it doesn't take long to recover, and he isn't surprised. that it'd faltered at all should be the bigger surprise, and over what only amounts to foreplay, at that. it isn't just his physique or the physicality of their coupling that has it salivating over him, its spit shockingly cold against his skin as it trails down his shoulder, chest, and back in strings from its fangs. he's definitely the one left in a mess comparatively, but it's the one making the mess of him, where without its lecherous attention, he'd have been oddly pristine otherwise. even with his hair falling over his face and shoulders, which he's already unused to, he isn't so worse for wear, not yet. but its cum marks him, and he's only blearily coherent enough to finally remember to catch what little was still left on his face — and degrading as it is, he licks it off his finger.

it's caught up in the romanticism of it all, in a way he hadn't really anticipated. though, maybe he should've, no matter who fires is on the surface. the masters covet love stories, and although london wouldn't believe it, theirs was an intricate one. it's the first time he's ever been so compliant, or honest. and he thinks it likes this, too, even without him kicking and screaming vitriol at it. enough for its cock to already be so hard again, or to have it panting hot with what he would imagine would've been a flushed face, pressed against his neck. its muzzle tickles him, and it makes him whimper each time it shifts. the feeling of its fur against his skin while its claws are breaking it is... really intimate. soft, but not entirely.

"it wasn't just you paying attention to me all these years," he murmurs, voice weak where his body tenses in its pleasure each time its cock thrusts up against his own, leaving his breath to catch every time. it's so... it isn't just thicker, given it may be. it's longer, too, and he already knows what comes after is going to hurt — but he's willing, and up to this point, uncharacteristically obedient. "i learned how to read you, too. not that you were ever very subtle." he can learn against it while it's leaving bruises 'long his shoulder, keep peppering the space by its ear with more kisses, and then the ear itself. the sounds it makes, the softer ones ... they're cute. he's not sure he's ever heard it make them before. it'd trilled, maybe, in odd times between them where they were almost there, but not quite.

is he embarrassing it?

"is that what i'm doing?" breathless, he finally looks up at it, pressing his thighs together just a touch more at what he feels is almost its insistence. he's met with a harsher thrust between them that makes him wince, stomach fluttering. the mess 'tween them serves a greater purpose beyond pleasing lewd aesthetics : it makes it easier for fires to move like this, and he encourages it to, goading it when it's a little too soft, but lessening the pressure he spares it whenever it gets too rough, either. it's a lesser form of control, but however rare, he's the one who has it. "tempting you?"

well, maybe he is. it never tends to waste time with the more human intimacies of sex, before filling him with its cock — it wasn't its nature, and he'd have never let it anyways. but he lets it take its time now, and they both explore every shiver each thrust sends through his body, or the heat and sweat building between them. he pleads with it occasionally, quietly, with hair catching on his lip and fingers squeezing the claw he has held captive against his abdomen. it feels good, and leaves his dick to start hardening against its own the further it pushes. its teeth make him moan, its tongue after, and he wants it to bite him — he'd long given up the fight against bonding with it, when it had made it clear it wouldn't listen. it so rarely had.

its kiss is a welcome distraction from the thin threads of his composure being pulled apart, however weak of one. his free hand tangles back in its fur against its jaw, pulling it in closer as he complies for it almost to the second it leans down for him. its hard thrusts against his cock make him moan into it, but he parts his lips and lets it tease him. encourages it, even, despite the bruises it leaves along his lips or the smallest beads of blood that get drawn to the surface of each little nick its fangs leave behind. and he indulges it throughout, moving his hips in subtle tandem with its own, only one step below jerking it off. it steadies him in an embrace made for a much, much larger creature than what he is — and he tests its patience, making up for the slow pace by squeezing around it harder as if trying to get it to break. he thinks ... it might be really hot, actually, having it fuck his thighs like this until it came again.

it must agree, how much precum has the two of them wet against each other. he doesn't have to change positions this time to know its soaked again, too. it's really turned on.

"a—ah..." he's fighting to catch his breath when it finally pulls back, spit caught 'tween both their lips. he doesn't even get a moment to recover from the fog that's fallen over his head, a mix of lust and love largely unspoken, before its tongue is back along his skin. he's biased, he thinks. out of everything, he thinks its tongue might feel the best. it's slicker than a human's, in a way he can't quite explain, and even though its breath feels hot, its spit doesn't. he can't quite catch his own false breath. "please..."

he swallows though his throat feels incredibly dry in the moment, head lulling back against its chest where he can't quite reach its shoulder. when he glances up, eyes half-lidded, he can see its wings folding in around them, not entirely, but enough to feel engulfed by their sheer size. it makes him shiver ... something not exactly helped by its sultry purring in his ear.

the request doesn't actually surprise him. it's exactly what he'd expected, were he to be honest, but he still feels embarrassment blossom in his chest with a heart that starts to beat just a little bit faster not from the sexuality of it ... rather, the understanding of exactly what it's getting at. it towers over him normally. this is something else entirely, and it really wants that. so does he, to some extent, but how excited fires is in comparison would be almost cute, were it something not quite so... scandalous. it'll want him to take every inch of it. he knows that's what it's salivating over. "you have to go and request the most humiliating shit from me, don't you?" his voice comes out more of a whine than anticipated, but he's rude as it does, slowly letting his thighs part so that it isn't thrusting between them anymore. "fine."

his legs feel shaky, what little strength he can feel in his body not nearly enough to do much beyond letting it do what it wants with him. but he supposes it doesn't matter. that'd always been his plan, if the position he'd put them in hadn't made that more than abundantly clear at this point. his body jerks instinctively as its palm curls around both of their cocks, and the pressure of its had paired with their dicks pressed together leaves him panting, falling further down against his chest where he all but collapses in on it.

