you seem to be a lot stupider than you let on — and you do let on a lot.”

The throng of people around Carver make themselves known with a vile chuckle at Eddie’s expense, and if he were a stronger man, if he were a more vicious man tonight and not hung up on guilt and longing, he’d have a snide comment on the tip of his tongue.

As it is, though, he stands no chance but to let Carver speak on. He seems to have climbed in rank, moved on from being a simple guardsman to someone wearing white silk and a decorative sword on his hip. It is more imposing than Harrington’s, the hand around the handle more like a threat to Eddie than anything else. Especially accompanied by that sneer. That godawful, entirely too punchable curl of his lips.

“Though the good Princess proves her taste in music and people once more, servicing her people and not letting you play on an occasion such as this. What a shame it would be for all of Hawkins to have your… talent… be showcased like that. What humiliation for you. I’m glad she chose a bard who can sing. And play. And entertain Her Majesty’s guests accordingly.”

Carver’s words cut deep, and there seems to be no end to them. It shows on his face, Eddie knows, but he can’t… Suddenly he’s young again, suddenly he knows no longer who he is, who he wants to be in this world and how we will get there. Suddenly the urge to run away is no longer gluing him together but tearing him apart, tearing him in every possible direction just to get away from Carver and his lackeys, until he will shred himself into a million pieces.

And still he has no words to retort the venom leaving Carver’s lips. He is shaking, fuming, something boiling inside him, and yet he has no words.

Just as Carver opens his mouth to spit yet more lies about Eddie and his craft that leave his ears ringing, something behind Eddie makes Carver’s big mouth snap shut with a loud clack.

Before Eddie can regain control over his mind and body to turn around and see what happened, a familiar voice fills the silence so blatantly left by Jason Carver.

“Such vile words from someone who knows neither talent nor skill himself, and who displays an utter lack of craftsmanship and tact.”

Lord Harrington speaks in such condescending tones with Carver that it makes Eddie freeze all over again, not daring to move lest he pull that condescension toward himself. And still he aches to turn around and drink him in.

He stands so close. Eddie can almost breathe him in, and it’s almost enough.

Before him, Jason flushes an angry red, unprepared to be confronted thusly by Lord Harrington, who outranks him in both title and popularity — and, perchance more importantly, in eloquence and intelligence.

Carver’s mouth remains firmly shut, but Lord Harrington is not done yet, it seems, as he moves from behind Eddie to his side, the hand on his sword so dangerously close to Eddie’s hip. It takes all his might not to sway and lean to the side just briefly, just to feel the warmth of his hand through his clothes.

“You know, Carver, I found myself pondering whether upon the arrival of Eddie the Bard you would find yourself starving for his attention once more, the same way that you did when you and your band chased him away.”

The blood freezes in Eddie’s veins and yet he feels flushed with heat, especially when people turn toward them with curious and scandalised eyes.

Lord Harrington is not perturbed, however. “And here you are indeed, yearning for his words directed at you, aching for his attention, and wishing at least one of his songs were dedicated to you, written in your honour. Unfortunately still, you wouldn’t know honour if it spat you in the face. And you have miscalculated, good man, for you are irrelevant to a muse such as his, and too much of a coward for heroic tales of valour and sacrifice. The only thing you know to sacrifice is my patience. You are of no greater importance to this world, this kingdom, and even this very moment, Jason, than an overgrown roach in a dead man’s kitchen.”

The noise that leaves Eddie’s throat is not as embarrassing as the one Carver makes, and covered, too, by several gasps sounding around them. Lord Harrington has drawn quite the crowd — and for once he doesn’t seem uncomfortable with it, smirking as he is, regarding Carver like he means every last word of what he just said.

It makes Eddie weak in the knees.

And Lord Harrington takes yet another step forwards, placing himself between Eddie and Carver, shielding him not only from the man’s words and presence, but directing the attention of those around them away from Eddie. Pulling it towards his own person and Jason’s form, trembling with anger and humiliation.

Eddie blinks, heart racing again, his mind running faster than a spooked race horse. Why would Harrington come to his rescue? Why would he pull all the attention toward himself when he should be rejoicing in seeing Eddie humiliated and beaten with his own weapon of choice? Why, when all the good Lord should want is to see Eddie fall from grace and from his high horse alike?

Jason is sputtering some kind of response, but Eddie is transfixed by ocean blue and sunset gold so close to him that he could melt into him if only he had the right. So transfixed, indeed, that he doesn’t hear what Jason has to say. It is only when Lord Harrington speaks again that the world returns to him.

“Leave the bard alone, Carver, you humiliate yourself with the way you’re leeching off his attention like a schoolboy with his first bout of attraction.” And then, closing the gap between them and speaking into Carver’s ear, just loud enough for Eddie to hear, Lord Harrington says, “Leave him alone. Speak of him again anything but praise, and I will have you emasculated per royal decree, and I shall see to it myself.”

Where before his face was flushed red, all the colour now leaves Carver’s face as he blanches and swallows heavily. He looks between Harrington and Eddie, confusion and fear so clear on his features that Eddie would grin if he weren’t so shaken by the Lord’s actions and words.

Carver takes flight the very moment Lord Harrington steps back, and suddenly Eddie finds himself alone with him.

And words have not yet returned to him, especially when Harrington turns and lets down the smirking mask of condescension and instead regards him with an expression of worry and gentleness.

“Are you all right?”

Eddie blinks, all but feeling the confusion and wonderment spill out of his big, dumb eyes, unable to hide it from Harrington and his golden skin.

This is the man who has slain the man possessed by the Devil himself and took in his younger sister to live with him and get an education. This is the man who protected the Princess and this whole kingdom so many times, slaying foes and beasts alike and returning home a hero who refused his own celebrations. This is the man who would be King if the world were anything like Eddie wants it to be.

The man who smiles so fondly, so gently, upon the people dear to him. The man who opens his estate in the winter to those whose houses stand no chance against the cold bitterness of the season, and thus defeats both lonesomeness and bleakness in one graceful gesture of kindness and compassion.

And still, this is the man who had his life twisted and glorified in song and poetry, the man who had the floor pulled from beneath his feet when his pain was made into something desirable. The man who stands in a ballroom filled with joyous laughter, wine, and dance, and keeps his hand on the hilt of his sword. The man who was wronged so endlessly by the ingenious bard who claimed to love him.

And yet. He stakes his claim. He stakes his claim on Eddie. Protects him. Rather publicly, too, and now everyone knows of a connection between them that doesn’t exist, a connection that Eddie snuffed out before it had the chance to spark because he was so obsessed with the notion of grandeur and drama and love. A love that would survive it all. A love that would slay beasts and brothers possessed, a love that would be immortalised in song and poem, a love that…

Would look at him the way Lord Harrington does.

But it’s not love. Eddie knows nothing about love. How could he, when he hurt the man so? How could he, when he cannot find even the simplest apology, when he cannot utter a single word with the way his throat is closing up on him so rapidly in the face of that tenderness.

“Eddie,” Harrington gathers him out of his reverie, a hand on his forearm. “Would you step outside with me?”

Another claim staked right through Eddie’s fluttering heart. He cannot bear it. Stands frozen to the ground.

“You need not have done that,” he says at last, his voice no louder than a whisper. It makes the Lord lean in closer, as though he has difficulty to hear Eddie otherwise, though he’d like to imagine that Harrington is just as drawn in by Eddie, and is powerless against it.

The man smiles, though there is no fondness in it, and Eddie wants to recoil.

“Jason wouldn’t know talent if it spat in his face. Which,” he adds as an afterthought, “is not a suggestion.”

Despite himself, Eddie smiles genuinely, feeling a bit of the ever-present tension lift from his shoulders. “Do my ears deceive me, or am I right in my understanding that you think I have talent, milord?”

The smile fades a little, leaving behind some hidden trace of genuineness that weighs so heavy in the air between them even as Harrington inclines his head politely. As though Eddie deserves politeness. As though he were of a higher standing than he is. And higher yet than Lord Harrington himself.

“I would have to call myself both fool and liar to claim otherwise,” he says, his tone shifted to match his posture. Reverent, almost. Eddie wants him to straighten those shoulders and look down on him again, to do everything in his power to stop the wild beating of his heart that still cuts the words right from his tongue. “You have a way with words that is yet to be matched.”

He looks up again when Eddie says nothing, and their eyes meet. Lord Harrington’s beauty is unmatched, and Eddie finds himself willing to look at him forever. Wanting. Longing.

Whatever spell the Lord found himself to be under until just a second ago, it shatters now, dissipates into thin air as his expression shutters. And where before it was Eddie’s words that dealt nothing but damage, now it is his silence, for Lord Harrington steps away from him with a regretful expression and inclines his head once more.

“Forgive me, I overstepped. I am aware of your opinion of me, believe me, I just… I simply… Forgive me. Please. Good night.”

He turns, his hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword as though he were drowning in the ocean blue of his family name and the sword were keeping him afloat. Not a trace of pompous air emanates from him, and Eddie finally feels himself tearing in two as in that gold-sparked moment his knight and Lord Harrington become one right before Eddie’s eyes.

And the bard is helpless when he calls out, “My Lord.” Nothing, as Lord Harrington steps away from him. “Steve.”

He stops.

And so does time.

But Eddie didn’t think this far ahead, knows not what to say, how to make sense of the words trapped inside him that leave his hands trembling and his legs shaking, words that he needs to bring in the right order yet, lest he ruins everything again.

There is only the rapid thump-thump-thump of his heart against his ribcage and the eyes of their unwilling audience turned towards them. The eyes of people who want to see Eddie fail. Who want to see him flail and fall and crawl back into the winter’s night months after his birth, left outside his uncle’s doorstep as his father lost his life over years of debt he had no means to pay off.

“I…”

Words fail him. When he needs them most, when he needs them not as a weapon nor as a caress, they deceive him. And Eddie watches as his time runs out, like sand pouring between his fingers no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He watches, desperately, as Lord Harrington tears himself away. As he weaves through the groups of people, reaching for a goblet of wine as he does, and downs it in one go before he reaches his bard where she is standing off to the side for a short break. He watches as she takes the Lord’s hands in hers and pulls him into a quiet corner and then through a large door onto one of the balconies.

He watches until his vision blurs with tears unshed. He watches until he can no longer stand it, and flees from the ballroom as more of a coward than ever before.

tagging: @itsall-taken @pukner @mugloversonly @devondespresso @hellion-child @fairytalesreality @maya-custodios-dionach @awkwardgravity1 @bubblemixer @paperbackribs @the-redthread @stevesbipanic @gregre369 @chaoticvictorianspirit @cuoredimuschio thank you for reading, i hope this was okay 🤍

#steddie fic #steddie #bard/knight #steve harrington #eddie munson #knight!steve harrington #bardknight #bard!eddie munson #i feel like this is more of a 6k words intermission but hear me out the bard is pathetic and needs to stew a little bit #live with the consequences of his actions and realise just what he has done and how he feels about his knight and lord harrington #skjdfsk i hope this is okay i really really hope so i am so worried that it's gonna disappoint y'all who've been waiting #dio words

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daremna · 1 year

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NOTE: Do not take any of this personally, I am not a professional astrologer. I'm also mostly refering to the underdeveloped/immature versions of these placements. If the shoe fits, slay Cinderella, if not, congrats this isn't about you. PS I do not support misogyny!! Most mean girl archetypes are rooted in patriarchal views and villanising femininity, I'm just using these characters for fun and to base some of my observations on.

Aries placements Including 1h and mars. Known as the 'baby' of the zodiac, ruling the head, aries placents can often have an inflated sense of self, petty and childish tendencies. Because they are ruled by mars, they tend to be very easy to anger, argumentative and driven.

1h/aries mercury are straight to the point and will tell you what they really think without sparing your emotions. Will press your buttons just to rile you up and get a reaction out of you.

1h lilith + chiron placements can have have an unstable/toxic relationship with women and be extremely competitive with them. Can receive a lot of unwarranted negativity and jealousy from other women which in turn will make the native see other women as untrustworthy. (I have lilith in the 1h and I've noticed I tend to rub a lot of women the wrong way. My entire school experience was getting bullied and targeted by MULTIPLE women. I've also had to work through a LOT of internalised misogyny).

1h lilith + pluto will have an intense and heavy energy around them whether they like it or not. Command attention in every room. People will fear or respect you, most likely both. They crave power and don't care if they step on anyone along the way. Will get what they want, or else...

Leo placements including 5 house and sun. The stereotypical 'qeen b' sign. Can often struggle with extreme self esteem & self worth issues. When not worked on, they will project their feelings onto other people to regain a sense of power and control.

Narcissistic to overcompensate for what they think they lack in. Similar to Regina George, they will keep people around that they look down on to always feel on top and like theyre the star/ main character at all times. "She's the queen bee - the star, those other two are just her little workers."

They are ruled by the sun, so they feel like the centre of everyone's universe is their rightful place, they can't help it🤷. (Yes, I'm a leo, and what about it?)

Leo risings can have the typical 'mean girl' look. Attitude, confidence, great outfits and big/poofy hair. "That's why her hair is so big, it's full of secrets." Big Shelby Cummings energy.

When paired with aquarius placements, they can have an even more inflated ego. Theyre the two signs with the biggest god complex.

Virgo placements including 6h. The 'know-it-all' of the zodiac. Can come off as pedantic. Trying to outsmart anyone. Big emphasis on virgo mars and mercury.

When paired with leo placements, they can be self-righteous and very judgemental. "I'm just better than everyone" energy.

Scorpio placements can be as fierce as aries placements, as they are both ruled by mars in traditional astrology, but they will mostly keep it bottled up/hidden to maintain their mysteriousness.

Sun-pluto aspects can make an assertive and driven individual.

Scorpio/1h mercury: "So you agree, you think you're really pretty" energy. Calculating and manipulative. Will play mind games with you. Watching your every move. "Gretchen Wieners knows everybody's business, she knows everything about everyone." Like a cat playing with it's mouse.

Can come off as cold and rude at first regardless of their character (especially scorpio rising). But that's just their rbf. Unless you actually give them a reason to dislike you, then all hell freezes over.

Scorpio mars will become vindictive and spiteful. They hold onto grudges like no other. When vengefuly, they play the long game. WILL remember that time you made fun of their outfit when bumping into you 20 years later. Selective memory🙄.

Gemini placements including 3h and mercury. Stereotypically fake and two-faced. A social chameleon. Extremely charming and persuasive. Can have a tendency to lie and gossip like no other, they love the mental stimulation it gives them. They are ruled by mercury, the planet of communication after all.

Mars/Mercury in gemini or in the 3h love to argue for fun. Will start a verbal altercation just for the hell of it, if they're feeling particularly bored. Gemini-mercury placements will come up with the most creative insults lmao. "You put the "suck" in "liposuction" You put the "ooo" in "jiu-jitsu" You put the "ism" in "This is all just a defense mechanism". Truly a poet, they have a way with words.

Not easy to anger. Like they'll fight you but they don't actually care unless you really got to them. The type to make fun of you if you're really angry and riled up.

If paired with scorpio placements, girl........ They can really be scary is all I'm gonna say (and i hate to stroke people's ego's so this should say a lot).

Libra placements including 7h and venus. Ruled by venus the planet of love, and represented by the scales but don't let that fool you. When underdeveloped they can be highly superficial, shallow and fake. Love to gossip.

Libra rising look innocent and sweet, borderline angelic untill you past it and the mirage slips away~ Remember, biblically accurate angels are scary as hell. Can have the typical 'mean girl' aesthetic, very pink and feminine.

Libra mercury/ venus can be a sweet talker, very charming and persuasive.

Heavy moon aspects especially harsh moon-pluto and moon-mars. The 'mommy issues' placements (I'm sorry. Me too tho). Can become manipulative, fake, cold and detached. Can see women as the enemy and fail to make connections with them due to the maternal trauma they experienced. Have a hard time trusting other women.

Capricorn/10h placements can be dedicated and power hungry. Their workaholic tendencies, if mixed with more vindictive placements or character traits can make the person very ruthless. Goal oriented, focused on the bigger picture. Gets shit done, it's not their fault you were in their way. Big Blair Waldorf vibes! “Destiny is for losers. It’s just a stupid excuse to wait for things to happen instead of making them happen.”

“If you really want something, you don’t stop for anyone or anything until you get it.”

Yh you get my point.

Sagittarius placements are known to be brutally honest. Born without a filter, trust them to tell you the truth. Can come off as rude but usually without malicious intent. "What? I'm just being honest." Truth hurts sometimes.

Mercury-mars and mercury-pluto aspects (heavy on the mercury-mars) know exactly what to say to hurt someone. They can say some awful things in the heat of the moment and regret them afterwards. Their comments can really stick with you, they'll go right for the jugular with no hesitation.

*Remember, these are just for fun, based on my own research and observations. I'm not a professional, I don't know shit. There's no such thing as an evil sign, all placements have a dark side. It all depends on you and how you deal with your issues. I have like, a lot of these placements so I'm not targeting anyone*

~Jules💖

Edit: To the one's reposting this on tiktok with no credit, it's pathetic babes, stop. If you're that interested in astrology try coming up with your own takes🥰💋

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qsphyxias · 4 months

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idk if your requests are open but i was wondering if you could write a (tom)peter parker x male reader fluff because i really enjoyed the other ones that you have written 🫶🫶🫶🫶 much love

if you read yaoi and/or bl regularly as a woman, get the fuck out of here!

synopsis ; peter parker x male! reader

warnings ; male (he/him) reader, cussing, (tom holland) peter parker, established relationship

note ; love me some classic peter parker fanfiction - and thank u for requesting!! not sure how long this has been sitting here for whoops

words ; 0.8k +

"Hey, boyfriend." You snickered, hanging your head over him. Multiple strands of hair followed your sudden movement — blocking your view of him, or rather, his view of you.

He looked up at your face and pushed the strands of your hair to the side of your face without thinking much of it. The smile he beamed right back at you made you feel as if he was trying to move away curtains that revealed a most breathtaking view — you, his wonderful boyfriend.

As cheesy as it sounded, the way you looked at him and leaned down made his mind play one of the most righteous theme songs of the Star Wars trilogy. The feeling of your face against his hand, the desire to just hold you and never let go, the heat of his blood rushing everywhere, it was scary. Peter could hardly think straight when you let a small smile shine through your expression, where was he supposed to look? What was he supposed to touch?

As if on instinct, Peter's hands that were once placed on either side of him on the bed, took action and slid up your waist to gain a little bit more control once he saw you close the distance a bit more by resting on your elbows instead of your palms when hovering over Peter.

His grip caught you by surprise, who knew he could be so initiating?

"Is... Is that okay?" He murmured, watching your expression, terrified he was maybe too assertive this time.

He already went through this struggle with where to touch, back when he thought he only liked girls — but now, it's different. Despite all those experiences, It's like he had to relearn everything about the boyfriend world. It's not the same, because this time, he's the one with the boyfriend, not so much the one having to worry about his role as the only boyfriend in the relationship.

And Peter really doesn't want to fuck it up with his boyfriend.

To his shock and awe, you snorted, dismissing all his worries with one single breath.

"Peter, your heart's made of pure gold, isn't it?" You sighed as you fully relaxed into your new boyfriend's arms, letting your arms slide underneath the small of his back and lock softly.

With your eyes closed, and ear against his heart, Peter could comfortably wear his expression of pure exasperation as he settled into your embrace — not having to worry about you reading his face.

"Uh," Peter leaned his head back against the pillows to think, causing his throat to relax under the pressure of gravity — producing a scratchy tone in his larynx, once could only describe it as infatuation-inducing. "Well, maybe. I mean, I let you be my boyfriend, didn't I? I must be a saint!" He joked, a complete 180 to his previous attitude as he attempted to lighten the heavy romantic tension. A smile adorned his face with ease as he looked down at you for a (hopefully) good reaction.

You opened your eyes to playfully glare at him, "I take back what I said; your heart's made of pure lego — it's completely evident."

Peter feigned offence, "Hey, what makes you say that?" getting a bit more comfortable, he rolled over to face you instead of having to crane his neck down, keeping his hands flush against your back throughout.

"The way your joints click and clack, the way you get all stiff and plastic-like when you get nervous, the way you're practically indestructible — not to mention how much space you allow Lego Star Wars to take up in your heart; there's lots of things, Peter. " You laughed near the end of your mini-speech, fiddling with the the collar of Peter's shirt right in front of your point of view.

"And hey, you're basically built like Lego Batman with those 12-pack abs. Not that I'm complaining..." Peter flushed at the blatant flirt directed at his body.

"I did not come here today to be berated, s/o." Peter chose to ignore the last thing you said, "and I do not get 'plastic-like' when I'm nervous." Peter frowned, to which you chuckled.

"You came here because you missed me, be honest." You corrected.

"Well... Yeah, but you don't have to say it out loud." He mumbled, his shy expression breaking into a grin when he saw you smile first.

"Why not? it's true, isn't it?" You closed the distance between the two of you even more, chest-to-chest, stomach-to-stomach, lips-to....

Your eyes fluttered shut as you leaned up to kiss him, shuddering when you felt his hand rub your back with a gentle force, pulling you impossibly closer to him to fully close the distance.

As the two of you kissed, Peter held you close and vowed to himself in his head, to always protect you. Because to protect you, means he'd be protecting precious moments like these.

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astarions-darling · 6 months

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An Indecent Proposal Raphael x FemTav/Reader

NSFW mdni tags: inappropriate touching, edging, panty sniffin', raphael is a dirty little pervert, clothed male, naked female summary: you barge into Sharess' Caress ready to give Raphael a piece of your mind. however when you get there, things do not go as planned. read on ao3 via source (this is pretty dialogue heavy because Raphael likes the sound of his own voice. and I don't blame him. this is also silly.)

You don’t bother to knock when you reach the door with the little shiny plaque that says “Devil’s Den” in an ornate script. The door isn’t locked, so it swings open effortlessly when you barge in. The tirade ready to fall from your lips falters as the door closes with a soft click behind you and the hand you had raised in righteous anger pauses before limply falling to your side.

Raphael is lounging in one of the overly gilded armchairs that furnish the den, a glass of something that looks both incredibly alcoholic and expensive dangling from one hand as he regards you with that infuriatingly knowing smile. None of that is why the cat suddenly has your tongue; it's that he has shrugged off the outer layer of his clothing and sits there with his white shirt unbuttoned. The view of his bare chest isn't a particularly novel sight—after all, you share a camp with several people, and some—like a certain large elf—enjoy being one with nature on any occasion they can get. It's more of a shock to see Raphael in such a state of undress; it would be a lie to say you had never considered what lay beneath his neatly tailored clothes. But you would have bet all the gold in Faerûn that Korilla stitched him into them every morning to ensure they stayed perfectly in place. Right now he looked so...deliciously dishevelled.

“My, my," comes his amused voice, "does the squirming tadpole hinder your manners as well, little mouse?” The gentle timbre of his voice washes over you and it's enough to snap your attention to his face. “Or have you always been an uncouth little beast that flounces in without knocking?”

You frown at him, your irritation flaring up again. Your fingers flex—though not in a fit of pique but because your mind has been lost to the thought of running your fingers through the hairs on his tanned chest. That bloody distracting devil. Why did you come here again?

"Did you come all this way to gawk like a gutted fish or did you have something you wished to say?" He raises a brow, tipping his drink towards you. "If you wish to stare, I am, of course, happy to oblige—though that will cost you. This establishment operates on a quid pro quo basis, you know."

Quickly you shake your head, trying to wrangle your thoughts. The devil stands, unfolding himself gracefully from his chair and languidly striding over to a nearby credenza on which an array of bottles and glasses sit. He moves with care, never rushing, and with a deliberate air you can’t help but admire. He makes you feel clumsy.

You watch him carefully pour some rich amber liquid into his glass. It looks like steam rises and hisses above it for a moment before disappearing. The man turns to you, the corner of his lips quirked.

“I’d offer you a drink but I’m certain you’d decline.”

That presumptuous bastard. You’re too irritated to wonder if this is a trick on his part, which is foolish. But he too easily gets under your skin and so you open your mouth to retort.

“I would love a drink,” you say petulantly. You watch him take a sip, hating how you can’t stop yourself from watching his tongue flick out to catch the remnants of it on his lips. He fills up another glass before passing it to you. You watch the amber liquid swirl a moment before throwing it back quickly.

An incredibly stupid thing to do. Whatever it is, the liquor burns your throat and has you spluttering as you bend over coughing. You hear Raphael’s low chuckle of amusement before a glass of water is conjured out of thin air and hovers before you. You snatch it, guzzling it down just like the beast he claims you to be.

“What the bloody hell was that?” you ask, wiping at your mouth with the back of his hand. You catch his nose wrinkling at your lack of decorum. “I think my insides are melting!”

“Cease your melodramatic caterwauling,” he says, casually taking another sip of his own drink. Smug bastard. “It will pass.”

You cough again, feeling the liquor heat up your veins. You blink a few times before the alcohol simmers down, leaving just a pleasant warmth in your belly. Liquor and spirits had been few and far between while on your little adventure—well, anything half decent that is. The swill you’d managed to get was no better than vinegar. You’d stupidly agreed to let Astarion steal some expensive-looking vintage from the wine festival in the Lower City…which had ended up with you spending the night in a cell. Sometimes that elf was the clumsiest person you’d ever met. With that thought, you suddenly remember why you’ve come here.

“I would like for you to stop sending Korilla to spy on me,” you demand as the devil places his drink down so he can re-button the cuffs of his sleeves.

Did he go deliberately tan on some beach, you wonder? That thought spirals and you’re suddenly picturing lying in the sun on some perfect beach while his skin glitters with salt and sea.

“You should be thanking me.” His lilting words are annoyingly pleasant and they drag you out of your daydream. “After all, if dear Korilla hadn’t been with you a few nights ago you’d probably still be a trapped little mouse in a cell.” He smirks, picking up his drink again and tilting the glass toward you. “Stealing wine, really?”

You decide to keep your mouth shut, something that you mentally congratulate yourself for. It was true that Korilla had been the one to free you from your dank cell. Which was a lucky thing; you didn’t want to hurt people while trying to break free, but it would have come to that if the warlock hadn’t intervened. Raphael watches you carefully, an easy smile on his handsome face, his confident casual air annoying you more than anything else.

“I will withdraw Korilla’s eye from your camp,” he says after a few minutes, his voice thoughtful, “if you give me something in return.”

Of course. You sigh. What did you expect?

“I’m not giving you my soul just for that, Raphael,” you scoff. “If I wouldn’t take one of your deals for the hammer then I certainly won’t trade it just to stop your little dog from following me around.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking such a thing,” he says smoothly, ignoring your little jab about Korilla. “I desire a mere trifle. Inexpensive!” The devil laughs, a warm pleasing sound that has your lips twitching and skin flushing despite yourself. “I promise you won’t even miss it.”

You frown. What did you have that he would want? Soul coins, perhaps? But surely Raphael couldn’t know you had some in your possession, could he? But also they weren’t inexpensive…not in the least. What in Balduran’s name could he possibly want from you?

“What?” you ask, eyes narrowing.

He tuts. “You really do need to acquire some manners, little mouse. Too much scurrying around with scoundrels and vagabonds.” He sighs, taking a sip of his drink before grabbing a different bottle. You watch him uncork it with ease and pour the dark red liquid into a silver chalice. When he proffers it to you, your hands take it carefully. “Perhaps this may be more pleasing to your sensitive mortal palate.” You watch the candlelight flicker over the wine before you bring it up to smell. Inhaling, you let the notes of cherry and plum assault your senses, the sweet richness of it utterly inviting. When you take a sip, you let it sit on your tongue for a moment to savour it before you close your eyes and swallow. You hadn’t had anything that good in…well, you don’t think you’ve ever had such a decadent wine before.

When you meet Raphael’s gaze again, you shift on your feet. Your fingers grip tighter on the stem, remembering where you are and who you’re talking to.

“It’s nice,” you say, idly swirling the glass. “Well, what do you want then?”

“Your knickers.”

There is no hesitation in his words, he shoots them out quickly and effortlessly—like Astarion would shoot an arrow. You nearly spill the wine in your shock. You’re certain you’ve hallucinated his words or perhaps this is a weird dream. Maybe you are still tucked in your bed at the Elfsong Tavern, dreaming about devils and their insanity.

“You want my what?”

“Your knickers,” Raphael repeats, his easy stare watching you as a multitude of emotions flicker over your face.

So you had heard him correctly. The man doesn’t even act like he’s asked for anything unreasonable. Disbelief has you standing there with your mouth agape. Is he trying to humiliate you? He must be. Was this some sort of strange ploy to get you to agree to his insane deal of the hammer for the crown?

“Why?” The word falls out of your mouth gracelessly, but you aren’t here to cater to Raphael’s want for proper etiquette.

“Why anything?” His voice is low and tinged with amusement as he finishes his drink. He leaves the glass on the credenza to walk closer to you, his hands gesturing as he continues to talk. “Why does the fox chase the hare? Why do little thieves steal wine? For the thrill?” He pauses, head tilting to the side as he regards you. He grins at you. “For pleasure?”

You despise the way he inflects the last word. It sends a rolling shiver down your spine.

“If you’re trying to humiliate me, consider it done.”

He feigns hurt, or you think he does, as he sighs dramatically. You wish he would he would dress himself back in his tunic again, or at least do up his shirt buttons as your eyes can’t help but flick to his exposed throat and chest as his shirt shifts with his movements.

“I would never dare dream of humiliating you, my dear.” Raphael's words sound sincere, but you do not trust him. He’s a devil. It’s like a constant mantra you have to repeat yourself. You are aware that devils can’t lie, but they can certainly bend the truth—just enough—so that it won’t break. “How it claws at my heart to hear you even utter such a thing.”

“I didn’t know you had a heart,” you retort.

“You wound me again, sweetling.” Hand over supposed heart, Raphael smiles. “Indulge me. I do not ask for much.”

It was true, it really wasn’t much. A heavy sigh and then you hear yourself utter a resigned, “Fine.” It was ludicrous but you couldn’t see any harm in it. And he hadn’t produced a contract to sign—just a gentleman’s agreement, as it were. You were not going to tell any of your companions that you had traded your panties for some freedom. Nine Hells, you hoped you could sneak back into the tavern without them noticing. Perhaps the alcohol has loosened your resolve and has you acting so stupidly but you can’t see anything wrong with the arrangement. With another sigh, you ditch the wine on a nearby table before you turn to leave, but Raphael calls after you.

“And where are you rushing off to?”

“To the tavern,” you say, turning back to face him, “to fetch you your perverse prize.”

“No.” He takes a few steps closer and you catch that hint of spice and musk that wafts from him. “The ones you are wearing, little mouse.”

You suppress a shudder. He’s never been so close to you before, he’s manoeuvred himself into your personal space. The heat and power that radiates from him is intoxicating, more so than any drink upon your tongue, and you’re suddenly reminded of what he is underneath his welcome facade. Yet that doesn’t stop your mouth from opening.

“There are plenty of boutiques around here if you’re that desperate for some new lingerie, Raphael. No need to take mine.” You stick your chin out, matching his stare as you can’t help but add, “As lovely as I think you’d look in pink lace.”

The man’s face doesn’t change, the easy smile remains but you can see the brightness of his eyes—as if you can sense their true infernal nature behind his human disguise. He seems pleased with your reluctance to submit to him easily. Something that you hate to admit makes you pleased in return.

“Pink’s not really my colour,” he muses, fingers tapping his chin thoughtfully, “though I am sure the flush of it against your skin suits.”

Those words do not help you’re suddenly racing heart but you try to ignore his silver tongue. Shifting on your feet, you try to get your mind back in order. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for somewhere to change though there doesn’t appear to be anywhere.

“How I do enjoy watching the little wheels turn in that pretty head of yours.”

You glare at him. “Where can I change then, devil?”

He laughs and then spreads his arms wide. “Right here.” At the look on your face he continues, “You mortals are so easily flustered.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Please, as if I have not seen bare flesh before.”

Later, when you are tucked in your rented bed, you will blame the alcohol. But for now, you simply begin to undo your clothing, starting with removing your boots. He takes a mere step back, those eyes watching you the entire time until you are standing there in nothing but your underclothes. Feeling self-conscious, you feel the flush begin in your chest and work its way up your neck but you refrain from trying to cover yourself up and stand there with your hands by your side as your body tenses. The look on his face hasn’t really changed, but again there is something behind the eyes. A reaching hunger. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you, can devil’s see a soul? Does it call out to him and do his hands itch to pluck it free?

Raphael walks behind you and instinctively you go to turn but his warm hands reach out to hold your shoulders, keeping you where you stand and your toes scrunch at the soft rug beneath to curb some of the tension now beginning to coil in your gut. The lingering touch as he holds you burns into your skin, not due to his infernal nature—though you do sense that he feels rather warm than a regular man—but due to the way your traitorous body reacts to his touch.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“I just want to remember you as you are now, before your flesh is torn asunder by writhing tentacles.” His hands slide down your sides, leaving a trail of gooseflesh and a horrible twinge of arousal. “Before your lovely skin is slippery with mucus and…” he leans in and you feel the tip of his nose behind your ear making you shiver, “you lose that delectable scent.”

You can feel the deep rolling timbre of his voice against your skin. You are too aware of him behind you, your muscles tense as you try to resist the entirely too tempting urge to step back into him. “I am not giving you the crown.” You manage to utter the words though they come out in a whisper. But you are still somewhat proud that you can utter them at all.

“You will.” His fingers touch your neck and you can’t suppress the shudder. “I see your little vampling has taken a bite.”

You twitch as the soft pad of his finger grazes against the puncture wounds on your neck.

“It helps him fight better.”

His hum in response tickles your neck but you refrain from responding. What would you say? That you like letting the vampire feed on you occasionally? That the searing flash of pain mixing so deliciously with the heady feeling of Astarion drinking from you is unlike any sort of pleasure you’ve experienced before? No. The devil did not need any details.

“I’m sure it does.” Raphael's words float against the shell of your ear and you are momentarily aware that you have a literal devil hovering by your shoulder.

The pad of his finger once more traces the puncture wounds from Astarion’s bite. It feels like a bolt of magic whenever he touches you, though the shock of it is far too pleasant and it goes straight between your legs. Your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth but you manage to unstick it just as he pulls away.

Raphael moves around you until he is once more facing you. You feel flushed, far too aware of how your pulse is thudding in your neck, yet he looks perfectly calm and collected, breathing even and standing there as if you were merely discussing the weather. When he drops to his knees before you, you want to scream but you are too transfixed at the sight of him before you. You can barely think when his hands reach up towards your underwear. You stare dumbfounded, some part of you still blaming it on the alcohol, as you watch his long, elegant fingers trace the pattern of lace by your hip.

“They do look lovely on you, little mouse, a pity.”

You find your tongue again and manage to mutter, “I can undress myself.”