he wants it to touch him. it isn't the first time, nor would it be the last, but it is the most honest he's been in his presentation. it takes what little energy he does have to straighten himself back up enough for it to at least be able to press its teeth to his throat again, but he's so compliant with it, letting it adjust as it pleases while he squeezes its hand and pulls at its fur. its hands feel so soft like this despite its claws, and the wet of its nose each time it bumps his neck leaves goosebumps on his body. "yes, sir—" there's a little bit of mockery in that one, but he's still sincere in how he regards it, before his voice breaks into loud moan the same moment its fangs bury themselves in his neck.

his back arches, body jerking with the pleasure of its bite in a way that is all too familiar, but so much more intense. he has to squeeze its hand to keep from moving too much, but his moans break into calling out to it, free hand scrambling to grab onto anything — its ear, then — and steady himself. "fuck, that feels—that feels good..." he can hardly catch his breath in the closer he pulls it against him, the warmth of his blood contrasting its saliva in the areas that it doesn't catch it and trails down him.

that he keeps his senses at all is a miracle, but his whimpers grow more frequent as his thighs slam softly around its cock once more, pressing together loosely in an attempt to steady how he's startling to tremble for it. there's precum on his cock now too, before it even starts to stroke the both of them, but the added attention helps. each slow stroke makes his length twitch, and has him biting down on his lip in a desperate attempt to quiet himself. not that it works, and eventually, he just gives up and lets himself moan against its ear. it is, perhaps, the first time he really makes no effort to silence himself.

"n—necul—" he cries out again as it bites down deeper, nails nicking the ear he's grabbed onto ... and though there is little he can do but give into it, he continues to encourage, grinding into its hand each time it strokes them. a blessing for it, where his thighs are then left stroking its length as well, each time he moves. "all the t—time we've spent with one-another, y—you've fantasized about this, haven't you? just being able to do what you want to me." his face is red to the tips of his ears, and now his hair is quite the mess where it falls in his face, with him pressing his cheek against his opposing shoulder in an attempt to hide himself. so demure! its bite is inhuman, painful, and incredibly pleasurable — he feels so intimately trapped in the arms of something truly monstrous, and he wants that. it's occurring to him very, very rapidly how much it wants him, too.

"i'll gi-ive in to you," he whines, closes his eyes, and tries to ignore how he can feel every inch of its cock and then some, each time its palm squeezes around them... all he can do is pull at its fur in desperation. "i want—i want you." he always had. he'd never verbalized it, or confirmed it, leaving the obvious unspoken despite giving it his consent prior, but he'd never admitted it, until now. and it's humiliating enough that he's content to blearily focus on its wings and the stars, rather than watch it jerk them off, or taste him deeper. "and i wa—nt you to fuck me like this," distractions don't stop him from wincing, each time the pain or pleasure gets overwhelming... but he doesn't signal for it to stop, either, because he doesn't need it to. "like you o...own me or because you love me. as kindly or as brutally as you want to, because i will tell you if it gets to be too much." there's an almost whimsical note of humor in how he says it, too soft to be outright flirty. maybe it'd be cute, in different circumstances. "i can love you better while i'm taking your dick, this time."

there's so much it could say, if only it could find the words to put voice to its feelings—so complicated they'd become, beyond what had started as idle fascination. it loves him, truly, and there's no denying that ... much as its others might try, it hasn't taken to shying away from countless confession, and even adrien himself no longer takes to questioning it. but the complication comes in the complexity : what it feels is something far deeper. love feels too shallow, and yet, simultaneously, like it is not enough to express the swell of warmth caught behind its chest. not enough, to accurately capture the way it looks at him, both in lust and in equal tender regard. not enough to describe how it softens in his presence, 'neath his touch ... and even to his admonishments, however often spoken in jest.

he's teasing it! it's caught up in the intricacies of love, lust, and all between and here he is smothering it in enough kisses to leave it flush in the face for the next hundred years. love may not be strong enough in written word, but it is certainly strong enough in sensation—it's practically fumbling over itself, by time it finds its voice.

" well, i wouldn't mind it—! " it quips, sharp where it isn't quite as snippy. for all its complaining, it would never admit to the heat flooding its own cheeks in similar fashion, nor to the steadily increasing beat of its own heart 'gainst its chest, but there's something about the way he jerks it forward that leaves its ears flicking in desperation, eyes closing temporarily 'gainst the dusting of kisses he leaves 'cross its cheeks that leaves it feeling particularly flustered. he's demanding! that's new ... and exciting.

not that he gives it long to really consider his shift in behavior in full : the lick 'cross its nose, however brief, makes it jump, squeak, and bury its face 'gainst the crook of his neck all in a few seconds time—now it's the one left averting its gaze, as its hold along his hips grows tighter, steady instead of wandering for however brief the moment lasts. it is embarrassed, actually! he's so much more brazen than he often is when he fights it every step of the way, but it doesn't think it minds how demanding he's become when they both benefit for it. its sounds are softer, as it takes to re-adjust with him : quiet, stifled chirps caught somewhere deep in its throat, tangled up between even deeper growls, as his thighs part just enough to allow it thrust its cock up between them and then squeeze carefully around it. it can feel him staring, without having to look—it's the budding tension, and the slight shake to his voice that betrays him—but it doesn't take much adjustment for its confidence to return by time they've fallen into a comfortable position.