“I’m sure you can,” he purrs. You wish you could cast Silence on him. “But what sort of man would I be if I didn’t lend a helping hand?”

Quickly you look away, face burning in embarrassment as your mind easily imagines how helpful said hand could be. He really shouldn’t be allowed to speak in such a way. Did he cast some kind of spell on you? Did he put something in that drink? Or were you just simply this spellbound by him—perhaps not something to dwell on, you decide. You feel his warm breath against the top of your thigh as his fingers slide up under the band of your knickers at your lack of response. You realise you’re holding your breath as he slides the lace down your legs. You risk a glance down but quickly flick your eyes away—his face is far too close to your bare sex. If he moves his head even slightly you know you will feel his breath on your cunt.

Standing there, you wrestle with the idea of stepping back or just blasting him in the face with a spell. Not that you are very good with spells. But damn does his touch feel nice, his hands are so damn warm and soft as he oh so fucking slowly slides your underwear down. Raphael hasn’t said a word and it’s been at least a minute—that must be a record. The lace finally reaches the ground and he taps your ankle.

Wordlessly you lift a foot and his low response of, “Good girl,” has you desperately fighting to control your stupid dumb animal body’s response. Your fingers itch to steady yourself on his shoulder but you refrain…just. Luckily all your adventuring has improved your athletics and you’re determined not to give the devil the satisfaction of stumbling before him into a wanton heap.

His thumb slips under the fabric still hanging around your other ankle and tugs at it. You’d been staring at the wall straight ahead, eyes fixed on a portrait hanging in some ornate frame. But at the tug, you glance down and see Raphael staring up at you, that smug smirk plastered on his face. Could you get away with kneeing him in the face? Lords above, could you get away with yanking him by the hair (and it was such lovely hair) and between your legs? Both are tempting.

“Little mouse?” His voice is a long lilting drawl and he tugs again at your knickers.

You lift your foot quickly, again saving yourself from tripping over, as he slips it off your foot and stands. You stand there a moment, dazed. Your skin still feels like it is on fire, he must be able to smell your arousal…you can. And you can see the way his nostrils flare as he stands and you watch the devil bring the pink lace up to his face and inhale. Now would be a great time for the Elder Brain to try and shake free of its bonds, you think.

“Did you just—”

With a snap of his fingers, you're suddenly dressed. “Was that so difficult?” “Why didn’t you just do that to take them?” you ask incredulously. “Where would be the fun in that?” He straightens the lapel on your clothing and adds, “Remember, I will still be here when you are ready to admit you need me.”

You grit your teeth. “I don’t need the hammer.”

Those deceptively warm eyes regard you and he smiles again, making your hands itch. You can feel how wet you are between your thighs, and in that moment you realise that is not what he means. But you do not get a chance to speak as with a wave of his hand you find yourself disappearing in a flash of crimson-tinged ash before you are teetering on the steps of Sharess’ Caress in the warm evening air. That smarmy, panty sniffing, bastard. As you begin the walk back to the tavern, you tell yourself your frustration has nothing to do with the way he had touched you. Nothing at all.

When you return to the Elfsong, you attempt to sneak past the group as they eat around a large wooden table. Of course, you can’t get past Shadowheart, the cleric spotting you and instantly dragging you to the table. You slide in, squished between her and Gale as she begins to question where you’ve been.

“Nowhere,” you say with a dismissive shrug, proud of how natural it sounds as you grab a bread roll and try to ignore the lingering throb between your legs. ”I just went for a walk.”

You feel eyes on you and look up into the knowing gaze of Astarion. “A walk, darling?” He leans in across the table and you see his nostrils flare. “An exhilarating one, I take it?” He sniffs again. “Climb any cherry trees on your…walk?”

#.writing #sneef sneef #lmao this is so dumb #bg3 fanfic #bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael x reader #raphael x tav #but it was fun #baldurs gate fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction

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jqnehr · 8 days

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les améthystes du ciel | neuvillette — part 19

two individuals under pressure to marry. one has the hydro archon on his back, and the other has her matchmaking friend pushing her along. when the two meet at a ball, and both in dire need of peace from two meddlesome females, what better arrangement is there than their own betrothal?

pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader warnings : wow ok so this one is, once again, 16+ only. ANGST. copious amounts of angst im telling you. mentions of suicide (literally the first line ☠️), graphic depictions of attempted murder by hanging, andré is massive asshole and you will see why, graphic violence, this is a very heavy chapter so you have been warned, fluff and suggestive stuff (wink wonk) at the end to make up for it all <3 word count : 21k (i have no words.) note : twenty one thousand damn words later and here we are. y'all asked for it!! but i also promised it so. ANYWAYS, if the end seems a bit rush that's because i have a massive headache right now and i need to sleep RIGHT NOW. enjoy y'all <3.

! not proof read

! do not copy, redistribute, translate, or use my work with or without credit in any way. thank you.

part eighteen⋮ masterlist ⋮ part twenty

ao3 ⋮ playlist

...

Your mother committed suicide. Perhaps that was the first fracture in the foundations of your life. A fissure that was leaking, but you conveniently brushed it off. A problem unsolved will only grow in size, but you never let that occur to you.

What they don’t know can’t hurt them. A rather generic, overused saying—but, nonetheless, it held quite surmountable insight towards your mother’s day-to-day life, for it was a common one of hers, perhaps her favourite. When one is an outcast in society, with nowhere else to go but the Fleuve Cendre, one would be quick to find out the true, ugly nature of the impoverished realm sitting below the comforts of Fontaine, and how each day is swift to morph into one of a battle for endurance, survival. The Fleuve Cendre is a dismal place, and despite some of the genuinely good individuals dwelling there, it’s rather a haven for the more shady, the more illicit.

Bootleg organisations and fraudulent gatherings is something commonly seen, commonly encountered, commonly conducted—and commonly turned a blind eye to. Those with no ill-intent, and yet no authority, have no other choice but to overlook such crooked arrangements, for fear of their own safety, and their families’—if they have any. The overworld’s influence down within the sewers is weak; bribery is rampant, the hush money always so generous. Ex-criminals with no place in society above aren’t necessarily welcome below, but nor can they be turned away—on the surface, to any old law-abiding citizen of Fontaine, the Fleuve Cendre doesn’t seem all that bad; it appears to be well-maintained, the law is enforced and kept by the inhabitants—and people don’t like to think about it any more than what it seems to be at face value. Such applies for every other aspect of life also. Ignorance is bliss.

That’s what the overworld citizens enjoy. Bliss. And that’s why, during your youth, you made it your life’s goal to relocate to the overworld. To try and fit in, become one of the uppity, ‘righteous’ law-abiding residents. Live in a nice apartment, stroll about the grassy slopes of your region’s landscape, admire the vast views. Maybe get a Vision, and go explore the underwater world many renown for its otherworldly beauty.

You would’ve—and at the time of your first especially tragic, life-altering incident of walking in your own mother swallowing a cyanide pill, you knew that things were never as simple as your mind presented it to be.

Your mother had grabbed your upper arm with a vice-like grip, digging her nails into your flesh, hissing, “Burn it. Burn the papers. The documents. Get rid of it all. Or Fulbert will—” she hacked out a cough, “—get to you.”

How she managed her final words out with such vivacity and resolve even as she died is something you didn’t know whether to admire, or to resent. She left you shaking violently all over once her hand slumped from your arm.

Once you told Daniel, you and him immediately rummaged through your mother’s office, turning it upside down, gathering all the papers and ledgers and records you both could find involving her illegal dealings and set them alight, honouring her dying wish. Of course, you both read through them before you threw a match at them—throughout your childhoods, your mother had been dealing with gangs, Treasure Hoarders, even the Fatui, as a way to make a living and feed you both. Smuggling of illegal substances, unauthorised trading of alcohol and firewater for Fatui roaming about Fontaine, and even exchanging of highly-confidential governmental information to the Fatui, for a hefty price. All dealings that put your mother and her two children in grave, grave danger if she were ever to bail on them, sell her clientele out, or be caught by the court of law, which, to you—and as your brother also agrees—explains why your mother was very distant.

Your father disappeared when you were three. You and your brother were born out of wedlock, anyway, and considering what your brother has told you about the man before he took off, he wasn’t the most pleasant of fellows to your mother. Your mother once drunkenly shrieked that he left because you were born a girl, and it all boiled down to you, essentially, tearing her relationship with your father apart due to your birth. When she sobered, she expressed no memory of ever shouting such an awful thing at you, leaving you to pull away, to accept it, wounded.

The woman never treated either of her children with motherly love. She hardly ever inquired either of you of your whereabouts in the Fleuve Cendre, apparently uncaring of your safety. The sewers is an unkind place to most, but there is a sense of familiarity within—everyone looks out for each other, which explains how the only type of parental love you ever received was through Elias. But he was more of an uncle. A genuine old man, you’re thankful to him for teaching you many life lessons when the one person who should’ve, never did. It was a morbid stroke of luck that he died just when you were old enough to fend for yourself. Perhaps that was the final push towards you actually shifting to the overworld.

Your brother soon followed, and then he met Elvira. It was nice to see him appear so much freer compared to what he was like when barely scraping by down in the Fleuve Cendre. It took a few years until your brother and Elvira, his girlfriend at that time, finally agreed to marry. You remember him jokingly asking when you were going to get engaged, to which you waved off and dismissed, telling him not to pressure you about it.

Despite destroying all known records of any of your mother’s illegal dealings, a premonition stayed with you throughout the years after—what if there was something you’d missed? Something incriminating, damnatory—where it could end you both up in prison, just for being the primary culprit’s only living offspring? Yes, it would most certainly be inculpating. Hiding such criminal transactions and such would absolutely earn you a spot down in the Fortress of Meropide. Why, your mother had even committed treason by tipping off members of the Fatui about highly confidential matters involving the country’s government and judicial system. How she obtained that information, you’ll never know—and you don’t want to know. All you do know is that her shady relations had, essentially, left you and your brother in a tight spot for, as it would seem, the rest of your lives.

Perhaps moving to the overworld was an attempt at an escape from such.

Where—when—did things go wrong?

Long before you got your job at Chioriya Boutique, you were juggling multiple jobs just to make ends meet. Such is the life of an individual without the certifications and required amount of education to pursue any real career—such is the life of an individual who has never had control or a choice over that. Such is the life of a woman who has grown up in the dejected world of the Fleuve Cendre, one without much opportunity.

Entering the Akademiya? What a painfully pathetic pipe dream that is for a peasant who lived her childhood in the slums. The Akademiya is for the elevated, for the brilliant of mind—and, most importantly, for the deep of pocket.

Those three things you did not have. And you still don’t really have them. The fuzzy memory of your aunt bequeathing her books to you is so vague now, you barely think of it anymore. But, that is still the seed that was planted towards pursuing your fantasy of entering the greatest university in Teyvat. It is a shame you had to give it up.

Either way, you’ve never really gone about your life resenting the circumstances you grew up in—in fact, you don’t even have an opinion of your mother anymore. You and your brother don’t bring it up. Your lives had improved so much, and it seemed to only get better.

That’s when you met André—confident, witty André.

Your first meeting was at a wedding anniversary party thrown by a mutual friend. It was a rather humble occasion, with only about thirty guests in total, where the atmosphere was hospitable and warm. Although you were never really a people person, this event was one of the few places where you felt genuinely welcomed. Amiable chatter came easily, and thus came the introductions.

“Mademoiselle [Name], allow me to introduce you to my dear friend here, André Banville.”

He was tall, swarthy, and had kind eyes. They were a deep brown, black against the orange glow of the chandelier overhead, but they were not cold, and they sparkled. He wasn’t the most handsome man you’d ever met, but there was something about him that just pulled you in. It pulled everyone in, like he was a welcoming gravitational field, drawing all those around into his orbit. This was clear—for many had greeted him and struck up conversations with him, and he was like the beating heart of the party, despite being a guest, and the hosts had no problem with it. In fact, the couple cheerily chatted away with him, and André never failed to make those around roar with laughter.

You had held out a hand for him to shake, but he surprised you by taking it and placing a gentlemanly kiss to the top of it. “Good evening, Mademoiselle. It is lovely to meet you.”

A wash of heat had enveloped you, and you stood stunned for a moment. “I—erm—why, thank you, good sir. How do you fare on this fine evening?”

André had released your hand and straightened, shoving his hands into his pockets, pose languid, and it was such a smooth, fluid motion, you blinked at the strange attractiveness of it. His curly dark hair flopped down over his forehand, brushing against his eyes, and you noticed he had long, pretty lashes. Slightly envious, you had regarded him with curiosity and fascination. He must be of Natlanian or Sumeruian heritage.

When he smiled, it brought his dimples to light. “Well, when there’s champagne involved, I’m always happy.”

His companion beside him, the one who introduced you, let out a hearty laugh, giving him a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Hoho, good one, André! Now, where’s Stephie?”

André shrugged, and turned back to you. His friend clapped him on the shoulder once more as he turned and left you both alone, chortling, making his way back through the crowd to locate the woman he mentioned, presumably his wife. André inclined his head towards you. “So, what do you do for a living, Mademoiselle?”

You blinked, oddly surprised at the question. You hadn’t expected him to carry on a conversation. Attractive, likeable people didn’t usually do that with you. “Uh. I just work a few jobs in the city. I’d like to become a seamstress, maybe work at a renowned boutique one day.”

That had made his brows raise. Someone passing by offered him a flute of champagne, of which he immediately accepted with thanks. You were offered no flute. And then he surprised you further by extending it out towards you. “You are good with a needle and thread? Do you like to design clothes?” You, flustered, accepted the glass of champagne, blushing at his kindness. It had left you quite tongue-tied. “I—oh, n-no, not really—it’s, well…I like making the designs, you see? If I were to be corny, I’d say, ‘I like bringing them to life’.”

André had grinned. “Quite poetic of you, Mademoiselle. Say, would you be inclined to mending a tailcoat of mine for me? Of course, I will pay you. It’s really quite urgent, you understand, as I have an event I must attend soon and it needs to be fixed for the evening—”

“Of course I can,” you had agreed before thinking better of it, despite being surprised at the abruptness of his request. Besides, you could have used the extra money. “If you want, I can come pick it up.”

“I will deliver it to you.” He had reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a mini notepad and pen. “Here, just write your address or place of work down for me, and I’ll get back to you.” Any normal woman would have second guessed it and pulled away from immediately providing a man she’d just met her address, but none of that occurred to you. This man was charming, polite, and had eyes anyone would like. To you, he seemed perfectly genuine.

But, you realised soon after his attempt on your life, that was the very thing about André Banville. Perfectly genuine. Perfectly charming. Perfectly polite. Had mastered the art of acting with the eyes. Only ever reached out to you if you had something he wanted, something he could use.

You two got along like a house on fire. André had such a knack for putting everyone around him at ease. Conversation was quick to flow naturally, and soon you had divulged him of your origins, of your past, and of where you wished to be. No judgement shone in his eyes once your story came to an end, and all previous qualms you had about befriending this man had swiftly faded.

The eyes are the window to the soul. That is what you thought back then. And, back then, you looked into André’s and saw sincerity you hadn’t witnessed before.

That was the push off the brink. You were merely a guileless, worriless youth back then, still just a fledgeling spreading her wings in the outside world—in this scenario, that being the overworld—and you were much less practical than you are today. Back then, you daydreamed and fantasised readily, believing there to be nothing but happiness in the wake of your future. And that proved true, for a time.

It became easy to forget all the important things when around the things you loved and people you liked. André grew to be one of your closest companions, one of your most trusted friends, and a man you envisioned the rest of your life with. You introduced him to your brother, and Daniel heartily shook his hands and they, too, became good friends.

André was such a joyous addition to your life. The gods had finally decided to smile on you, you supposed, contentedly watching André and Daniel share common interests and laugh together over a good glass of wine. Elvira enjoyed his company also—and you all quickly became like one big family.

You were all so easily deceived.

He must have thought it hilarious. All of you, so effortlessly duped into his little bubble—one you, in particular, walked so readily into. But it turned into a cage, and it became impossible to leave.

Because you didn’t want to leave, until it was too late.

You still remember your second meeting like it was yesterday—the two, short knocks at your door, your excited leap from your seat on the couch, the quick once-over in your hall wall-mirror just to check that you’re presentable, and the slightly-rushed opening of your door.

There André stood, with one of his hands in his pockets in that same, the other holding a paper bag—presumably with his damaged tailcoat inside it—that signature pose of his that screamed nonchalance, a languid posture almost indolent, like he had all the time in the world to get whatever he needed to get done, done.

And that alluring, tanned skin of his, those deep brown locks spilling over assured dark eyes, rimmed with long lashes you covet. André exuded confidence, seemed so secure in himself, but never with that self-absorbed vibe you frequently detected from others with the looks and money and reason to flaunt. André was no flaunter, no bragger. People did the bragging for him. If you were his friend, you had something to boast about.

His popularity in Fontanian high society was growing steadily. Women and girls flocked to him. Everywhere he went, he was the life of the party. A true social butterfly, with the skills and talents that everyone admired, that everyone wanted.

“André,” you greeted, smiling, stepping aside and opening the door wider to allow him to enter. “It’s lovely to see you.”

“Quite so, quite so! That’s a pretty blouse you have on there, [Name]. The colour makes your eyes pop.”

“Why, thank you.” How you had managed to get that out without stuttering, is still beyond you to this day. “Care for anything? Tea? Coffee? It’s not even noon yet.”

“No, no, I’ve actually got to run.” André glanced around for a moment before pointing at your dining table, a paper bag in his hands. “Shall I put this over there?” “Oh, here, I’ll take it from you.” You quickly approached him and reached for the paper bag. He swiftly handed it over, before giving you a wide smile. “Sorry I can’t stay. Let me get you coffee to make up for it.”

You blinked. He’s…asking me out? On a date? No. You both had just met barely a week ago. Sure, you had spent the rest of the evening chatting away, getting along like old friends, and he had said he was looking forward to seeing you again—but, surely it wasn’t that much to read into.

“Uh—sure, if you’d like. You really don’t have to.” I can’t be a bother and make him grow tired of me! You’d never had the most interesting of personalities, and you weren’t beautiful or rich, so you didn’t have much going for you.

André had never seemed to care.

“What do you mean? Getting you coffee is the least I could possibly do for you.”

“Oh…but you’re already paying me Mora—”

“Right!” He snapped his fingers at your reminding words. “Here. I hope it’s enough.” André pulled out a little brown pouch from his jacket pocket, the coins inside clinking in his palm, and he placed it on top of the paper bag that sat in your hold. “There you are. Coffee next week on Tuesday, if you’re free?”

You blinked several times to rearrange your thoughts, still reeling from the Mora so casually handed to you—practically thrown at you—and it made you wonder if he was wealthier than he let on. He never dressed in very expensive wear. It was neat and formal enough, sure, but it never looked exorbitant. “Erm…alright. I really do hope I’m not being a bother.” “If you were bothering me, [Name], I wouldn’t have offered, and I’d have long let you know, don’t you worry about that.” The man grinned and stepped past you—and even ruffled your hair lightheartedly on his way to your door. You had hurriedly put down the bag and pouch of money on your coffee table, scurrying over to see him out. André turned and gave you a friendly wave goodbye. “Again, thank you for agreeing to do this small favour for me. Really, you’re a lifesaver. Well, then, I’ll see you on Tuesday, Mademoiselle.”

With one final grin, off André went, hurrying to attend to whatever errand demanded his attention, leaving you dazed, flushed, and thrilled.

You had mended his tailcoat with the best thread you owned, making sure the seam you sewed the hole back together with was completely invisible on the finished product—just as if it was bought right from the factory. The hole was really quite big—it looked torn, as if someone had either grabbed it to wrench its wearer back, or some kind of item had snagged it and ripped it through in hurried attempts to get away.

It had made you hum to yourself in contemplation, holding the material up to the light and studying the serrated rip of the material. Thankfully, it’s salvageable. All you had to do was slightly snip at the jagged ends and sew it back together. Good as new.

It didn’t take you long to complete. Only an hour and a half, at best. That meant you had to wait about a week to return it to André…and a week you had to wait until seeing him again.

Stupid girl! You had immediately berated yourself at your train of thought, blinking back to reality. You just met him. Slow down!

Despite your attempts to brush it off, the week had dragged on by endlessly, almost driving you insane. You had tried to occupy yourself with other things—visiting your brother, having nice chats with Elvira over a few cups of tea, busying yourself with your jobs, going on a spontaneous cleaning spree in your apartment, finally getting around to washing those curtains of yours. All nice, useful distractions, but they didn’t fully distract your thoughts for a week. It had left you slumped on your couch, staring up at the ceiling, still with your rubber cleaning gloves on.

This is bad. You’d never been in love before, so you were sure this was just a fleeting little crush that would fade. Never mind him being the first man to actually treat you like another human being enjoyable to be around—you were sure (at least, according to the silly romance novels you had liked to sit down and read occasionally) that this would pass eventually. Yes. That’s all it is. You’re not a teenager anymore! Grow up! He probably doesn’t give a damn about you at all!

If only you had known how right you were.

André had knocked on your door that following Tuesday, beaming that same smile of his. One that was quickly becoming your favourite to see. Ugh, I can be so cringe at times.

“Well! I hope you’re ready for our little outing.” Were the first words he greeted you with upon you opening your door. You, in fact, were all dressed and ready to go, bubbling with excitement on the inside. “I suppose so. Ah—here, your tailcoat, it’s all finished.” You handed over the neatly ironed and folded tailcoat in the same paper bag he had given it to you in, strangely nervous about what his reaction would be.

You had no reason to worry, however, for he instantly lit up and accepted the item with an even bigger smile. “Wonderful! You really are a lifesaver, [Name]. Let’s take a look at it.”

André had pulled out the tailcoat, carefully unfolded it, and inspected the cloth with an intent eye. He held the material where the hole was, before flicking his gaze to you, eyes twinkling. “Goodness! You’d never have even known it was there!”

You had looked down bashfully, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear at the compliment. It made your blood sing. “Oh, thank you, André—but, truly, it’s the least I could do. Nothing to it, really.”

“Nonsense! I am highly impressed, you can’t even see the seam. Now, come along—you’re owed a latte and an éclair.”

“An éclair! My goodness, you spoil me, André.” You had smiled, shaking your head, locking your apartment door behind you, placing your keys back into your purse and adjusting its strap on your shoulder. He offered his arm, surprising you even further. “Well, my word! Aren’t you just the perfect gentleman?” “Something I pride myself in.” André had grinned, patting your hand fondly. “Now, what is your favourite café?”

That day, after wandering around town and just getting to know each other, André invited you to accompany him to the ball he was attending in two days’ time.

“I—” you broke off, blinking, completely caught off guard by the suggestion. “Well, I would love to, André, but…I don’t have any proper evening wear for such an occasion. And, I don’t have an invitation.”

“No need to worry your pretty little head about that factor, [Name],” he had teasingly responded, tapping your forehead. “For I have a plus-one invitation. And, I have chosen you to be the one I escort.”

“Well, that’s great—but, as I said, I don’t have a ballgown. I don’t even have that much makeup, and only two pairs of earrings.” Such are the perks of being rather impoverished.

“And as I said, you don’t need to worry.” He paused before a building, and swept an arm up towards it. “Tonight is quite an important night for me, so having you as my partner is rather detrimental towards appearances.”

“I—I see.” You gaped up at the store’s marquee—Gaëlle’s Couture. At that time, well before Chioriya Boutique opened, ‘Gaëlle’s Couture’ was the number one boutique in Fontaine. Not only was Gaëlle’s Couture a true fashion emporium, but it also had a salon within it. So, it was convenient to purchase and have your selected gown or clothing fitted, and then get your makeup done.

“Are—are you sure about this, André?” You managed out, blinking up at him. “This…place is very expensive. You’ve already spent more than enough on me for a lifetime.” “Rubbish! Consider this one more favour you’re doing for me.” He turned and led you into the boutique. You were too dazed to protest any further. André winked down at you. “And, at the end of the day, I really don’t think you could possibly deny an excuse to get all dolled up, no? No woman would, as far as I know.”

“Uh, well…” you mumbled, warily looking around at all the colourful clothes and dresses and shoes on display, uncertain. Everything looked and smelled so expensive—that even if it wasn’t you spending any money, it still felt like getting a tooth extracted. You had never liked other people spending money on you, anyway. It always made you feel like they had one on you, as if you thus owed them something from then on. “I really don’t know, André…”

“Tut tut, hush for a moment, [Name],” André shushed you and turned to the staff member who had approached you both to assist you with anything.

“Welcome! How may I help you today, Monsieur?”

“It would be wonderful if you could find a proper ball gown for this lovely young woman here.” He gestured to you, smiling. You kept your eyes carefully trained on the carpeted ground of the store. “You see, we have an event coming up in a few days, and she doesn’t have anything appropriate to wear.” “Of course! That shall be no problem.” The woman smiled at you warmly, turning to lead you both to the women’s formal wear section just over in another aisle. “Please, follow me.”

André patted your shoulder and pointed to some couches over the side. “I’ll be over there, waiting for you. Pick out whatever you’d like. Don’t worry about the price.”

“Are you sure—”

“Go, [Name].” He nudged you in the direction of the awaiting staff member. “Dress up to your heart’s content.”

Defeated, you nodded and turned to the woman standing by, plastering a polite smile on your face. “Well, then, please lead the way.”

The dresses you tried on that day were all beautifully crafted, intricately designed, and costly. Of course, they were certainly worth every penny priced, but you felt very out of place trying on such expensive and luxurious wear. You, a commoner, hailing from the murky depths of the Fleuve Cendre, donning dresses fit for a queen? You, a rather destitute young woman, who once wore tattered old garments in need of a good wash and mend, now all dolled up like a noblewoman? It was unfathomable to you. It was a dream come true, yes—you had practically become the epitome of a ‘rags to riches’ girl like in those fairy stories—but you felt out of place, undeserving. You had read somewhere that what you were feeling was called ‘imposter syndrome’, and it really aptly described your sentiments toward that occasion.

You eventually decided on a deep sea-blue gown that had the most gorgeous gradient—the bodice was that azure hue with jewelled, hand-embroidered flora needlework, and the hems of the bodice were laced, with pearls woven into the filament. The blue faded down into a silver, with an almost moon-like shimmer when the light hit it right, and the skirt fell about your legs so fluidly, so naturally—and, above all, it was comfortable.

You selected a pair of blue heeled satin slippers, and the height of the shoes’ heels were not so elevated as to hurt your feet. It was perfect.

The staff member, Cecily, had clapped her hands together and put them over her mouth in wonder once you stepped out from behind the dressing room’s curtain. “Mademoiselle, you look breathtaking!”

You thought the dress was wonderful, not yourself. “Aha, thank you. It really is an exquisite gown.”

“Oh, but it’s like it was made for you!” Ah, yes, the flattery—all a subtle sale’s pitch to get me to buy this product. It’s probably the most expensive dress in here. You didn’t say anything in reply to the woman’s compliments. “Every eye will be on you at the ball, miss.”

“Haha. If only,” you answered dryly, fluffing the dress’s skirt, letting it swish about your legs. I really do like this dress though. The gown’s palette also struck a strange sense of familiarity in you, as if you’d seen this very colour scheme somewhere—or on someone—before.

“My word!” A masculine voice exclaimed, and you sharply turned to see André gaping at you. “Now, ain’t that a dress!”

You suddenly felt quite bashful, and rather naked, even though the garment was perfectly modest. “Does it…look alright?” “It’s as they say, [Name]—the dress really does make the woman.” He strode forward and grasped your shoulders gently, spinning you around in a slow circle, taking you in. “This is perfect. Have you chosen a pair of shoes? Let me see them.”

“Uh, yes, I thought these suited the dress.” You lifted the skirt up a bit and extended a foot, letting him see your chosen pair of heels. “Not ostentatious, you know? Comfortable, practical, makes the dress shine…”

“You really do have taste in fashion! This combination would never have even entered my head. I’m useless at this kind of thing.” Then, he turned to Cecily standing aside. “What do you have in terms of jewellery?”

“Plenty, Monsieur. Would you like to have a look?” She gestured to another section of the store, where pendants and earrings and even tiaras sat sparkling in sturdy glass cases. “I have a pair of earrings in mind that would go impeccably with the dress.” “Well, then, lead the way!” He’s awfully excited about this. It made you feel excited, glad—just as much as it made you feel restless. I suppose…it wouldn’t hurt to indulge a little.

Cecily rounded the counter before the encased jewellery and unlocked one, gingerly extracting a pair of dazzling cerulean earrings from the display case. “These are of carefully-hewn sapphire, with pure silver surrounding it. I believe it would go wonderfully with the dress, and would suit Mademoiselle here flawlessly.”

“What do you think, [Name]? Aren’t these perfect? Come, try them on.” André tilted your chin up and accepted the trinkets from the woman, lightly pressing one of the earrings’ hook into the piercing of your earlobe, locking it in with the little rubber screw-back. He swiftly added the other one, before stepping away from you to get a good look.

Cecily nodded enthusiastically. “I knew they were perfect!�� “Stunning!” André exclaimed, looking like a proud father, even though he had to be at least twenty-four. “It’s minimal, but that’s all you need!”

You accept the mirror presented to you by Cecily and observe your reflection. Wow…these earrings are so pretty!

“Now—makeup!” André clapped his hands and swivelled around to face Cecily. “Anything in mind?” “Absolutely—allow me to get the pamphlet.” She left you both standing together in front of the jewellery display cases, heading over to the salon area. There were already about three other women getting their hair and makeup done.

“You will look truly breathtaking on the night, [Name],” André energetically said, patting your shoulder. He’s more excited about this than me. But, you weren’t exactly complaining. You found his enthusiasm cute.

“Oh, you flatter me,” you responded, bashful, fidgeting with your fingers. André looked down at the motion, and lit up. Oh no. “Ah—of course! You must get a manicure!”

“What the—André! You’re getting a bit excessive! Just imagine the bill!”

“Who cares! I’m not worried about that! Just think—don’t you think getting your nails done will fully complete the look?”

“Oh, but how will I repay you? The entire cost for all of this is sure to be worth more than a full year’s pay!”

“Why are you so worried about the price? If I was you and spending someone else’s money, I’d be going all out.”

“Well, I don’t like spending other people’s money! Buying all of this will probably send you bankrupt, and for what?” André shook his head in mock-exasperation. “All of this will pay off, don’t you worry. Loosen up a bit! Aren’t you having fun? Don’t let your stinginess get in the way of letting loose every once in a while.”

That had silenced you. It left you thinking: I really am having fun, if I think about it. And he’s kind of right…why shouldn’t I forget about my financial troubles for a little while?

It would be your first time going to a ball. Why aren’t you excited? Why can’t you be excited? So, you decided to stop fretting and enjoy your time here, essentially getting a makeover.

You finally nodded in affirmation to him. “Alright. I’ll get a manicure.” André beamed at that, those dark eyes now a delighted chocolate brown. “Wonderful! Ah, here she is.” He turned to the approaching Cecily, who held a brochure in her hands. “Miss, would [Name] here be able to get a manicure?” “Ah, I’m sorry, but we don’t do nail tech here.” Cecily looked rather disappointed. “I’ve raised the suggestion to Madam Gaëlle many times, but she has yet to get around to actually following through with it.”

“Oh, well, that’s a shame.” André looked rather deflated. “We’ll just have to settle for some makeup for now, then.” He faced you once more. “Have a look through that booklet there. Do you mind if I leave you here for a little while? I’ve got a small errand to run. It won’t take too long at all.” “Ah, alright.” You nodded, accepting the flyer extended to you from Cecily. “See you soon.” And in a flash, André was out the door with a wave, and you were left in Cecily’s care.

“Well, I really do like these earrings, Miss Cecily.” Now with the extrovert gone, you had to force yourself into conversational mode, as if your social interaction battery wasn’t running on very low.

“I think they look marvellous on you, Mademoiselle,” Cecily replied, and she gestured towards the salon area. “Shall we? You can have a seat and peruse the pamphlet for a little while, if you’d like. Would you care for any refreshments?” “…In this dress?” You looked down at yourself. “Are you sure that would be alright? I don’t want to spill anything on this gown. It looks like it took years to make.”

“Haha, you’re not too far off on that one,” Cecily laughed, pulling out one of the recliners in front of the vanity’s mirror for you to take a seat in. “It is one of the Madam’s best works. I’d tell you the price, but I don’t want you to faint.” You appreciated Cecily’s easy-going nature and talkative temperament. Unlike most people, she didn’t tire you out with gossip. “I like your honesty. I felt quite like fainting when I tried this dress on. The quality of the material is enough to make even the wealthiest of nobles have a heart attack.”

The woman chuckled, rearranging some of the cosmetics on the vanity’s top. “Quite so, honestly. Alright, you have a look through that and I’ll get you a…?”

“A hot chocolate would be fine, thank you, Cecily,” you smiled up at her, in the mood for something sweet. She quipped an ‘okay’ and went off to wherever, leaving you to it.

You opened the pamphlet to the blue-themed makeup looks and flipped through them, looking for something less extravagant than what the flyer had to offer. You didn’t want anything with bright, overdone eyeshadow and blood-red lips. You wanted something minimal, as the gown was already eye-catching enough.

You flipped the page, and stopped at a look that had the perfect shade of blue, and the way the eyeshadow was styled was flawless. With some blue pigment lightly dusted into the inner corner of the eye, the middle of the eyelid was left unshaded—instead, clear, glittery eyeshadow coated the centre of the lid, for the outer corner of the eyes, the same blue daub was dusted into a wing out from the eye, the black kohl of the eyeliner sweeping up with it. False lashes were part of the look, curled up nicely with generous layers of mascara, and it gave the perfect hooded-eyed, siren sort of look that was all the rage nowadays. This is perfect! But will it suit me?

Blue suits everyone, no matter their skin colour, you surmise, and you decide on this look. The lipstick was a glossy nude tone, with accents of pink to give the mouth a flushed look. Whoever the makeup artist is here, they’re a genius!

Not exactly minimal, but not gaudy either. Just your thing.

You liked extravagant, loud makeup looks—but if you went for one here, you’d look like a clown. The dress had already completed most of the look—lavish and almost showy, and therefore excessive amounts of makeup weren’t necessary.

Once Cecily returns with your beverage and gets started on your makeup, she is quick to compliment your choice.

“You really should work in a boutique someday, miss. Maybe you could work here. Madam would snap you up.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe someday.” You couldn’t say you were ready yet. You had to get yourself fully sorted out yet.

“Well, if you’re ever in need of a job somewhere, come here and I’ll vouch for you.” “Thank you, Cecily. You’re very kind.”

By the time she had finished your makeup, André was back.

“Wow!” He exclaimed upon seeing you, eyes wide. “By the gods! You scrub up so well!”

“Haha, thank you.” You were unsure if that was a compliment or not. Or maybe you were just sensitive. “Now to take it all off after hours of hard work. I’m sorry, Cecily.”