" isn't that a pleasant memory? though, i recall you a bit more flushed ... " its confidence is truly something incredible : no matter how honey-tongued, sweet and silken, it always succeeds in sounding more smug than anything else! but it thinks it has plenty reason to be proud, despite its own embarrassment ; its never seen him like this! so it thinks it can be forgiven for its indulgence. each thrust is carefully angled, drawing groan and growl alike free from its throat where its cock pushes up against his own and where no amount of hiding against his neck is enough to stifle the sound. " —but, i suppose i can help with that ... "

it is far from picturesque, and so including—as are they both : though it needn't seek or crave for aesthetic to appreciate a pretty sight when presented with one. every tantalizing shiver, the subtle way in which its clawtips catch every subtle twitch where his muscles draw tense, and where every false-breath falls ragged, chest heaving in slow, drawn-out, and intoxicating motion. there's drool hanging from his lip, but it's hardly anything better. in comparison to him : the way its own body shudders is lecherous, but no more than the way spit hangs from its fangs in strings. it's left salivating over considerably very little—its breath hot against his skin where its spit falls 'cross his shoulder and makes more of a mess than it'd already left him with to bear, and it would all be quite embarrassing if it weren't so utterly enraptured by it all.

" can you really? " its surprise is more honest than it perhaps intends. not that it was under any impression of weaving falseitudes ... but the soft, stifled squeak and scrunch of its nose where it regards him in equal parts interest and confusion perhaps betrays its composure more than it would often let. and that's the curious thing! how caught up it is in lesser intimacies ... it's only left with half its senses, mind muddled from lust as much as infatuation, but it's the smaller things : their difference in size, where his panting turns to quieter plea before his breathing picks up again with its compliance, the delights that stem from lesser friction—not buried inside of him, but pushed up against him, feeling the heat of his skin slick and craving for every shiver and stifled groan. " you are ever the tempting little thing, " it purrs, and it'd be grinning against his skin if it's form would let it : but instead, its teeth are left teasing bruises that have started to blossom, deep reds and purples 'long the slope of his neck. it draws the tip of its tongue over each and every one before it hums, seemingly self-satisfied, bumping its nose against the line of his jaw before it speaks again. " how am i supposed to say no to such a welcome invitation? "

and his own hints aren't exactly subtle. no more than its own are, in any case : he tugs it forward, and it complies, but not before first thrusting its hips up against his own just that much harder, swallowing down its own moans in search of his own. it takes a little extra care on its part, claws nicking the curve of his hip to settle its lingering anxiety, but he tugs its head forward, and it allows itself capture his lips again with no small amount of eagerness. his lips are so much softer compared to its own, a mouth full of sharpened teeth—but his excitement encourages it enough to still nip and tease playful bites where it tugs his lip 'twixt its own, the arm he hadn't stolen wrapping further around his waist to hold him steadier against both its biting kiss and every thrust of its hips.

it still feels so sensitive ... it can feel its own wet heat between its thighs already starting to build again, but just the same, it groans 'gainst every twitch of its own cock where precum starts to bead again. not that they needed much to aid either of them, but there's something undeniably satisfying seeing how hard he's gotten too, in their brief reprieve. his thighs are left slick for more than just its spit, at least : but that makes it easier to push up even harder—it has to force itself to slow its hips, inevitably, to keep from fucking his thighs too.

by time it parts, it's only for 'cause of feeling breathless ... and it shows, too, in the thin strings of spit that fall between them as they part, and how hot its breath is 'cross his skin as it bows its head further, returns to drawing its tongue along his skin. it feels ... dizzy, it thinks. dazed. it craves him, in a manner far deeper than it thinks it ever has ; and what a wonderful feeling that is, not just to want, but to need. " you'll have to tell me how it feels, little light, i want to know every excruciating detail ... what i want— "

its voice trails off for a moment, where it begs his full attention for its cruelest tease : peering up from where it teases teeth 'gainst the space where his shoulder connects with a particularly sultry purr reverberating 'gainst his skin for the hand he doesn't hold to curl around both his cock and its own. it's a little difficult, in truth, though no more difficult than it was to adjust to curling its hand wholly 'round his thigh ... but it has stayed its hips for a reason, in favor of this, " ... is for you to just give in to me. "

no sooner has it finished speaking before it sinks its fangs into his skin, allows his blood to flood over its tongue, hot down its throat where it takes to drinking him deep at the same time it takes to stroking them both. it's shockingly slow, given its usual pace ... but that may well be in part for how its own body shudders against how slick they both are : it's mostly its own aid, to no surprise at all, the amount of precum 'gainst its palm providing ample help to its tease. but ... it feels good—better than, and each way his body jerks in response to it pressing its teeth deeper besides only it encourages it to drink him deeper where it just barely is able to keep them both steady.

@londonfallen biblically accurate irons/elysium

i'm throwing some stuff in a queue speaking of my queue running KJMREH cuz we're going on a bit of a road trip this upcoming week and it's not like. we're going to be gone long. but it IS going to tire me the fuck out for a while so 🥲 this blog is technically queue-focused for the next 2ish weeks

and i won't be super reachable thru ims/dms but if u need anything ur still free to msg me, i'll just be slow. i am the only one driving the entire time </4 KJENRMH

this is a reminder why it keeps its own wallowing to itself, buried behind the thick walls of its spire and a great many drunken stupors. depressed people are so fucking annoying. no wonder they all want to commit suicide — it'd rather die than have to air out its broken heart in front of someone who couldn't care less whether it lived or died. mirrors should take a page out of its book. "it's true, you never belonged with us." it answers its woes, but not its questions, sighing in dramatic show. it's just short of rolling its eyes. oh, poor thing. what a sad little creature it is! the world revolves around mirrors and its misery, truly. but there's something far more important here, and that's itself.

"we will have to do something with your hair... and a fresh coat of color for your nails. among other things. you're dreadful, but a... work in progress, let us call it. you're salvageable, beneath your own rot." it huffs, waiting impatiently for it to get over itself and just drink from it. it'd stuffed blood bags in its cloak to, to leave here. it had foresaw this would be the case, how long this thing has been left to rot away here. spices would screech and scream and behead it if it knew that it had any inclination to nurse their cohort back to health, of course. what a hush-hush long game this would have to be...