“That’s quite alright, miss. It’s my job. I’m not offended!”

“You don’t have to take it off, [Name].” André shook his head. “It’s getting onto evening now. Shall we go get dinner? Somewhere fancy, so you won’t look out of place with that makeup on.’

“You’ve already spent far too much on me—” “Ah, ah, ah! What did I say about stinginess?” He waggled a finger in front of your face. “Stop fretting. Now, if you could wrap all of this up for us, Cecily, it would be much appreciated.” “Of course.” She turned towards the changing area, looking to you. “Shall we, miss?” “Yes, absolutely.” You had begun to grow tired of the dress, as it was rather tight around the bosom. You also wanted to go home, but you also wanted to spend more time with André. So, you could bear it a little longer, you supposed.

Not used to having such heavy makeup on, after André paid the bill (you looked away from the sight as if witnessing something grisly occur right before your eyes) and you both headed out, it felt like you were walking around with a pie stuck to your face.

But it was a sensation you could grow accustomed to, you supposed. For the first time, you felt pretty.

・・・・

The months following were what you considered, at the time, to be the best months of your life. André fit into your small family like a glove, like it was so natural; meant to be. He always made time for all of you—you especially. That gave you hope. It wasn’t long until you were ready to admit to yourself that you were in love with the man.

However, every woman was. At the ball you attended with him, the ladies flocked to him like flies swarming to a carcass. A morbid, unpleasant comparison, yes—but it’s one you’ve always used, even to this day. Especially today. Now, it’s more or less used in spite.

The spotlight on him left you in the shadows. It wasn’t the best of a first-time experience for attending a ball. Sure, you had the odd sleazy miscreant approach you and ask you for a dance, some of which you accepted, but it wasn’t enjoyable. It made your spirits drop, seeing André practically forget about you.

But you didn’t mind all that much. You supposed it was natural. He had to entertain his little fanclub, if to get them to leave him alone. And he took you home, so it really wasn’t all that bad in the end.

After blissful occasions of him taking you to see all the sights on Fontaine you’d always wanted to see, delightful times of ice cream down by Fountain Lucine and late night chats under the soft glow of a streetlight, you were sure you were both meant to be. Why else would he spend so much time with me? He must like me too, right?

Your confirmation came soon enough. It was over some Fonta at a table in Cafe Lutece one pleasant Friday afternoon. André had said he needed to tell you something, but you didn’t get your hopes up. He probably got a promotion at his job he talks about. A long-awaited and well-deserved promotion, by the sounds of it.

André had never really specified where he worked and what he did, but he did say that it was office work. You were surprised at his words, not having expected him to have that kind of profession.

“I thought you’d be the more physical-labour sort of type.”

André had raised his brows. “Yeah? Why’s that?” “Well…you’re just not the kind of guy who sits around all day, you know? You’re always on the move; doing something and going somewhere.”

He had chuckled, ruffling your hair. André always seemed fond of doing that. You never hated it. “That may be so, but I’m not fond of lifting boxes or crates all day, [Name]. No, it’s much more comfortable at a desk.”

You couldn’t help but agree with that. But you could never picture him toiling away at his desk, swamped with paperwork. It’s just something you could never see, and for the first time, you had found that you didn’t believe him.

You never pried any more on the matter, though. If he didn’t want to tell you or talk about it, then you respected that.

That brought you back to that day—that wonderful day. Where you were peacefully sipping at your Fonta when André dropped a true bomb on you.

“I like you.” He had said—so casually, as if he was remarking on the weather. As if it was a normal thing to say out of the blue. “I think we should date.”

You had choked and coughed on your drink, wheezing, eyes wide. People had begun to stare. Cheeks flaming, you whirled on him, hissing, “A warning next time!”

André threw up his hands in an I-surrender! fashion, brows lifted. “Sorry! I just…didn’t know how else to bring it up.”

Once you had calmed down and collected yourself, you stared at him and said, “…Are you being serious? You want to date me?”

He furrowed his brows, tilting his head in puzzlement at your wording. “Why? Is that strange? That I like your character and think you’re pretty?” “You—you think I’m pretty?” You sputtered, blinking rapidly. You had felt like you were about to combust. “I—I—!”

André leaned forward and brushed his fingers upon your cheek softly, fondly, his smile not that signature bright, sunny one of his—no, this time, it was gentle. “I don’t lie about these kinds of things. Well? What do you say? Will you let me be your boyfriend?”

His wording took you even further off guard, making your heart shift and skip a few beats in your chest, and you felt real joy for the first time. This man made you feel seen, appreciated, and cherished. How could you say no? “I thought you’d never ask.”

That had made André roar with laughter, and he grabbed your hand to place a tender kiss to the top of it, those dark eyes so warm and full of joy. “You don’t know how honoured and happy I feel right now, beloved.”

And so you dated. You both had immediately left the café to go and announce the good news to Daniel and Elvira. Hand in hand. Before, it was arm-in-arm, mere gentlemanly courtesy on his part, and basic etiquette on yours—and that impersonal physical contact. Now, you held hands out of your own volitions, out of desire for that close connection, and it made your heart soar, as cheesy as that would sound.

With three excited knocks on Daniel and Elvira’s door, you felt André squeeze your hand in equal thrill, just as delighted as you. Well, maybe you were a bit more happy. You were walking on cloud nine back then. For the first time in your life, you tasted real bliss.

Elvira had opened the door, blinking in surprise to see you both standing at the door, before she beamed in greeting. “Hi, you two! What brings you—my word!”

She had swiftly spotted your two interlocked hands at your sides, and gasped in shock. You grinned rather bashfully. “Hey, Elvira.”

She immediately ushered you both inside, calling for Daniel. “Daniel! Come look! It’s finally happened!” “Huh?” Your brother answered, soon rounding the corner of the hallway to see you both. “Oh, hey, sis!” He greeted you, before moving to clap André on the back. “Hey, man. How are you…wait!”

Daniel had also seen your hands, and you exchanged glances with André at their reactions. They’re acting as if I just announced I’m pregnant. It wasn’t that big of a deal, declaring the ‘officiation’ of your relationship, but your brother and sister-in-law seemed particularly overjoyed.

“Uh, yeah, we’re dating now,” you answered the unasked question, breaking the ice. “About time, am I right?” André chuckled beside you, opening his mouth to speak, but your brother beat him to it. “What an understatement! A year and a half of waiting for you both to get going already! Pay up, Elvira.”

“What?” You snapped your head to look at your sister-in-law. “You guys…made a bet?”

Elvira sighed wearily, her shoulders slumped. She moved down the hallway. “Yeah. I bet that it would take at least ten years for you both to hurry up and date—not exaggerating. Daniel never doubted either of you, so we agreed to bet two hundred Mora.”

“Two hundred?!” You exclaimed, mouth agape. “What the—gods, honestly! You two have always been idiots!”

André was laughing heartily. “Hahaha! As if our day couldn’t get any better!” He let go of your hand and grabbed your waist instead, pulling you in and placing a kiss to the crown of your head. It immediately silenced you, too flustered to speak. “Would you look at that, huh, mon bijou?”

“I…well…” As usual, André left you quite tongue-tied. His spontaneity always had that effect on you. “I suppose…this calls for a celebration?”

“You can say that again!” Daniel whooped and rushed off for the wine cabinet. “Let’s pop the champagne!” “Daniel!” Elvira bellowed from their bedroom. “Don’t you make a mess!”

“It’ll be alright, my dear, I’ll do it over the sink—”

“No!” Elvira emerged from their chambers, Mora in hand, and hurriedly approached him, just as he was pulling the cork. She snatched the bottle from his hold and replaced it with the pouch of money. “Take your money and give it to me!”

Daniel immediately conceded, letting go of the bottle of (expensive) champagne, handing it to his wife. He tossed the small bag of money into the air, the coins inside jingling about merrily, and caught it, grinning triumphantly at you and André. “Now, that’s what I call making a buck—”

Elvira sharply smacked his shoulder with a wooden spoon. Clearly, she wasn’t very happy about giving up that two hundred Mora. “Quit your gloating and start peeling those carrots.”

“Yes ma’am.”

This was the sort of familial chaos you adored, where banter and insults held no real knives—where everything was lighthearted. It was nice to see how far you and your brother had come since relocating from the sewers. You were finally a family, a normal one.

All too soon, things started going downhill.

Two years of bliss flew by. Two years of dating André were the best of your life, and even though the memories are more painful than happy to reflect on now, sometimes you find yourself reminiscing. Pointless, yes, but you have never been able to help thinking about what could’ve been.

Either way, you appreciated the attitude André had towards you very much—he never asked for anything more than the odd kiss, and he never tried to make too much of a move on you. You were glad that he, too, seemed to share your sentiments of waiting until you both married before taking it all the way, something that would be bound to take a lot of personal preparation on your part.

He asked you to marry him out of the blue one day, much like how he announced his feelings for you and said that you both should date two years prior, and it took you so off guard that you didn’t know what else to say apart from ‘yes’. Not even giving yourself time to consider it—and that was likely because you didn’t need to think about it. To you, at the time, André Banville was your future, and you were more than ready to become Mrs. Banville.

It just so happened that that was one of his tactics, taking you off guard so randomly, dropping bombs on you and leaving you metaphorically stranded, with no other route to take but the affirming one. ‘Love bombing’, you think it’s called, but his version and methods were a bit different. But no less effective.

You were so weak-minded back then, such a pushover. So blinded by adoration for this ‘angel’ of a man that you continuously failed to see the signs of the true demon hiding behind a mask of light and benevolence.

How easy it must’ve been for him, how risible. Do spiders feel amused when their prey becomes caught in their web? Is it entertaining for them to watch their victim struggle so pointlessly? A good show to behold before it becomes a meal to scuttle back into their lair with, something to toy with, to feast upon? For that was likely what you were to him. Such simple, easy prey, with much to gain by deceiving.

If only you had guessed his true intentions—the real reasons—as to why he kept you alive in his trap for so long. A trap you didn’t struggle to be free from, for what reason was there? When your captive treats you well, treats you with appreciation, what is there to not grow fond of?

You had stared at that extravagant ring on your finger, the stone so large and sparkling, the jewel likely worth an entire manor. The lavish gifts he showered you with made you feel loved, but it also made scepticism gradually creep in. Where does he get the funds for such expensive alms? And, for some strange, inexplicable reason, you somehow knew not to ask him that question.

Scepticism is dangerous—dangerous toward the reality one invents for themselves. It begins as a small, imperceptible chink in the armour, a tiny ripple in the pool, a mere scratch on the glass. But it can grow—grow into a problem you must eventually face, must eventually admit to, must eventually resolve. A tribulation unsought; a life lesson detrimental to the maturing of oneself. And how it grew within you, until you couldn’t look at your fiancé anymore without suspicion.

I don’t really know him. You only knew the projection André had presented—and you were, initially, perfectly content to live with nothing but that façade, as it meant not relenting to the rational, logical questions that the annoyingly reasonable side of you ceaselessly posed. Three and a half years of paradise, but the shadows were finally closing in.

A premonition. A foreboding sensation that had settled and festered at the back of your mind for years, carefully pushed far back by your own self. An augury you never mentioned to the one person who was personally involved—your brother. Although you knew he trusted you, you knew he would never believe you. And why should he? Your mother, and her legacy, was dead.

It was supposed to be. The truth of the matter didn’t come to light until the very last, dreadful minute.

André’s visits were gradually becoming less frequent, sparking concern within you. At those moments, doubt and misgiving sprung to life within you like bile, compelling you to force it down, or else risking the endurance of your comfortable reality. If only you had any other option.

Fear had long injected itself into your veins, becoming an inherent constituent of your blood and being. You had continually refused to admit to that.

“André,” you had finally asked one day, unable to bear your rooted uncertainties any longer. At this time, you both had been engaged for almost a year, wedding plans and preparations well into motion, and this was the one question you abhorred having to spit out. You were standing in the hallway, watching him hastily put on his shoes, his countenance agitated. “Where are you going? It’s so late. You’re always rushing off at some ungodly hour, and you never tell me where or what you’re going to do.”

He had paused in his motions, and the atmosphere became distinctly heavier. Just as you feared. André turned to you—and for the first time in all the years you’d known him, you couldn’t read his expression at all. “It’s not for you to know.”

I’ve hit a nerve. That much was clear. He hardly ever addressed you without some kind of pet name, ‘mon bijou’ being his favourite. You sucked in a deep breath, and pressed it further. “I think it is. You’re worrying me. What secret are you keeping that is so…odious, you can’t even trust me to confide in?” André had sighed, brows furrowed in a frown utterly unlike his playful ones, or confused ones, or concerned ones. No, this one was of genuine irritation and chagrin towards you. “Let me rephrase. It’s nothing for you to worry about. Now, I’ve got to go.”

“No.” You strode towards him and grasped his wrist. Up this close, you were fully privy to the stone cold glint of his eyes. They weren’t their usual, familiar soft humour. “Tell me. Please.”

He had silently regarded you, his eyes narrowed, before harshly wrenching himself from your hold and yanking open the door. “I thought this message had been concisely, subtly put across years ago, but, clearly, you were too dull to catch it.” André looked at you from over his shoulder in the threshold of the open door. “Don’t ask questions.”

The door was slammed shut with such force, the ornaments on the walls had rattled. It probably woke up the entire apartment complex. And it left you shaken through, your thoughts and suspicions and doubts warring in your mind.

Maybe it was because of how tense he was that night that he snapped at you, but it was a serious mistake on his part. It practically confirmed your inklings, and you finally allowed those abscesses of mistrust within you to consume you fully.

Long overdue, don’t you think? The rational, reliable half of your mind sneered, and you stared at the ground in dread. Your ‘reality’ was finally shattering.

It was your fault to just sit back and let the cracks and splinters multiply across its shell for so long. You should have dealt with it sooner, or just let it be.

So you decided to. You deigned to ‘let it go’. At least, that’s how it appeared to André.

It didn’t take long for him to realise his mistake. That morning, when he entered your apartment again, he quickly made his way over to you and embraced you.

“Is everything alright?” You pretended to have forgiven him and feigned concern, accepting his hug. André held you to him tightly, kissing your head, and that traitorous heart of yours leapt in joy at the ministrations.

“I’m fine. I’m so sorry for snapping at you last night.” He held you from him, cupping your face, eyes beseeching and truly apologetic. “You see, the reason why I’ve never told you the true nature of my occupation is to protect you.” You had raised a brow jokingly—however, on the inside, distrust reared its unsightly head. “What, are you involved in some underground, super-secret criminal agency or something?” André had chuckled at that, seemingly relieved at how unbothered you appeared to be about it. “Not quite. It’s something much more complex than that. And dangerous. That’s why you can’t know, okay? It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that I just want to protect you. Please understand that.”

You had nodded easily, burying your face into his chest. “Of course. I believe you.”

You did not believe or trust him at all anymore. His temperament, the way he regarded you that previous night…it gave you a horrible feeling that you had finally gotten a glimpse of his true nature.

A nature he had kept carefully hidden from you, from your brother—from everyone around you. What was left to find out, you had surmised, was what he was really up to.

And so, you began your own, covert investigation of the man you were sure wasn’t all he appeared to be anymore.

If only.

It began with you frequenting his home more. André’s house was humble and unassuming; cosy and where you had both agreed to dwell once you married. At first, André was confused as to why you insisted on visiting him at his place now, to which you smilingly replied, “It’s to adjust to our future home! Have to work out where the nursery will be, right?” He had blinked and grunted at that, running a hand through his brown locks. “…Alright, you win.” And then he ruffled your hair.

You even began to sleep at his place more often, and you were relieved to see that he trusted you enough to be left alone in his own house. Whatever he’s doing so late at night, you thought to yourself as you saw him out the door at 11:30PM one night. It would have to be hidden somewhere in this place.

But, then again, if he was so comfortable with you staying there, then he wouldn’t have left any kind of incriminating evidence lying around. Maybe it’s hidden very well. You tried the door to his office, and your heart leapt in dread as the knob refused to be twisted. It’s locked!

Where’s the key? You used this opportunity in his absence to explore his house, to memorise it and search for any hidden compartments the key could be stashed. Or else he took it with him. That thought had made you pause as you pulled open the top drawer of his bedside table. Yes. He probably did. Why else would he be happy to leave me here alone?

No other door or cabinet was locked in that house except for his small study. You had offered to do the chores around the place for him while he was out doing his ‘work’, and he had agreed. But he had never said anything about ‘not going into the office’. Cunning man.

Your distrust of him was swiftly taking the shape of resentment, and it fueled your determination to find out what truly was going on even further. Isn’t it funny how one wrong move was enough for me to doubt him fully? It only spiralled down from there.

After searching through his home thoroughly and practically turning it inside out, you plopped down on his sofa and stared up at the ceiling. He’s definitely got the key with him. But how would you obtain it, without rousing any questions from him? Without sparking any suspicion?

The idea came soon enough—you were up all night, scouring through his cupboards and cabinets and drawers and closets that you got no sleep. It was about dawn when keys outside the door jingled, and in came André, shrugging off his coat.

That’s it. You strode forward and greeted him, carefully watching the man go through his pockets and hang up the coat. André seemed surprised to see you still up. I need to subtly steal that key from his coat pocket as he’s leaving, and replace it with another. And the only way you could do that was by appearing to do your ‘wifely’ duties every time he would leave by helping him into his coat and seeing him off. But where will I get a replacement key?

It would need to be one of similar shape, size and colour to whichever one it is. And you didn’t know what it looked like. I’ll have to sit back and observe for now.

“What are you still doing up?” André had inquired, blinking at you. You reached forward and helped him out of his coat, hanging it up for him. He seemed to appreciate the notion. Could the key be on that set of them he has there? The keyring in his palm had about eight keys on it, all of different shapes and sizes, making it utterly impossible to guess which was the office’s one. I wonder when he goes into his office. You hadn’t seen him go inside once during your stay there. He probably does it while I’m sleeping.

You beamed, acting as if you hadn’t been whiling the hours away nosing through his cupboards. I’ll have to act as if I still don’t know my way around now. “Oh, I couldn’t sleep, so I just did a few chores to pass the time.”

At least you knew where the vacuum cleaner and broom was now. Useful props towards selling your act completely.

“Ah, I see.” André stooped and kissed the crown of your head, entering further into his home, you on his heels. You were watching his every move. “I’m going to have a shower now,” he said, heading for the bathroom. “You can sleep now. Thanks for cleaning up, you didn’t have to.” “Of course I had to,” you quipped, squeezing his arm, smiling widely. This is going to be tiring. “In a few months, I’ll be living here. I have to adjust, you know?” He grinned back and ruffled your hair. “You’re a real gem, you know that?” And you just beamed at him some more in reply, letting him go into the bathroom. You made your way to the bed and settled in, smile traceless. Let’s pretend to be asleep and see if he goes into his office.

You pulled the blanket well up over your mouth, so only your eyes and nose were showing, and acted to be fully asleep. You even slowed your breathing and increased its volume a little to really make it seem authentic. Let’s hope he falls for it!

The shower soon shut off and the bathroom door clicked open. A pair of feet padded down the hall, and you sensed André enter, heading for his wardrobe. He hadn’t appeared to notice you ‘sleeping’.

That night, you were left in disappointment. André didn’t go to his office—he settled in next to you, sighing wearily, and his soft snores soon sounded. Dammit! I won’t be able to sleep at all at this rate! You were too excited and jittery to notice. I’m going to have to tell Daniel. You really needed extra help, and you could only pray your brother would believe you.

・・・・

“I’m heading off to visit Daniel!” You called out from the front door. André answered back with an ‘okay!’ before you shut the door, opened your umbrella and headed out into the downpour for town. Ugh. Why does it have to rain today of all days?

Was that a bad omen? You had hoped not. You were relentlessly praying things would go smoothly for you.

André was watching you. Closely. You knew that. Now, you were sure that whatever he was involved in was most certainly dangerous—and he was the danger.

I have to tell Daniel everything. You tilted your umbrella up to look at the building in front of you. Just down the block was Daniel and Elvira’s home. Whatever this whole thing is…it means I’m in danger, and so are they.

You had a hunch as to what exactly this debacle involved. You hoped, with everything you had, this wasn’t connected to your mother. Her last words still rang clear as day in your mind.

Daniel and Elvira had recently gotten a doorbell installed, and so you pressed it, hoping they were home. Please be. Please be! I feel like we don’t have much time!

Such was the sense you had been getting of late, ever since the prickly feeling of being watched had started. You subtly looked around the relatively empty street, and apart from a few locals milling about, nothing stood out to you. But you couldn’t shake the feeling. He’s sent someone to tail me, hasn’t he?

You had begun to believe that André suspected you suspected him. Have you been too smiley, too friendly, too loving? Were you overdoing the act?

The door opened, and Daniel’s kind, familiar face greeted you. “Sis! How are you? Come on in. What brings you here?” And as you stepped into his home and the door closed behind you, he squinted at you and asked, “What’s wrong?” You pursed your lips. “I have something very important and very serious to tell you, Daniel.”

He sobered. “I can tell. Come along. Can Elvira hear it too?” “Yes.” It would be best to have support from both of them. “It’s about…André.”

Daniel shot you a look from over his shoulder as he led you further into the house. “About André? Has he done something? What’s going on?”

Elvira then appeared, brows furrowed. “Is something wrong, you two?”

“She’s got something to tell us,” Daniel answered, gesturing to a seat. “Let’s hear it. Have you two broken up? Called off the wedding?”

You sucked in a deep, readying breath. “No. It’s much more grave than that. You see…” You began to fiddle with a stray, loose thread on the sleeve’s hem of your jersey. “I think…André’s up to something.”

Elvira immediately frowned. “Is he cheating on you?” “No! Nothing like that.” It’s worse. “It’s just…I think he’s involved in some shady things. Has been for a long time. Before and during when I first met him, I believe.”

“Shady…” Daniel was staring at you from beneath his brow. His silent question was clear: like mother?

You lowered your head. “Yes.”

He leaned back into his chair, letting out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “That’s…I don’t know, [Name].”

“You have to believe me.” You reached forward and grasped his hand, eyes wide and desperate. Elvira’s expression shifted from one of mild worry to deep concern. “Daniel, are you absolutely sure we burned all that stuff of mother’s back then?”

He blinked at you, evidently perturbed by your tone and the look on your face. “…Yes, I’m sure. We practically ransacked her office. Don’t you remember?” “How could I forget?” Your hand grasping his had begun to shake. He glanced down at it, face blanching with disquiet. I don’t want to voice these suspicions. What if they’re true? “Did I ever tell you what mother said to me as she died?”

You noticed Elvira’s pale, troubled face in the corner of your eye, but you were solely focused on your brother. The uneasiness in Daniel’s expression and eyes was steadily increasing by the second. “I—yes, you did, but I can’t recall what you exactly said.”

“Well.” You sucked in a sharp, unsteady breath. “She said to me, ‘burn it. Burn the papers. The documents. Get rid of it all. Or Fulbert will get to you’.” A droplet of cold sweat trickled down the back of your neck. “Who could this ‘Fulbert’ be? What if—what if André is—”

“Now, [Name].” Daniel’s voice took on a stern tone. “We don’t need to be jumping to conclusions here—”

“He’s watching me, Daniel.” Exasperation at not being believed by someone you trust deeply bled into your tone. “He’s watching me. He sent someone to tail me today, as I came to visit you. And every night, he goes out—once, I asked what he’s doing out so late, and he told me to ‘not ask questions’.” You shakily leaned back into your seat, hands trembling on your lap. “And now, he’s sneaking out. A-About a week ago, he promised me that he wouldn’t leave me alone at night anymore, but…but whenever he’s sure that I’m asleep, he heads out. And the door to his office is locked. Every other room is open, except that one, and I can’t find the key. André goes into that office right after he gets home at some ungodly hour and doesn’t come out till morning. I searched everywhere for the key—I’ve even tried to steal it from him, but I just don’t know which one it is, and frankly, I’m scared! He’s not—he’s not…the man I once knew.” The man I once thought I knew. If I’m right, this would explain all of his abrupt disappearances while we’re in the middle of doing something in town. Going on ‘errands’ that takes him hours to complete, leaving me stranded in some restaurant, left to foot the bill myself!

“Okay, okay, calm down,” Elvira spoke up that time, and she moved seats to sit next to you, wrapping a comforting arm around you. “I can see that you’re telling the truth. Daniel.” She sharply turned to your brother, and he pensively looked up at her. “Should we ask Callas for help?” “C-Callas?” You stuttered, looking at her. “Who’s that?”

“He’s the head of the Spina di Rosula,” Daniel responded, straightening in his seat. “They’re an organisation that helps out citizens the Gardes cannot.”

“Okay? What has that got to do with it?” He sighed. “I’m saying that we could hire them—ask Callas, the president, for help. He has a daughter about your age. She could pose as your friend or something, and help you investigate.”

Elvira squeezed your shoulder comfortingly. “He is a good man. He was a friend of my father’s, and his daughter, Navia, is kind. She could be of great help to you.”

You considered it. It’s not like I have any other option—but what about the fee? “How much are their commissions costs?”

“We’ll cover it,” Elvira immediately answered. She looked at Daniel, who was staring at her in shock. “What’s that look for? Do you not want to help your sister out?” “No! That’s not it.” He ran a hand over his face. “I just…I’m just trying to process this.”

“The reason why I’m here is because ever since we burned mother’s illegal dealings’ records,” you said tightly, “is because I’ve been unable to shake this feeling that we missed something out.” “Well, your worries are baseless, [Name]. I assure you we burned them—”

“No.” You were not about to deny your intuition. “It’s what my gut says, and it’s been saying this for years. We missed something out. I’m sure of it. And I also have a gut feeling André has his hands on it.”

Daniel shook his head, shifting in his seat. “I just…I can’t picture André doing all this. Are you absolutely sure?” You glowered at your brother. “I am the one who lives with the man. I am the one who knows his routine back to front. Why would I lie about this?”

“Lay off on her, Daniel.” Elvira’s tone was dangerous. “I can’t believe you’re questioning her. I can feel her shaking. She’s not lying.”

Your brother looked at both of the women sitting before him one by one, studying either of your expressions intently. And then, he finally relented, sighing. “Alright. I believe you. If you were lying, you wouldn’t look so scared.”

You sighed in relief, relaxing into Elvira. She gave you another comforting squeeze, and you turned your head to her. “What’s the time? Would we be able to go visit this Spina-thing?”

“They’d still be open.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Yeah. Their base is actually in Poisson, but they have a headquarters here in town. Let’s go. Do you want to come, Daniel?”

“Yes, of course.” He stood from his seat, and you both followed. Daniel reached for you and gave you a hug. “If André is doing anything shady, we’ll get him behind bars.”

“I just pray I’m wrong,” you answered into his shoulder, your voice muffled by his shirt. “I don’t think…I don’t know how I’m going to handle this.”

Elvira joined in on the hug. “You’ll be fine. We’re here.” She kissed your cheek in an older-sisterly manner. “We’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

You just smiled weakly back, fighting tears. Something dark swirled in your gut. Something like fear—and, oh, how right you were.

The three of you headed off into town, and you knew you were being followed. Whoever André had hired, had been waiting for you.

“We’re still being followed,” you hissed to the two of them. “Don’t look back. I don’t want them to report to André saying that we knew.” Elvira was holding your hand, and she squeezed it. “It’s alright. We’re almost there.”

Soon enough, you all stopped before a humble, inconspicuous building. In you went, and Daniel first approached the desk. “We’re here to enquire if President Callas is available for consultation.”

The secretary at the desk flipped through a ledger, humming. Then she looked up at you all, smiling. “You’re in luck. He’s free right now, just in his office there.” “Much appreciated.” Daniel nodded at the woman and turned to you and Elvira. “[Name], we’ll wait out here for you. Go on in.”

Nervous, you followed the secretary as she tapped on a door, calling out, “Sir, you have a client here to see you.”

“Let them in,” came the reply, and the woman opened the door for you. You were inexplicably anxious.

Sitting at a large desk was a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man with an eyepatch and his blond hair tied back into a low ponytail. His only visible blue eye flicked up from the paperwork he was perusing and faced you. “Ah, welcome, miss.” At his side, in a smaller chair, sat a beautiful young woman about your age, maybe younger, who stared up at you with a clear-eyed, sparkling gaze that held much less intensity than the man’s next to her—presumably her father, given their great resemblance. Her hair was sun-gold like her father’s—his a bit paler, conveying his age—and her welcoming smile was instantly comforting.

These people are kind, you thought, accepting the man’s invitation for you to take a seat before him. The girl must be Navia, his daughter, the one Elvira talked about.

“What is your name, miss?” asked the man, who held a pen poised to write. You squirmed in your chair and answered accordingly, giving your first and last name.

He swiftly jotted it down, placing the pen aside and steepling his fingers before his face as he leaned his elbows against the desktop before him. “I am Callas, the president of this organisation, the Spina di Rosula.” Then he gestured to the girl beside him. “And this is my daughter, Navia, who works closely with me in this establishment. Now, what brings you here today?”

“Well, sir, I have some concerns about my fiancé, you see.” As the words came forth, you soon realised just how foolish and trivial you sounded. “The thing is, he’s been acting awfully…suspicious as of late. Always sneaking out at night, won’t tell me things, and his office is always locked.” This sounds like I’m just complaining about a cheating intended! “I know it just seems like he’s fooling around with another woman, but it is much more intricate and shady than that.”

“Please elaborate.”

“In all the years I’ve known him, there have been things he’s always hidden from me.” You fidgeted with your fingers. “For context, I grew up in the Fleuve Cendre with my brother. My mother, to make a living and feed us, was involved with unscrupulous individuals and illegal transactions. Most were very endangering to herself and thus my brother and I. She basically ran an entire bootleg organisation of her own, and it was getting quite successful. I don’t know the exact details of what went wrong, but something definitely went terribly awry when I walked in on her swallowing a cyanide pill.” His daughter’s face fell into one of sympathy, but you ignored it and continued on. “As she was dying, she told me to, ‘burn it. Burn the papers. The documents. Get rid of it all. Or Fulburt will get to you’. Those were her exact words. So, I told my brother and we did.” You lowered your eyes. “I know this sounds very incriminating, and we should probably be in prison for not handing in such documents to the Palais to deal with, but our mother’s unlawful business stretched far and wide, and her clients knew of us, her children. We were in danger, so we did as she told us and burned every last record, document and ledger we could find.”

The president’s single visible eye had narrowed. “I’m assuming you missed something out?”

“Yes. You see, we were only teens at the time, maybe a bit older, and foolish. We double checked to make sure we had gotten everything, and it seemed like so, but ever since, I have had this terrible feeling that we did miss something.”

The man shifted in his seat, nodding to you. “Do go on.”

“Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but my fiancé has always acted strangely. Disappearing out of nowhere while on a date or something, claiming he’s got an ‘errand’ to run—and about two months ago now, as he was putting on his shoes to leave at his usual ungodly, strange hour, I decided I was sick of being in the dark and I asked him where he was going. And he acted in a way I’d never seen him act before. At least, not towards me. He coldly told me that I ‘shouldn’t ask questions’ and he thought he’d made that clear already, even though he has never actually voiced such a thing.”

“I see. And you believe your fiancé is a contraband of sorts, and possibly has whatever item you and your brother missed out in his possession?” “Yes. This suspicion is groundless, and I don’t know where it came from, but it came to me quite a while ago anyway, back when I started to wonder where he gets all this money from, and how he had never really told me what he does for a living. Years ago, back before we got engaged, he told me that he does ‘office work’ when I asked what his job was. He avoided answering the question. It’s not like I saw him doing anything strange, it’s just that his behaviour is, and I could just be paranoid, as I’ve had this premonition that my brother and I missed something for a long time.”

“Hm,” the man hummed thoughtfully, shuffling through a few documents on his desk. “This is an interesting dilemma indeed. However, this organisation is strictly legal, and involving ourselves with a situation that is rooted in crime—committed by you yourself—could potentially be a stain on the Spina di Rosula’s pristine reputation, if it were to come to light. I hope you understand that.”

“Oh, I do, sir, I really do.” Desperation gripped you. “But, you see, I know full well how unconventional my brother and I’s actions were, and although no excuse would be sufficient, we really didn’t know what else to do at the time. And now, I feel trapped into an engagement I no longer want anymore, that no longer feels real anymore—and if I don’t get any help to escape it, I fully believe that once my fiancé’s use for me is spent, my life could be in fatal danger. Please, please help me. I am not wealthy, but just name your price, and I will do everything in my legal power to pay it.”

President Callas studied you with an intent blue eye, and his daughter placed a hand on his arm. “Oh, father, come on, we should help her—”

“One moment, Navia,” he silenced her, holding up a hand. “Now, Mademoiselle [Name], I can see how desperate and genuine you are. And I’d really like to help you, but it isn’t within our principles to conceal such information that you have indulged about your past—”

“Father!” His daughter’s voice sharply interrupted him. He turned to her with a disapproving look, but she continued before he could respond. “Father, think about it. We don’t have any sufficient evidence, apart from her own confession, to present to the court about her past—her mother’s past. How long ago did you say it was, miss?” Miss Navia abruptly addressed you.

“Uh—about…seven or so years ago now, miss. I think I was…fifteen or sixteen when my mother died. I can’t recall exactly.”

She turned back to reason with her father. “There you go. Approximately seven years gone, with no evidence left. What are the chances of this coming to light? Very small. Can’t you see how scared she is? Why can’t we help her out?” The president must’ve had a serious soft spot for his daughter as he actually fell silent and considered her words, unable to hold those big imploring eyes of hers. You liked the girl immediately after that, getting the feeling that if she worked with you, you both would get along very well.

“…Alright,” he finally conceded, nodding reluctantly. “You have a point. I will help you, Miss [Name].” The man presented a contract for you to sign. “Please take your time reading over it. The fees for our commissions stated below.”

“Oh, thank you, good sir.” It felt like a massive weight had been lifted from your shoulders. You could finally breathe again—for a time. “I really can’t thank you enough. You too, miss.” In fact, the man agreeing to this was all thanks to his daughter. You smiled gratefully at her. “You both are, literally, life savers.”

The girl waved it off. “It’s nothing, really! It’s only what we do here.” She stood and you followed, and you both shook hands. “I look forward to working with you.”

“As do I,” you smiled, almost tearing up with how thankful you felt. You offered a hand to the president also, and he, still clearly uncertain about the whole thing, slowly reciprocated the hand shake. “And thank you again, Monsieur Callas. I may have a chance now.”

You quickly signed the contract and agreed on the date you would pay them. Navia said that your next meeting would be three business days from then, meaning on the following Monday you would meet and plan out the investigation. You didn’t know if you would be able to bear the weekend, having been so impatient to get that whole plight over and done with.

Navia saw you out, wishing you safe travels back to your abode, and your brother and sister-in-law all stood from their seats as you emerged from the president’s office.