"yes, yes, we are so very gracious." it doesn't want mirrors' thanks, that's for certain. there's a hint of distaste in its gaze before it takes a deep breath and centers itself. now, now... it needs to play extra nice. no blood bond born from this exchange would be enough to puppeteer another curator entirely, even if one of them is on death's door. it waits, lets it take its time ... but eventually, the cold pain of its teeth breaking skin hits, and the pleasure that comes with it, even now. wines doesn't react to either sensation, watching it with assessing eyes. the pain isn't enough to startle someone like it, even when they press their teeth deeper into its arm, blood pouring over-eager across not just their face, but its body, and the space between them. it's quite a lot! if it were kine, it'd have to worry, certainly.

it doesn't really care if it frenzies, nor does it care for its own state of being. it's not as if it could drain it dry.

" — there you go! see, you can still be a good boy, can't you?" wines coos at it, patronizing. but it scoots closer without disturbing its jaw clenched 'round its arm. its free arm reaches out to splay its palm against mirrors' chest, such as it is. fixable. it wouldn't be able to use breath of life for quite some time in this shape without being in a great deal of pain, so it would have to make do. "lower, now." it clicks its tongue, expectant. "bite somewhere easier to feed. our thigh." it shifts its legs up between them and parts its thighs, completely serious. it is only half innuendo, an enticement to assess, but it also genuinely believes it may have an easier time holding onto its legs. it'll feel this out, somehow.

a stowaway, even at its finest : once regaled queen, it so rarely used its influence for the same nefarious means its peers had oft taken—selfless, against the selfish. but its selflessness is what landed it here, with its body battered and left to rot until the one who dreamed its prison decided it freed. but it would never be, such was the fate of the living nightmare it'd been forced to bear eternal witness to. it should be among the starved : withered and long rotten—it doesn't know why it isn't. but it knows its body aches something dreadful, its gaze glassy and unfocused despite the sharp, glimmering yellow hues they've stayed. it knows its frenzied more than any one of its kin might ever in the entirety of their lifespans. it hurts. it's exhausted.

" i was ... a burden among you. misplaced. " it whispers, though every word scrapes its throat—dry and under-used. it was more used to sounds more beastly, though even those it can hardly bear above a frankly pitiful purr that forms near-instinctually, as the other master strides closer. it doesn't even know why, in truth, there must be some hope long buried that stirs at the sight of them. more than for just their skin exposed—though they, of course, befitting their clan, was undeniably beautiful—it thinks its for the implication of a lighter touch. even if, albeit, not a tender one.

" why ... are you— you're ... helping us? " its chains clatter, where at last it startles : flinching at first for the brush of their skin 'gainst its own ... its jaw draws tight, and it can feel the curl of its lip downward in an instant. as if flashing its fangs would do it any favors. but just as quickly, when wines own hands don't take to tearing their nails into brittle skin, it starts to settle. more than that, it raises its head—for what few sweet moments it can bear to keep their gaze, its eyes sparkle with equal parts shock and awe. did it hear them right?

" i—we ... " it is a slow gesture, only in part from its overall exhaustion. the gentle shifting of chains as they slide further down its arms, and its hands reaching out, fingers curling around the soft, slender length of their wrist. even like this, their differences are so distinct. they, unmarred, and something by anyone's eyes would be considered otherworldly in their beauty. and it, itself, who is held together by the thinnest of threads. its skin clings to what little muscle remains beneath, and so much of its arm's surface is caked in old blood, where it isn't marked by scars. " i am unworthy of your generosity, " it tugs their wrist gently forward, uncertain. yet when they comply, allow it a considerably sweet mercy, it almost swears itself deluded too for the sudden, intense realization of its hunger. its lip quivers. " but ... thank you. "

such grace isn't meant for it, and it would be stupid to assume they're here from the kindness of its heart. that doesn't stop how it feels its hands shake when it bows its head forward, draws its fangs 'long the vein in their wrist—the gesture only is torture for itself, really, but it does not last long. they're warm, and in its addled state their scent is something irresistible. erelong, it says nothing more before biting down hard into their wrist—with far more teeth than really necessary, a growl over-eager echoing somewhere deep down its throat. but it can't help it. just as it can't help how it sinks its teeth in deeper as their blood, hot, falls over its tongue, down its chin, and slides down its throat. with its richness, it may as well been honey.

it'd never entertain the time of day for someone like mirrors, if it weren't for the sake of its own gain. wines is shallow, at best, and an absolute heathen, at its worst. the only times it had ever bid to touch a nosferatu had been when it'd been left little choice against the power that vile master had held, back in its high days, where everyone had tangled with everyone : except, so ironically, this pathetic thing, even back then. no one had ever wanted mirrors, so embarrassing was its reputation. kindness among monsters is not applauded by those with claws.

were it not here for sake of playing a part, it would've simply drawn back and chortled how little it should even be alive. maybe it'd play the same games it does with the londoners, and run its peer ragged until it'd been convinced to hang itself from its own chains. alas!

"we deserve the apology. what a sorry state you've let yourself fall into. to think your clan once held their tails high! a better master would've never lost itself, not even in these dire circumstances. even names drowned fight back against their betrayal. disgraceful." wines hums as it reaches up and works at the various ties and ribbons along its cloaks. eventually, the bulk of them fall to the ground as it nears its subject, and it is everything toreador had ever aspired to be, truly. its bright red lingerie and unmarred figure are out of place in parabola, but for once, it really isn't here to make a show of itself. it's getting comfortable.

it's confident, as it closes all distance between itself and the fallen husk of a curator in front of it. wines carefully moves to sit down in front of its limp form. not that it'd been afraid to begin with, but even if mirrors were to try to hurt it in anger, it could snap the gangrel in half with little beyond its thighs right now. disgusting, truly.