“Well? How did it go?” Daniel immediately demanded. “Will they help you?” “They will.” You showed him and his wife the contract. “I will meet with them next Monday to discuss how this investigation will go through. You are welcome to tag along. I’ll need a proper excuse to leave the house.”

“See? Things are looking up already.” Elvira, ever the optimist, gave you an encouraging hug. “Soon, it’ll be all over. Nothing to worry about.”

You let out a breath. “I hope so.” If only that coiling snake of foreboding would have stopped twisting around in your stomach. I don’t think things are over yet. How you had hoped they were.

・・・・

The plan was simple. Tail André, follow him to wherever he headed every night, and wait for Navia and her henchmen to arrive as backup if things got physical.

Easier said than done.

You watched as André strode casually down the dark, late-night street, as if he was just going for a walk, not off to do something illicit. And then, hastily, you shut off all the lights except for the two lamps in the lounge and shoved your feet into your shoes, clicking the front door shut behind you and rushing off in his direction.

You made sure there was a good distance between you both—and you hoped he wouldn’t recognise you with this wig on your head. You also had a long trench coat on. And if you stuck to the shadows, in the case that he happened to glance back, he wouldn’t spot you.

You watched as he power-walked down the street, his hands in his pockets in that same languid way of his—a mannerism that no longer made you feel tingly all over. Now, it just aggravated you. Your distrust of him eventually resulted in the slow-but-sure fading of once very-potent feelings for him.

At this point, you were sure he was just keeping you around because you had a use for him. A use you didn’t know, but one you suspected. Were you being paranoid? Probably—and you hoped so, too. Having to deal with things that should have been long handled in the past is no mess anyone wishes to clean up again.

André took a left, turning out of sight. and you broke into a jog to catch up with him. You ran on the grass lining the sidewalk as to muffle your footsteps, before slowing down and peeking around the bend to make sure he wasn’t lying in wait for you or something. Again, paranoia—or was it foreboding?

He was far up ahead again, beginning to head into the town centre, before he crossed the street. André had looked left and right, staying out of sight of the patrolling Mekas—making you hastily hide behind a rubbish bin to avoid being spotted. A cat hissed at you, scuttling away, and you carefully watched as he melted into the shadows of a dark alleyway.

You rushed across the street also and sidled up to one of the buildings’ front wall, staying away from the illuminated spots in the street by the lampposts, peeking once more around the corner and into the alleyway. Just in time to have caught sight of two double doors swinging shut.

Hold on… You deemed it safe and followed after him, approaching the doors. Isn’t this one of the back entrances to…the Fleuve Cendre?

Easing one of the doors open, you squinted into the dark foyer before you, a single light overhead flickering irregularly, its bulb on well on its way out—but it was enough to illuminate the stairs descending down into further darkness. A chill skittered down your spine.

Your heart wouldn’t let up its incessant pounding in your ears, leaving you virtually deaf to any and all warning sounds around you. Deciding to just brave it, you let the door ease shut behind you and felt around for some stair railing, almost sighing audibly with relief once you found one on the left wall, trying to ignore its grimy, rusty texture to the touch. Okay. Let’s do this.

As silently as you could manage, you descended the stairs, trying to hurry while also trying to not, which proved terribly frustrating, and you cursed yourself for forgetting to bring a flashlight. There isn’t a single light installed down here! Who runs this place? Are they an idiot or what?

Being very careful to not miss a step and thus take a tumble, you slowly but surely made your way to the bottom, letting yourself relax a bit when you spotted the sliver of light peeking through the bottom set of doors.

You could already hear the bustling sounds of the Fleuve Cendre, the noises almost nostalgic for you, and then you were hit with its same signature stench. Ugh. Just shows you how much the overworld cares about these poor people.

You opened the doors and stepped through, looking around for André. You began to panic when you didn’t spot him for a good three minutes—before that familiar mop of dark hair caught your eye, and you finally noticed André chatting away discreetly with another man well over on the other side of the quay you stood on.

This unfamiliar individual was hooded, his face indecipherable, especially from this distance, and you quickly began advancing on them prudently, sticking to tall crates and boxes stacked up as places of refuge if they happened to have a little look around.

You took the path across the canal where the sewer water passed through underneath, thus over on their side of the Fleuve Cendre. You crept along the wall, before coming to a stop behind some crates a few metres away from André and his mystery companion. Smiling rather wearily to yourself, you inwardly lauded the stealth you didn’t know you had. I kinda feel like a secret agent right now.

This was no laughing matter, however. You sobered, and ordered yourself to focus on the task at hand.

You were close enough to catch snippets of their conversation.

“…You’re telling me…didn’t mention anything strange…how long?”

Even for such a late hour, the sewers were still busy, and thus the white noise all around blotted out some of the vital pieces of dialogue from the hooded man and André. From what you could catch, you deduced André was probably talking about you, if the ‘didn’t mention anything strange’ part was related to the man he had assigned to tail you wherever you went. You wished you could get closer, but that would require stepping out into the open, meaning you’d be instantly busted.

It was the hooded man who was asking the questions, and nodding respectfully at André whenever he answered them. You could only guess that this bear of a man was André’s lackey or something. He was much burlier than André, with an imposing, hazardous vibe to him—one that told you crossing swords or being caught by this man would not end well. Especially if your hunch was right—that you were, in fact, their target.

How long have you been the target? You don’t like to think about the high chances of finding out that all these years with André was just a sham. You thought you had been adequately preparing yourself mentally for such a skirmish, but you didn’t know if you truly were.

You watched as the hooded man said something to André and André nodded, delivering a friendly pat to the man’s massive shoulder, before turning around and striding off in the opposite direction.

You were well-hidden, but you still ducked down and pressed yourself right up against the wooden crates as André sauntered past. You also listened intently for the unknown male’s fading footsteps and, once sure they were both well out of eyesight, you peeped up and out, looking in the direction André traipsed off to, before hastily following after him.

Our men will be dressed in casual clothing commonly seen in the Fleuve Cendre, you recalled Navia’s words as she slipped on a pair of sunglasses. But they will be recognisable by the sunglasses they will be wearing. Inconspicuously conspicuous, I call it.

You spotted an unfamiliar man clad in faded-brown trousers and a musty button-up tee, hair hidden by a raggy old beret and with a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose. He caught your eye, and gave you a nod.

You spotted more around, all watching after you, all waiting for the set time to get into action to come around. Fifteen minutes is all I’ll need to rummage around wherever André is off to. You kept your eyes on his back, blending in with what crowd there was. Most people were shutting up their stalls for the night, heading back to their run-down homes. It’s almost midnight right now. Navia said they’ll act at quarter-to-one. I have just less than an hour. Plenty of time.

If André was really up to what you suspected he was, then hopefully, with the Spina’s help, you’d be able to put him behind bars. And as much as you forced the hurt you felt at the thought, you knew you had to do this.

He took another turn, and ascended some rather rickety stairs, and entered a dim-lit, decrepit building. It was more like a cabin than anything—a structure commonly seen around the Fleuve Cendre—and you were suddenly left in quite the predicament. How am I supposed to get in there? It looked very small, the interior likely tiny, and with this shady business of André’s, he and any other individuals inside would immediately ask questions upon your abrupt, unbidden arrival. Your disguise was not so good as to fool your fiancé up close. And if you were recognised, that was it.

I still need to give Navia time to finish preparing. She would’ve likely still been consulting the uncorrupted Gardes up above in the overworld for help with this one, and sometimes, they could be notoriously difficult to negotiate with. Shall I wait and see if André comes out of that building? Don’t I look strange just standing here, watching the door? Am I drawing attention to myself?

You had a look around, and felt your heart physically plummet for the ground when you spotted that same mountainous man standing right across from you—on the other far side of the Fleuve Cendre, with only canals separating you both—his bulked arms folded across his wide chest, and you could feel him watching you. He likely hadn’t recognised you, but he knew what you were doing, and who you were watching.

You swallowed, trying not to panic. Dammit, if he causes a fuss, everything will be for naught!

You had a bit of a staring competition with him, until he finally uncrossed his arms and turned away, heading off somewhere—likely to notify some informants. Thanks to him having spotted me, we probably have much less time to get in and out without a hitch now! You deeply feared what André was capable of. If he had such lackeys like that running around, this would probably be over before it had even begun.

I need to act fast. Otherwise you’d have a heart attack from the panic and dread that’s pulsating in your veins, inhibiting you from thinking clearly and quickly. I’m going to have to brave it. There are probably other men around here like that big one who are watching me right this moment. It was a matter of now or never.

Ascending the stairs with all the agility your rather unfit self could muster, you tried to peep into the single window of the door, but it was covered with thick layers of old newspapers. It didn’t just look run-down from this close up—it looked abandoned. As it was meant to, you had surmised.

You tried the rusty doorknob, not knowing whether to feel relieved or alarmed at how it twisted easily in your grip and gave way, the door opening. Easing it open further, you peeked inside, squinting, only met with inky darkness. Okay. So, this little house is not what it seems at all.

Obviously, there was something much larger connected to it, likely an extended interior of a building, so you braved it and slipped inside, clicking it shut behind you. You blinked several times, standing still to let your eyesight adjust to the darkness of the room, and finally started to creep forward further into the room.

It smelt musty and sour in there, like old, moth-eaten curtains in need of a good wash, and spilt beer from long ago staining the wood of the floorboards. There must be a door ahead.

Extending your hands, you tried to feel about the place to get a proper bearing on your surroundings. Your fingers brushed against something, and grasped it. It was warm, furry, and—

It squeaked in fright at your sudden grip, and you let out a muted shriek of your own, wrenching yourself back. There was the sound of hurried scrabbling, and you fought back the wave of nausea that had immediately drenched you at the realisation of what you had grabbed. Oh my god! That was a rat!

“Ew, ew, ew,” you softly whimpered to yourself, fighting back rising bile. Spooked, you wanted nothing more than to just turn around and head home at that moment. However, the sudden flicker of a light glinted in the corner of your eye, and you whipped around to see the faint sliver of an orange glow from the bottom of a door just over to your left. And then, abruptly, you heard the sound of three sets of stomping feet climb the stairs outside.

Thinking fast, you practically flew to the door, hastily feeling around for a lock, and almost cried in relief when you felt a deadbolt in the centre of the doorknob. Swiftly twisting it locked, you backed well away from the door and looked around, barely able to make anything out in that pitch darkness, before diving behind a shelf just out from the wall enough to squeeze in between.

The cobwebs were thick back there, and they instantly got stuck in your wig and tickled at your nose; the dust was so strong, you could barely restrain yourself from sneezing. Oh, please, please, please let there be no spiders back here! Your imagination was running wild and worsening your fear, bringing phantom sensations of little spider legs scuttling across your back and neck to life.

Tears pricked at your eyes from the dust and from fear as the doorknob rattled violently, before a masculine voice cursed and kicked the door in viciously. It was too forceful of a kick for the rickety old door to handle however, and in flew the door, crashing against the ground, its wood splintered and absolutely wrecked.

There wasn’t even any point in locking it! At least it gave you three seconds extra time to hide, though—and suddenly, all your fears about spiders back there behind the bookcase vanished as the sound of that thickset man stormed in—and, from what you could hear—there were two much smaller men flanking him. You didn’t dare to peep out from around the corner of the bookshelf; the books stacked on the shelves were so compact, not even a sliver of light shone through them.

A deep, harsh voice ordered, “I saw that bitch follow the Monsieur and creep in here after him. Turn this place upside down.”

‘The Monsieur’? Your blood turned to ice. André? Oh my god. Just how…big of a crime boss is he?

Who would have thought that you—an average, normal and utterly harmless young woman—would ultimately get involved with even more unscrupulous dealings almost ten years on from the death of the main perpetrator—your mother? If you were trying to laugh this off, you would’ve mentioned how it sounded so ridiculous, it was like it was right out of some shoddy crime/mystery novel. However, these men were on the hunt for you, and it was only a matter of very little time until they checked behind this shelf and dragged you out.

This can’t be real. You pinched yourself, shaking. I have to be dreaming. There’s no way this is reality!

You crept back further in behind the bookshelf, praying the darkness back there would be enough for them to miss you. You listened as the men trudged around, making a huge ruckus, the determination to find you evident in the mere volume and forcefulness of their movements.

And then the sound of a door clicking open sounded, and the three men immediately stopped.

Silence. You didn’t even dare to breathe. Hand over your mouth, you stared at the shadows cast by the light from outside, only stopping at the edge of the bookshelf, before a voice finally began speaking after ten long seconds of agonisingly tense stillness.

“What’s all this, boys?” It’s André. You could just imagine him standing in the doorway of wherever he’d emerged from with his hands in his pockets, posing languidly, like always. “You’re making an awful racket. I could hear you all the way from the end of the hall. I’m trying to focus, you know.”

Not a single word he uttered had lost that classic warm, friendly tone of his, but somehow—even though you’d never seen it yourself—you could easily picture the iciness in his smile. So easy-going, so unpredictable.

“Oh, boss, I’d spotted someone tailing you, sneakin’ around up here,” one of the men said, presumably the huge one. “A woman. Wearin’ a wig. She’s in here somewhere.”

“Yeah?” There was the sound of two slow footsteps entering the room. “Wonder who it could be.” Two more sounded, and they’d edged closer to the bookshelf. Stifling a fearful gasp, you flattened yourself best you could completely against the wall, its paper yellowed and peeling, scratching against the material of your trench coat. It elicited a soft scritch-ing sound, and the room had been so silent, you were almost sure they’d have heard it.

“Any guesses, mes amis?” André stopped right in front of the bookcase, and you heard him tap on the hard, dusty spine of some long-forgotten, neglected book stored in the shelf right above your head. “I’d like to hear them, if you don’t mind.”

“I reckon it’s your missus-to-be,” said an unfamiliar voice, its tone nasally and sneering. “You said she’d been actin’ pretty fishy as of late, boss.”

His two other companions concurred in unison, snickering to themselves. You didn’t see what was so funny about this—but then, you supposed, and you were the one who was going to be on the receiving end of whatever sinister outcome André had planned for you.

“Sound suppositions, boys,” André’s lilting voice singsonged, grating on your anxious nerves. He slowly slid out whatever book he had ‘selected’, and a sliver of light instantly shone in from the gap in the books. You swiftly ducked down even further, practically lying flat on the ground, and revulsion almost made you gag from the rat and mice droppings you could feel littering the floor below you. Hurry up, Navia! “I’ve been wondering what to do with her. Maybe this time, I’ll finally have a reason to be rid of her, yeah?” “Haw-haw! She’s doin’ all the work for us—” “Boss!” A new, urgent voice called from outside, and the sound of frantic running ensued. It swiftly stopped right outside the (now doorless) entrance to the cabin. “We have a problem!” André’s voice didn’t even waver from its signature cool, humorous cadence. “Ah. What’s got you in such a right panic, Alain?”

“It’s the blasted Spina, Monsieur. They’re causing trouble again. Much of it.”

André must’ve cracked open the book he picked out, for the sound of it suddenly snapping shut made you flinch roughly. “Is that so?” His tone wasn’t so warm anymore. “Is it the president’s darling daughter skylarking about in my business again?” “I-I’m afraid so, sir. She’s—”

“No matter. Let’s go. Seems as if I must have a bit of a chat with the girl myself, this time.” One pair of booted shoes marched for the entrance, followed by three more. “Calvin, you stand guard here. If my fiancé tries to leave, feel free to knock her out.”

“Yessir.” You didn’t know whether to be glad it was not the big huge guy assigned to stand guard, or whether to start fretting over the fact that he was just toying with you this entire time. He knew I was hiding behind here! Oh, thank the Archons he was interrupted!

It appeared that the fuss Navia must’ve been kicking up was of much more demanding urgency than you being hidden in this room. You waited until André and his companions’ footsteps faded, before straightening from your position on the ground. A plan was hatching in your head. Let’s just see who will really be the one getting knocked out around here, André Banville.

The bookshelf was tall enough for you to stand to your feet and quietly brush yourself off while keeping you hidden. A few of your bones popped and clicked from the stretch. Ugh. I’ll be needing a good long shower after this!

You looked around on the bookshelf, searching for a book big and heavy enough to smack this ‘Calvin’ over the head with and knock him out cold. Soon, you spotted a huge tome quite high above your head, and you lifted yourself up onto your toes to grasp it.

How will I have the strength to swing it around? This one is huge! It didn’t occur to you just how much adrenaline was racing through your veins, and how much of a boost in vigour that is. You finally got a grip on it, and began slowly, gradually, and quietly easing it out from its spot in the shelf.

It took up much of your energy, having to be so quiet. The man standing guard in the doorway didn’t know exactly where you were in that room, and you didn’t want him to find out until it was too late—for him.

“Alright, lady, you can step out now,” came his voice—and you groaned under your breath at recognising just which one of the men Calvin was: the nasally-voiced one, the sort that reminded you of a rat. “You ain’t got nowhere to run, y’know. The boss will prob’ly be havin’ a tonne of fun with you tonight.”

And so you did. You stepped out from your hiding space, quiet as a cat, keeping to the shadows, with an enormous tome in your hands. You slowly circled him, watching his every move like a hawk, slowly approaching him. He seemed utterly unaware, merely continuing on with that sneer of his on his grimy face. “He’s been waitin’ for this, y’know—waitin’ for you to come to yer senses and realise what ’e’s been up to. Was dreadin’ the wedding day ’n everything.”