"for what it's worth, you still look better than HE did. nosferatu really should be exterminated." it huffs, but lets silence fall between them. it's thinking, about how exactly to approach this. it doesn't expect a fight, but it isn't sure what mirrors is like these days other than pathetic and ugly. still manageable, though, and still touchable. its lips purse. it can salvage this... "now, now. servitude is very sexy, but not if you're going to be this mortifying about it." it reaches out to carefully push some of the tangled strand of hair from its face until it can see them properly, then wines' perfectly manicured, red nail drags a soft line along its nose. "vasilicâ." it makes a sound, clicking its tongue like it's calling for a cat. "bite our wrist, kitten. we need you lucid, we're going to spend a little time together, you and us."

it has been without for what has felt like an eternity. an eternity to suffer, to wallow, and to wonder where exactly it had fallen wayside—to have fallen so far, and to suffer still. what crime had it committed, worse than those that it fled with, to deserve the misery of its own beasts turning against it to lash and claw and starve? it surely must have been something terrible, the pedlar-king, it thinks : and it must still be so, to remain here. so long has it spent posturing, curled in on itself with nary a semblance of speech on its tongue, that it no longer stirs at the hint of movement when it hears it. some ways off, at first, a silhouette only somewhat familiar ... it would have flinched once, regardless. recoiled, or braced itself—but now it sulks near in silence.

mr wines? they make for a new sight! though ... it's difficult to tell if it is excited at the prospect of a familiar face, or anxious still. it's tense regardless. if it is angry, it cannot tell : whatever fury lie buried in its broken heart is so beyond smothered by its agony. its acknowledgement comes first in weak sigh, the tension of a body consumed by itself once by fury, then by hunger. its body is nothing as it once was, even in its previously weakened state ... it cannot masquerade, anymore. not entirely, in any case : its tail sways slowly, uncertain, fur matted and mottled, and its wings are tattered—dried with blood, all its own. scars wrap all around a body that should not be; and it has never looked more akin to the corpse it is supposed to be than how it lays in this moment. it barely has the energy to raise its head. even when it does, it takes every effort to hide itself with what little bulk it keeps : it's left peeking through its fingertips, and the slight furrow of its brow does little to distinguish whether it is afraid, angry, or both combined.

it is ... a miserable sight.

" it has, " it's voice is grating, no better than a rasp—how long had it been since it's last spoken? was last spoken to? it can't recall, but it supposes it doesn't matter ... it's rather torn between speaking at all. to use its voice to someone, by all comparison, who it does not deserve the attention of. beyond speaking 'less spoken to, it should not be allowed speak at all, in the shadow of its betters. and yet, when given the opportunity ... words spill over. " you have my deepest apologies, for forcing you bear witness to the blight we have become. to be reduced to this ... " its gaze is glassy, distant, and shockingly wet. it didn't know it had blood yet to spare for tears to build on its lashes. but as it finds its voice, they stream down gaunt cheeks despite itself. its voice, while coarse, almost immediately turns to whimper. or at least as close to it as it's capable. " we are at your mercy. but we do not deserve to be. "

now he's THINKING ABOUT ME EVERY NIGHT, isn't that sweet? i guess so.

mr m.irrors & mr w.ines valentine's day comm from @londonfallen 🥲

“is resurrection romantic?” it can be. Come here

“ The stars are the only thing that makes sense. ” - adrifires OR firespages

it doesn't hear the stars, or even see them. not like itself. mr pages dances to the sounds of things that only it can hear, whether instrumentals or a symphony of melodious voices, who can say. but it thinks it scares the other masters, although they'd never admit it : the horrors they would all have to face, if its malkavian visions were more than just madness, and instead bore much truth. the stars hate mr fires, and mr veils, and mr irons — all of them, too many to go through one by one. most are sensible enough to stay away from it, 'cept for matters of business. not like the londoners who watch it with much curiosity.

its sleeves sling ink 'cross the walls, when it lifts them high enough as it dances. it had rejected fires once, twice, three times, before its cohort had given up trying to dance alongside it, however awkward the attempt had been. its left to mull in its own heartbreak now, watch someone it could never have, the consequences to its actions. they whisper all kinds of nasty things in pages ears, those stars. and its ears twitch as it listens, humming with the tune that fires cannot hear.

"not for you." it drives the knife in deeper, because mr pages is far beyond caring for the tar dark feelings of beasts like mr fires. there's not poison on its tongue, only honesty, and maybe that is why its blood is so scary. malkavians seem mad outwardly, but they are so sure of themselves and the things they know, and in pages case, the futures it sees. it's hard not to believe them, when they seem to know things with such confidence. "you only think they make sense. falscitious. the stars abandoned you 'pon the third city. every single one of you. what you think you know are just delucinations."

the sky is an empty void of black. endless darkness, occupied only by twinkling stars. it tilts its head up as it dances, and ink runs down its arms like blood, spread in thin rivers 'cross bare, pale skin.

"the stars fell," it murmurs, and it raises its hand above to snap its claws, "their hearts, broken, because of us, godless monstures."

there's never anything good to come from it, when it shows up in place of another master. it hardly steps out of its niche, content to play the role of debauched and pretty and desirable and nothing more than that. all its hoarded wineries kept to itself and each intricately lecherous relationship it'd built up with its peers among the masters were enough to satiate it's waning interest in even being alive ... so when the master of wines makes a willing appearance, it is hardly something to celebrate, despite what the improper populace of london itself may believe. this is such a case where its appearance is even more confusing, and every bit more a threat.

whatever its intentions, they certainly aren't so sweet as the scent of strawberries and honey that follow in its wake. it hums as it looks at the chains and barely recognizable husk of an ally once betrayed attached to them, reaching up to peel the hood of its silken cloaks from its head. fluffed ears twitched with the disgust of the sight. how the mighty have fallen! it's a sight a touch too familiar.

"mr mirrors! how scandalous, it has been sooo long." there's distinct mockery in its chipper tone, as if its appearance alone weren't indicative enough that this is not a pleasant social call. it is the first master to seek out their lost comrade since its imprisonment, it's sure. what a sorry sight it finds mirrors in, ragged on the floor like a broken corpse. its own fall hadn't even been this pathetic. its heels click 'gainst the floor as it approaches it against the haze, bare legs decorated with red stockings peeking out 'neath the cloak's fabric with each step. it, for its part, had not changed at all. beautiful, lewd, an absolute dream, with a nightmare heart deludedly beating underneath it all. what a difference it makes, to be able to play pretend. "aww, sweetheart. you look positively vile."

@londonfallen / mr mirrors

no matter how old silas gets, there will always be a good near five-hundred years between the two of them in age. it shows, where the differences in their appearances would otherwise hide it. despite heaven's intervention, the artisan still looks what his mortal age had been, if not just a touch younger. his own exhaustion is not shown in physicality, and he hadn't needed the gods' blessings for that, young as he had been when his life had been taken. he used to have a fire lit under him, not that he doesn't now, but one that begged for eternity. he's settled in the current age, and he watches him with a calm maturity befitting that of an elder ventrue, indeed. they really are from two completely different eras. he'd guess planets, if they hadn't both been human, once.

"would it be any different if you'd loved a kine, like you? the real you. not the god you became. someone sickly, and frail, and terribly human. you would've always had to face mortality, even if it hadn't been your own. even ... people like me," vampires, "don't live forever, usually. the masters are an odd case. those older than me are rather lucky. or reclusive." but he supposes the logical argument isn't what silas is after. winter thinks with his mind, and his husband, with his heart, however ironic. "my feelings on the matter have nothing to do with your heart, lack thereof, or throwing it all away. i'm very old, and i never wanted this." his nose scrunches, bitter memory on his tongue. he'd never outright told silas how or why he'd ended up a kindred, but he'd likely guessed it from those letters, all that time past, dated to summer and adrien in shaky, cursive pen. "this has been an exhausting world to spend five hundred years in. god forbid eternity."

" ... " he doesn't need to dignify him with an answer. not a verbal one, in any case—though he knows, inevitably, the question would resurface if he didn't acknowledge it ... and what has ignoring anything winter said ever done for him? certainly nothing useful these days! and he can't ignore him even if he tries, just as much as he cannot help the way he curls in on himself—instinctively—knees pulled up to his chest and head resting 'gainst them. it's like he's protecting himself ... but there's no threat to be had, just a query, and a discomforting feeling settling heavy behind his ribs. " of course it does. "

too quick. too snappy! but that's how it always goes, isn't it? he gets uncomfortable, gets scared—and he snaps to defend himself ... but he does look genuinely distressed, more than usual in any case, at the thought of mortality. " you should know it does. you know why! " there's godhood on his fingertips, in his veins, but the question makes him feel so ... small. perhaps it's more due to how he curls in further, as much as he's able with his desperate gestures, throwing his hands around as he speaks. his voice has started to waver. " i don't ... " from wild gesture to clenched fists, his nails digging into his palms at least give him some brief relief. even if it's only an ounce, the stinging counts for something. " all i fought to catch you, and you just want to throw it away. of course i'm scared, amédée. do you think i'm heartless? "

his kiss is every bit a lie as an adversion. it works, and this is something he is acutely aware he should be wary of : silas's fawning is reaching a point of concern, only in part because of his out of character it is for him to fall into such romantics so sweetly. sighs exhaled 'tween lips and fangs that draw some small amount of blood between them is all good and well ... but he's mooning, and winter himself would have to be well beyond blind not to see it. and if he sees it, so does the rest of london, in no small part represented by the curious glances that would turn to goss at the end of this day, no doubt. he keeps his composure far better, though that's nothing new. as silas falls back down to his feet from the tips of his toes, he straightens himself, releasing him in favor of reaching up to grab his wrists. it's an amicable gesture, but one taken out of nerve just as well as what the artisan could perceive to be affection, if he wished.

it's for the sake of publicity, of course. winter is always accommodating under these circumstances, but it's uncomfortable this time, this amount of yearning.

"oh, have you now? you better not let those sweet nothing's slip, artisan. the papers will have a field day tearing up your one-sided rivalry." his smile is sardonic, but true to his public persona, and something long lying in his heart forgotten, his demeanor itself remains soft. such romantics are only meant for lovers, he thinks. he'd given silas one rule when they'd zailed across the zee to salt's domain together. he wonders if he remembers what that was, and how he'd responded at the time. his tongue clicks, and he settles into his act which surely would have never charmed someone so heartless as silas. "i can imagine you knitting in the window. have you read many fairytales, chéri? some in london would consider you a prime protagonist. for the pauper-turned-princess, that is. an ice-hearted prince charming awaiting, would it be?" his eyes narrow, both in warning, but also some amusement. what a brave heart it would take to go after london's prince of ice, certainly. "ah, but you know better."

he readjusts them, content to take his arm through his own. it's familiar, and affectionate in theory, but still polite. no matter the circumstances, he'd not have london saying that chivalry is dead, nor that he is the one who killed it. "how did you even know i was coming? and why, pray tell, didn't you just ask me?" his eyebrow lifts, a silent inquiry as he glances at him, but he doesn't linger for long until he gestures to bring him with him, further from safety and closer to the turbulent zee. winter, of course, is steady as ever, digging through his pocket with his free hand in search of his cigarettes. in the end, he finds more of summer's, painted red at the end, with cherries on the box. he sighs, forlorn. "sorry to disappoint, but having my submari—ugh, my zubmarine, here would be a bit of a waste. i'm just boarding a normal top-side boat back to london." not like it's far. he gestures vaguely at the array of ships lined up, but one is rather notable. "mr zees', specifically, the fenrir. i'm here to threaten, excuse me, discuss with veils, spices and fires for two weeks. or until one of us kills each other."