Is that true? Even with all these questions flying back and forth in your head, you continued to approach the pathetically oblivious man, tome held over your head, ready to bring it down on his. “Better cherish yer last moments, I’d say—”

“Boo.” For dramatic effect, you sidled up to him and hissed into his ear, making the man leap out of his skin with a very unmanly screech. You didn't give him any more time to react, however, as you quickly swung the book down and onto his skull, whacking him over the head with every ounce of strength you had left.

A resounding crack sounded once the book made contact with his cranium, and he flopped to the ground, without a sound, face-first, his musket clattering from his hold and to the ground.

Did I kill him? You almost froze with fear before you knelt down beside him and hastily checked his pulse. The blow you dealt to his skull was stronger than you intended, and you heard it fracture—a sickening sound you never wanted to hear again. Feeling at his wrist, you almost slumped over with relief once you felt the faint pump-pump in his arm, meaning he was still alive, but you likely gave him brain damage with that bash you dealt. And you found that you didn’t really care if you did.

Straightening, you brushed off your hands and looked to the wide-open doorway André had emerged from, squinting into the darkness of the hall leading on. A pale yellow glow shone faintly at the end of the hallway and, without wasting another second, you stepped over the unconscious body of Calvin’s and rushed into the hallway.

Soon enough, you came to the end of it, standing before an ajar door. You could hear jazz music, of all things, softly trickling out from the office, and you pushed the door open, closing it back to its same ajar state as it was before, and thus striding into the room and taking it all in,

Towering bookshelves lined the walls, and the desk in the middle of the room was cluttered and stacked with papers, books, folders and binders absolutely packed full to the brim of more papers. A single fountain pen sat idly in a jar full of ink, and that’s when you realised it.

This is his base. You walked in further and picked up a random piece of paper. It was some kind of document, going on about proceedings for the (illegal) shipment of firewater to Mondstadt.

Firewater. You flung the paper away from you like it had burned your hand. Oh my god. Don’t tell me.

Unwilling to dally any longer, you swiftly settled in at his desk and began rummaging through his drawers, cabinets—everything that you could find that had something of importance in it.

And from what documents you could find, each one was one horror after the other. He runs an entire syndicate! Document after document displayed crucial information regarding dealings André had been doing—for the past seven years.

“Oh my god…” you gasped to yourself, reading the date of one record. It was an entry penned by André’s very own hand—written the day after you met André for the first time. It read, Located the woman’s daughter. Won’t be long until she introduces me to her brother. Finally, the ledger can be put to use.

Ledger? You felt lightheaded, as if the blood had been drained from you. And…is he talking about my mother? Is that who ‘the woman’ is?

Hurriedly, you yanked open another drawer and heaved out what items were stored in there—and a leather-bound notebook slipped out from the bundle of papers and plopped to the desk.

With shaking hands, you picked it up, unclipping its clasp, and easing it open.

There was a name written inside of the cover—and it was your mother’s name.

Bloody hell! You leapt from André’s chair you had sat in and clutched at your hair, ripping off the wig. Gods! I knew we’d missed something! If you didn’t get rid of this account book—this final remaining piece of evidence of your mother’s existence and her organisation, of her legacy—you and your brother would be in dire, dire danger from not only André and his associates, but also the court.

You flipped through the ledger, reading your mother’s handwriting, inspecting all of the recorded transactions of firewater and illegal substances and weapons—as well as the trading of classified parliamentary information for sky-high prices, paid for by the Fatui.

As you rapidly flipped through the pages, almost tearing the papers in your haste, the written annals and logs penned by your mother came to an abrupt stop. There was just nothing after that, leaving about a quarter of what paper was left in the ledger, blank.

Something caught your eye—a folded slip of yellowed paper peeking out from the very back cover of the ledger, left tucked into the book for a long while. Hands trembling so violently, you could barely get a grip on it, you pulled it out and placed the ledger down, unfolded the piece of paper.

Inside was a letter. And it was from your mother.

To my dearest son and daughter,

I was never a good mother to either of you. I neglected you, all for the sake of nothing, in the end. Without any other choice, I founded a hub for criminals, something that would make me money without having to resort to the final pis aller and sell my body for a coin. No brothel would take in a middle-aged woman, anyway. Instead, I opted to get my hands dirty instead. With a lot of blood, if all amounted up. It shames me, it does, and I know it sounds as if I was making excuses, but I really had no choice.

If you are reading this, it could be that you were snooping around, or that I am dead. I suspect the latter more. As I write this, I can only hope that you do find and have the chance to read this someday. Please don’t let this ledger fall into the wrong hands. You must get rid of my legacy completely, and lead better lives than I.

I am undeserving to ask for this, but,

Love,

Mother.

Tears blurred your vision completely, and you gasped back a sob. With violently quivering fingers, you set the letter face-down, collapsing into the chair behind you.

Curse you! You inwardly swore, forcing back the wails fighting to burst out. Curse you! Look at this mess you made! That you left for me to clean up! It had become like a hereditary curse—an ancestral sin—she had left on you, just like in those fantasy books, one that is inescapable, and always reveals itself in the lives of at least one of the forebearer’s offspring. That being your mother, in this case. And, oh, had it revealed itself—the entire blissful reality with André was nothing but a fraud—he was nothing but a fraud—and it was falling apart right before your very eyes.

In the midst of your misery and fight to regain your rationality, you spotted some kind of logo in the corner of your eye, printed in harrowing dark green ink on the top left corner of a document tossed on André’s desk, one you hadn’t picked up before, and you weakly shoved the manila folder dumped on top of it away, exposing it to the light fully.

Your eyes narrowed, your stomach rolling in foreboding. Hold on…does that say…? You dearly hoped it didn’t. That would mean…

It was a brand’s emblem—in this case, the official coat-of-arms, of sorts, for André’s organisation.

The Fulbert Union.

A door slamming open wrenched you from your thoughts before you could fully process what you had just found. Startled, you flinched back at the sound, your head snapping up, and you were met with the glacial stare of your fiancé.

“You probably won’t believe me, but…” André strolled casually into the room, prowling towards you, flicking open a lighter and bringing a cigarette to his lips, igniting it, before inhaling a long, drawn-out, insouciant drag of it. He tapped it, breaking the ashes from its end, letting the dead embers flutter to the floor as he puffed out a substantial haze of smoke. The smell made you want to gag. “I really did enjoy the time we spent together. You know, going around town, going on those dates, me spending money on you—you see, it was all for a good benefit, in the end.”

“That benefit being me—your source of profit—‘in the end’?” “You catch on quickly,” he smiled, but his eyes did not. “That’s another thing I’d always liked about you. However, I liked you better when you didn’t ask questions, and you stayed out of my business.”

For every step he took towards you, you took three back. You wanted nothing more than to poke that alight cigarette into his eyes and burn them out—and you glared such sentiments at him, making sure he knew it. “I don’t have the words to express how much I want to strangle you right now.”

“The feeling is quite mutual.” André’s tone was warm, but it was the kind of warmth that scalded, that killed. “You poking around in here has, essentially, signed your death warrant. And would you look at that—” he held up a piece of paper, and it was a death certificate, with your name and personal details all written out in neat penmanship—ready to be presented to the mortician at any time. “—I actually have it all written up right here. Thank you, mon bijou, for making things so convenient for me.”

“Do you know how pathetic you sound right now?” Desperation to get the hell out of there wasn’t letting you think, and you were only left to just blurt out any old hateful word you could to try and land some kind of blow on him before you met your end. “I see it now. You’re one massive egomaniac—and if I think about it, you always were.”

André coolly arched a brow, unfazed by your insults. “Slandering me to my face won’t achieve anything, honey. In fact, to me, it just sounds like you’re eager for death. Well, then, let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” You didn’t even have time to blink when he shot forward, throwing something purple at you—and you realised, in the blur of the moment, that this man had a Vision, and was using the power of Electro on you to render you paralysed for a time.

“Nope, not a Vision.” As if reading your thoughts, André held up a little circular object, and its dark, warped, swirling interior beneath its glass encasing conveyed its true nature. “It’s a Delusion, dearest. Kind of what you’ve been living in for the past three—no, seven—years.”

He had a hand wrapped around your throat tightly, and you didn’t have the strength to fight his grip. The Delusion’s electrifying power had successfully weighed down your bones and dulled your nerves so you were like lead. Completely at his mercy—something that this man did not have for you.

“It’s really a shame for you, you know? You could’ve played along, and I would’ve given you a quiet death later on, maybe a few months after our wedding. Died of perfectly natural causes—maybe taking a little ‘tumble’ off a cliff as we stroll about the landscape together on our honeymoon, falling deathly sick from ‘food poisoning’, or, maybe—” Something else replaced his hand—and this new grip on your throat was dry, coarse, and it burned as it was wound around your neck. You let out a desperate, choked and muffled shriek as you realised what it was. He’s going to strangle me! Hang me from the ceiling! “—a bit more of a tragic demise, such a devastating end for the family—death by suicide.”

The noose was fully wound around your throat, and André seemed satisfied with its taut grip on your neck. He stepped away from you, the rest of the rope in his hold, as he smiled malevolently down at you, slinging the rope over a little hook in the ceiling, and then he paused to continue chatting. “Had that hook up there installed the other day. Wasn’t actually meant for this—but, well, I’d say I’m a bit of a master at making better of a rather dull situation.”

You couldn’t even lift your arms to clutch at the rope, the shock he had dealt to you was too potent, too much for your body to overcome. Help me! Someone, please, help me! But, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get anything else other than a pathetically soft whimper out. It amused André immensely, seeing you struggle so hard. “I find myself feeling very grateful that you never asked for sex or whatever. It pained me to even propose to you. You get me? My tastes in women are much more…” he looked you up and down with a scrutinising, rather repulsed gaze, and you felt his words and loathsome stare pierce you in your stomach. “…Refined. Anyway! That’s as irrelevant as you are, really. You helped me out a lot today, mon bijou. I owe it to you. Here’s your payment.”

And then he began pulling; heaving you up bit by bit, higher and higher, tightening the rope’s grip on your throat to the point where it broke the burned skin of your nape and bled—squeezing your throat so tautly to the point where air flow through your larynx was completely cut off.

Panic had embedded itself into every fibre, every cell, every atom of your body, and the despairing fight to survive never relented—but it was pointless. You were finished. All your brain could manage now was to flash every good and bad memory you possessed right before your eyes—and, as if to taunt you in your final moments, it showed you all the happy times of laughter and camaraderie with André, with your brother, with Elvira, with your workmates. But it was especially with André, as he had become the sole source of the best memories you had, and you detested it. Why must it be his face I look upon fondly as I die, when he is my killer? The gods must have truly, truly abhorred you—for a reason you will never know.

You were dangling in midair, not quite high enough up yet, and André was still talking. “Your suicide note is all written up—and in your handwriting, by the way—but, damn, if only you’d left it until we were back at the house. Then it would’ve looked a bit more convincing. How weird would it be if you randomly offed yourself in my office, huh?” He heaved a long-suffering sigh, as if fatigued at the mere thought of having to pose your murder as a suicide. “I’ll work it out. Actually, no, this is better…” André knotted the rope around the hook twice to make sure it held, before stepping back, hands on his hips as if to admire some artwork he’d created—that being your suspended frame hanging helpless above him. “I’ve got plenty of backup. We’ll just dump you somewhere—”

Black ants were crawling into the edges of your vision, gradually blotting out everything, obscuring that horrid face of his from your sights, and the memories were flickering out into nothingness, finally. You closed your eyes, accepting it. If this is how it ends, then this is how it ends. With what ability you had left to think, you could only pray that in your next life, you would be granted a better chance.

Faint, echoing sounds of commotion and yelling indistinctly resonated in your ears, but you were too far gone to decipher it. You barely even felt the rope being sliced just above your head and you dropping into someone’s hold, the person’s arms thin but strong, their perfume sweet, but mixed with sweat from exertion, and the sensation of curls brushing against your nose. You hardly felt any of that. All that was left was to fade away completely.

・・・・

“When I woke up, Navia, my brother and my sister-in-law were all passed out by my bed. They must have been at my side the entire time, waiting for me to wake up, for only the gods know how long.”

A gentle finger traces random patterns on your bare hip, his hand’s hold so warm, so soothing. Unwavering amethyst eyes gaze into your own, taking in your tear-stained face with no hint of judgement or criticism at all. “How long were you out for?” You frown, thinking. “Hm…Navia said something like…three or four days? I don’t know. Apparently, I was extremely close to death—if she and her men had been even half a minute late, I would not be lying here with you today.”

Neuvillette falls silent, merely continuing to gently massage your hip, his thumb rubbing circles into your flesh, as if to anchor you and help you feel consoled, seen. “…I find that to be a scary thought.”

You sniffle, choking out a feeble laugh. “Haha. That’s nice of you.”

“Nice of me? Is that all? Is that all you believe?” His arm encircles your waist and presses you flat against his torso, the ridges of his abdomen digging deliciously into yours, and he holds you so you’ve no choice but to stare up at him. That gaze of his holds such raw intensity again, it whips the breath from your lungs. “I wish you’d stop thinking like that. Why base your self worth on words a man who almost murdered you, and who is now dead, threw at you? His words mean nothing. They only have meaning if you allow them to. Why don’t the words of those around you who love you take precedence?” “Because it’s hard, Neuvillette.” You drop your eyes. They’re filling with tears again. Ugh, shouldn’t I be out of these already? “I—look, three years of what seemed like genuine love and affection and support, all razed to the ground in a matter of minutes. Insecurities that I had were ones he once told me were beautiful. How do you expect me to not believe that? But then he switches up as he’s killing me and says that his tastes are more ‘refined’,” you scoff, before drawing in a shuddering breath. “A-And then, he goes along and says that he was basically forcing himself to shower me with such warmth, and then he says that—”

“That’s enough,” Neuvillette softly commands, tenderly brushing your hair back from your forehead. “I see where you’re coming from. But, would you like me to tell you something?” You blink up at him, uncaring of the tears blurring your vision. “What?” you sniffle.

“In all my long years of living…” His lips meet your forehead. “I’ve never coveted something…” And then his mouth presses to your temple. “…So much. I never knew what it was like to want a person so dearly, so intensely, that I would gladly abandon all reason and precept if she so wished for it.” And he buries his face into your nape, lips ghosting over the scar on your neck, making you shudder in pleasure. “Precept that is my very being, what I live for—but what worth does it possess when she has such supremacy over it?”

“Neuvillette, I…don’t lie to yourself, you can’t—”

“Am I not one who has never been predisposed to lying?” Neuvillette peers up at you earnestly from his spot in your nape. “What makes it so hard for you to believe?” He licks his lips, eyes lidded. “Well, then, if I must show you once more—”

“N-No! Th-That’s quite alright, I believe you…” His displaying of excessive amounts of affection has made your brain short circuit, and you bury your face into his hair instead. “I don’t want you to forfeit centuries of such eminent principles you’ve upheld all this time, for a single mortal woman.” You feel him still beneath you, and you take this chance to continue. “I am merely a fleeting affair, Neuvillette—something that will barely last twenty years. You cannot simply renounce a role of extreme gravity not just to this nation, but to surrounding ones as well, because I would say so—which I will never. You are the Chief Justice. You are impartial. I am not an exception.”

He is silent, and as you fall quiet too, your own words settling in, and you realise just how hurtful your little speech had been. But the truth has always hurt, and it’s something you’ve long learned to face.

“…Happiness has always been a luxury for me,” Neuvillette finally says after a long, long moment of tormenting silence. “I just…want to indulge a little, for once.” “I know.” Your voice is gentle, comforting. “I know. But…unless there was some kind of way that I could become immortal and thus stick with you for the rest of your long life…this will only become a painful memory for you in the future.”

Neuvillette shifts beneath you, revealing his face. His eyes are thoughtful, but hesitant. They stare into yours for a few seconds before they lower. “…Yes. If only there was a way.”

Something in his gaze just now struck you with a peculiar feeling—what if he…knows a way? You’ve always surmised that this man is hiding some great secret from you—something directly involved with his true identity.

You’ve had your suspicions, but they’re not something you like keeping. And, it’s not really any of your business. If he is who you think he is, then there truly wouldn’t be a chance for you, anyway.

“You’ll move on.” You massage his scalp, and his eyes close in bliss, but a knot forms between his brows at your words. “You’ll eventually forget me. You’ll be fine.”

Neuvillette abruptly clutches you close, smothering your mouth with his, silencing you. “Stop being depressing for a moment,” he chuckles between kisses, relishing your surprised, soft squeaks and pants. “And let me make you happy.”

But his laughter is pained, forced, and you sense that—but you humour him anyway. The selfish part of you is saying, anyway, what’s there for me to lose? but you are not cruel.

Love is selfless. Love is kind. Love means considering your other half’s concerns over yours. If only that was something you had the privilege to do for him forever.

i have sat. at my mum's desk. for four days and eighteen hours straight, working on this MONSTROSITY of a chapter. TWENTY ONE THOUSAND WORDS. WHAT HAVE I DONE.

anyways i hope u guys enjoyed. i worked really hard on this one. i kinda enjoyed writing this chapter but then it fell off more towards the end. that much is clear.

taglist!

@shiroonekoo @just-here-reading @avyakaslana @eternal-dokja @confusedparticle @xitrinez @tanspostsblog @vcatson @sek0ya @loving-august @mxyarylla @ultigoblin @constantlyoverthinking @pvbbyb0y @lynettezzp @esthelily @furblrwurblr @sangoqueenkoko @lacunaanonymoused @dumb-gemini

#genshin #genshin impact #neuvillette #chief justice neuvillette #fontaine #neuvilette genshin #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x you #genshin x reader #genshin neuvillette #genshin impact x reader #neuvi #focalors #furina #genshin fontaine

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