" oh, don't act like that! i know you did—in some way, least... " because you love me, he thinks but does not speak : sainte is not the only one swallowing back his admissions, and the mooning artisan only lingers one more glance half-lidded to his lover's lips before he pulls away with a hum. not that he gets much time to lament. he misses it—the shock falling over winter's face, the brief build in tension; confused instead for a tender desire to seek him closer, by time he notices, he's pulled up from his hiding place 'gainst his neck, and he's barely even raised his head in his direction before he's melting into his kiss again. foolish, his heart; the ache of first love.

he doesn't get the hint. or rather, it's more apt to say he doesn't care for the kiss' true intent, had he been so keen to find it in the first place. the second kiss, he feels, is no less passionate than the first, with the way he practically wilts into him, hands kept snug 'gainst the line of his jaw where his lips part something eager, tease tugging at his lower lip with his teeth—all the good that does, he can't nip or bite quite so well as he can, but it's the thought, isn't it? the thought, and the sentiment; anything to keep him closer, to savor what little taste is offered 'fore he's forced to part again, but just like before, he doesn't stray far, breathing out quite the mournful sigh.

" i've been thinking of you. " it pains him to put into words, even murmured like this, fingertips trailing 'long his jaw, but it's true : he'd been so caught up in matters of the heart, hardly was it he could think of anything else. what a sorry wreck it'd made 'pon the rest of his life, how many potential partners he'd scorned where they caught him with distant, dreamy gaze, staring off into nothing where his thoughts, visions danced elsewhere. there are only so many times he could claim stupor 'fore he'd been forced into excuses more elaborate. his nose scrunches in sour thought, but any sullenness left 'pon his expression fades rather quick by time he meets his gaze again. subtle. " naturally. what else was i to do, wait at home like lovelorn paramour, pining from my seat window-side? please. " he scoffs, as if the idea itself was so wildly outlandish—certainly not as wild as the thoughts he does give voice to : his clear, unabashed affections only being one of them. honesty is so ill-befitting a man who's kept lie after lie 'pon his tongue long before he was ever a public figure, and the awkward feeling of emotions overflowing leave him giggling not unlike a lunatic. love was a form of madness, after all—he may be well expecting an invitation to the highest suites of the royal beth any day now, should his madness rise high enough.

his hands slip from his face regretfully, lip pushed out in a pout even with his arms still looped around his shoulders. they're close, but not close enough : nothing ever is anymore, where even the slightest hint of his heart's waning attention makes his chest hurt. " but what i've been up to doesn't matter, i'm here for you—! " he unravels himself just enough to push a finger to his chest, expression alight as if he hadn't just then but submersed in his own personal woe. the only time his smile drops, slips, is where he casts sideways glance to the open zee not far off. " mm, and us, but ... truthfully i'm not sure what to look out for, to get back to the docks. you're more skilled at this, aren't you? which one of these— " a vague wave to the array of vessels he catches zailors board. " —matters to us? "

sketch dump of my finance's 30 minute art warmup exercises from recent days cuz they're p gay </3 @londonfallen

" — oh, i... i don't know very mu—much about art, you see." she's sheepish, and how very shy that makes her. she always finds herself missing the company of her fellow dancers, when she's certain she's making a fool of herself. "i like pretty, colorful works. b—but i don't think i'd make a very good model, wouldn't i..."

@londonfallen / silas

an oddly gracious host, mr fires. for all the ill he heard whispered of it in his ear once it'd started frequenting him in eve's garden after the day they'd met, it seems to have laid its claws rather cruelly on every part of london except his. its cute, even, i how it presents itself, though london would say he's the mad one to gaslight himself into believing so. the city would never think him capable of such wholesome opinion, and perhaps fires is very much the same. an evil overlord, indeed, as it rushes to and fro in search of ... he isn't even sure anymore. he'd just wanted the blankets to cover up his legs, though he'd long scrubbed off the usual marks of blood and scrape along them. suppose it's a blessing he is lucid enough to spare it any attention at all. it's hard not to, when it's interrupting his otherworldly reverie with its huffing and then trilling.

"no, no. my clients often spend a pretty portion of their pocket to dote on me. you can tell by looking at me, can't you?" his sarcasm is evident, but perhaps the humor is perhaps a bit too dark for most. it's just his way, though. if he didn't laugh about all of this, he'd probably hang himself from one of veilgarden's pretty art galleries. make a real statement out of it. "it isn't about being warm. i'm not cold." his nose scrunches, but he doesn't elaborate. he only shifts to sit up on the floor with blankets still tangling his legs so that he can sit with it properly. his head spins, and he ignores it. he'd already thrown everything up before it'd even come to fetch him, back at the club.

he takes the blood bag because he thinks it might jump out of its skin if he doesn't. he wishes it had a straw, less clinical. unlike it, he doesn't care about awkward, restless silence. he just sits there waiting to sober up, somberly swallowing blood in small sips from the tube of the bag. he's taken to staring intently at its floor, but every now and again, he'll spare it a glance. he knows it won't stay silent for long... and he's right.

"mm." he licks a stray drop of blood from his lip. "fair enough. that is my job, you just make it hard." he treats it differently because it refuses to let him do his job. what's left of him, when the sexuality is taken away from their interactions? a snarky puppet? no one ever buys his time to hear him talk, and so he flounders. this is so odd. he sighs, then rests his hand under his chin, propping it 'gainst his knee to stare directly at it. he doesn't flinch 'neath its claw 'round his cheek, but rather marvels privately at how soft it is with him. he must be something quite pathetic, compared to whatever the masters of the bazaar are. "is that what you want me to be, mr fires? a friend, a lover?" ah, semantics. "your lover, rather. or something more, entailing?"

it's strangely hospitable, all things considered. though it personally doesn't find its behavior anything out of sorts, it isn't necessarily surprised at his confusion. so little in fact it barely even bats an eye, busy shuffling itself to-and-fro among its living quarters, from one room to the next, the mess it keeps 'cross its tables clinking and clattering as its left searching for ... something. though its personal hunt hasn't kept it from idle conversation. it seems to rather enjoy the company. every now and then, it does look up with a worried glance, 'fore its nose scrunches and it returns to its shuffling. back and forth, round and 'round, until eventually, finally, it perks up—both in spirits and quite literally, standing upright with a soft, excited trilling sound reverberating 'gainst its chest.

blood bags—the labels are faded, source obscured, but it's kept them in cases of emergency. though given its status, it isn't difficult to guess that the quality is well above par. it so rarely uses them itself, favoring acting 'pon its usual instincts ... but one can never be too careful. it stuffs three in the crook of one arm, then strolls back to his side, kneeling next to him and dropping each into his lap.

" i presume that this is uncommon for you, then. well, " it huffs, though it's far from aggravated; its pouting is miniscule at best, fading quickly into its typical, self-satisfied smile as it lolls its head 'gainst its shoulder. " you've already taken to make yourself comfortable. by all means, warm yourself. "

it shifts slowly, awkward only to keeping personal company in its ... truthfully cluttered home. this isn't usual for it, either, but its attempts at playing good hostess are true enough. eventually, it settles with crossing its legs 'neath it, and its arms over its knees, enough to bow forward and rest as comfortably as possible—but even that doesn't last with its restlessness. it unravels itself soon enough not long after, reaching out to curl its claws 'round his cheek, thumb brushing over soft skin in its admiration. " you're what i wish so long as i pay for your time, yes? a friend, or a lover, or something more ... " it hums, its trilling softened with the stare it regards him with. perhaps this is unusual for them both, but it seems well satisfied, if not caught up in a dreamy daze of its own, eyes narrowing as its voice falls to murmur. " only mine. "

kisses on the forehead while getting railed type love

gestures that get me going

many of these are meant to be spicy (i've been on my horny bullshit lately LOL), but some can be used in any kind of interactions, be them fluffy, smutty, antagonistic, romantic, anything. feel free to combine prompts & change/add any pronouns/descriptor words/etc that may be useful! softer things are more towards the bottom. add '+↺' to reverse sender and receiver!

[ SHIELD ] — sender steps in front of receiver protectively [ HEADLOCK ] — sender puts receiver in a headlock from behind [ COLLAR ] — sender grabs receiver by the collar of their shirt to pull their faces close together [ TIE ] — sender grabs receiver by their tie to pull their faces close together [ HAIR ] — sender pulls receiver's head back by their hair from behind [ MOUTH ] — sender puts their palm over receiver's mouth from behind to keep them quiet [ BUCKLE ] — sender begins to undo receiver's belt buckle [ LOOP ] — sender threads their fingers into the belt loops on receiver's pants [ POCKET ] — sender sticks their fingers into the pockets of receiver's pants (bonus: specify if they're the front pockets or the back pockets) [ BUTTON ] — sender undoes the buttons of receiver's shirt [ THROAT ] — sender lightly grazes along receiver's throat from behind [ CHOKE ] — sender puts a light to moderate amount of pressure on receiver's throat from behind [ CHEST ] — sender lightly grazes along receiver's chest from behind [ SIT ] — sender gently squeezes receiver's ass when they sit on sender's lap [ TOUCH ] — sender feels up receiver's abs [ SMOOTH ] — sender gently rubs their palm along receiver's bare ass [ MASSAGE ] — sender gently rubs their palms along receiver's bare back [ RUB ] — sender gently rubs their palms along receiver's bare thighs [ FEEL ] — sender gently rubs their palm between receiver's legs [ LICK ] — sender gently licks along receiver's nipples [ EASE ] — sender encourages receiver's legs open [ PULL ] — sender pulls receiver's pants/undergarments down out of the way of their ass [ WORSHIP ] — sender kisses and licks along receiver's tattoo(s) (specify if receiver has multiple) [ RING ] — sender kisses and licks along receiver's piercing(s) (specify if receiver has multiple) [ NIBBLE ] — sender nibbles against the shell/lobe of receiver's ear [ BITE ] — sender gently bites down on receiver's lower lip as they kiss [ SMOOCH ] — sender presses gentle kisses down the back of receiver's neck [ KISS ] — sender presses a bunch of little kisses along receiver's face [ GRAB ] — sender playfully squeezes some stray pudge on receiver's belly [ PLAY ] — sender playfully squeezes some stray pudge on receiver's thigh [ POKE ] — sender grabs onto receiver's love handles [ LIE ] — sender rests their head on receiver's chest to hear their heartbeat [ LINK ] — sender hooks their pinkie with receiver's [ REST ] — sender rests their chin on receiver's shoulder from behind [ GAME ] — sender traces lines to connect receiver's moles/other body marks into a bigger shape [ COVER ] — sender covers receiver's eyes from behind before removing them to reveal a big surprise [ WRITE ] — sender writes 'i love you' with their finger on an exposed part of receiver's skin (bonus: specify where)