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sommerregenjuniluft · 1 month

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@jegulus-microfic 6 & 16 march - scent & arrange - 2329 words

have some 1800ish-something a/b/o jegulus curtsey of me rewatching bridgerton over the last few days lol (the soundtrack goes so unnecessarily hard)

Regulus is in need of a drink, and Regulus is in need of it fast.

His useless Alpha excuse of a brother is nowhere to be found, has left him alone amongst the bloodthirsty throng of eligible Alpha bachelors of the ton and Regulus is but a piece of medium rare steak marinating in his own juices. No pun intended.

Regulus is supposed to have his first dance of the evening with his newly engaged fiance which he, not to mention, has yet to even meet and none of his family or friends are in a reachable vicinity to aid their support.

He is going to throw a fit.

The padded mesh cloth around his throat is so tight he feels unable to breathe, there are a dozen different scents wafting at him from all sides at any given moment and Regulus feels stupid with it. And not in a positive sense, just– horribly overwhelmed. Dizzy from the sensory overload.

He desperately needs something to take off the edge.

Cue, the drinks buffet.

He’s almost at his destined location when he collides with a warm chest.

“Oh, careful there,” a deep voice responds, grip tight on Regulus’ shoulder but not untoward.

But Regulus is already in a foul mood, insults read at the tip of his tongue, bitter and stinging.

“Are you not in possession of a working pair of ey—” the last syllable dissolves uselessly on his palate before it can do more damage when Regulus is, with a sudden burst of clarity, pulled from his distressed state in an instant.

Cloaked in a realm of fresh outside air, meadow and wood, like someone had opened a window directly beside Regulus to rescue him from his torment. He breathes in again, greedily, taking in the patchouli and vetiver notes. Something rich and friendly that immediately lulls Regulus into a much more acceptable mood, shoulders untensing, heartbeat slowing. His body’s reaction quite similar to whenever Sirius is scenting him.

That’s before he looks up at the man though.

He’s all bronze skin and unruly dark hair in the most endearing sloppy way that it infiltrates Regulus with the urge to reach out his twitching fingertips and righten the mess, kind brown eyes behind perfectly round, wire-framed glasses and the most dazzling smile Regulus has laid his eyes upon this evening or ever, maybe.

Which currently twitches wider at the corners, at Regulus’ loss for words, presumably, making him blink violently and stoop into a hastened curtsey.

“My apologies, Lord–” Regulus cuts himself off, realising he doesn’t even know the man’s title nor name. He could be a foreign duke, a prince even, for all that Regulus knows. Or, rather, doesn’t know.

“Just James,” the Alpha responds. With his given name, of all things, much to Regulus’ confusion.

He’s smiling warmly down at Regulus, if a little amused, holding a respectable amount of distance that he has stepped back into.

The grin makes Regulus feel all kinds of woozy and cotton-mouthed and out of sorts despite the lack of just one drop of alcohol having landed on his tongue. A spectacle he must appear as, gnawing at his bottom lip and gawking at the unnecessarily handsome stranger like a simpleton without getting a single word out.

The Alpha cocks his head, grin widening and Regulus finally finds it in himself to rip his stare away when there’s a waiter gliding past them with even more champagne on a tray. Reminding him as to why he’s made his way over here in the first place. Regulus snatches up a glass and downs half of it in one go, going against every single thing his family have ever taught him but he can honestly be less bothered right this moment given they have all abandoned him anyways. Stupid Papa with his stupid business arrangements. Stupid Maman with her ever so unsatisfied need of new gossip. Stupid Sirius and his stupid staff mistress.

“And you might be…?” the same warm voice says, a little closer now.

“You’re still here?” Regulus throws over his shoulder, aiming for annoyed, though the question coming out strained and to his surprise, yet again, he gets a laugh in response.

He turns, allows himself to properly look this time and there’s mischief dancing in James’ eyes as he raises dark brows, “Is there something troubling you?”

“Is there ever not?” Regulus sighs, taking another sip against his better judgement. Anything to drown out the reminder of his predicament.

“Well, as your self-proclaimed rescuer in this clearly distressing time of need, I am all ears,” the stranger offers with a cheeky smile.

Regulus narrows his eyes, his unused arm wrapping protectively around his front.

The Alpha narrows his eyes in imitation, lips straining with a dimpled grin, apparently finding ridiculous amounts of joy in Regulus’ miserable state, though he doesn’t look the type to be of malicious intent. A jokester, perhaps, someone silly and rather unregarding of any rules, maybe—much like Sirius, actually, and Regulus, despite their differences and how horribly annoying he can be at times, would be the last one to label his big brother as a bad person.

And, well, desperate times and all.

Regulus sucks in a big, steadying breath, “I am to dance with my fiance in mere minutes.”

A pause. “Then I understand congratulations must be in order,” James bows his head, teeth digging into his lower lip as his grin widens impossibly.

“Certainly not,” Regulus hisses, outraged, “What about me at the very moment says happily engaged Omega, I must inquire?!”

“Mm, the distressed frown and wide squirrel-about-to-be-shot-eyes, of course.”

Regulus ignores him, on a roll now, feeling the rush of complaining tug on him like a wild current, “I do not even know the man, have yet to even meet him. For all I know he could be a troll! An ogre of a man, or worse; an Alpha ready to bore me to death!”

“Or he might be the most handsome, charming, talented, ingenious, chivalrous, witty Alpha for miles—perhaps the whole continent?” James counters, ducking closer.

His scent increases for a second and Regulus has to take a moment as he feels it settle on the back of his tongue to remind himself of his manners. Face flushed, he turns to look back into the room, desperate for distraction. Settled on the musicians, watching them play their violins and the pianoforte, Regulus sniffs primly, “Or a troll.”

A snort, smile evident in his voice when the Alpha speaks next, “Well, I suppose there is only one way to find out.”

“Or,” Regulus says pointedly, taking another big gulp of the sparkling alcohol, “I pretend to faint and you will be witness for my family to convince them to take me back home where I shall crawl under the covers and feign illness until the very end of the courting season.”

“And what if I told you that you can’t hide forever?” James ducks his head to catch his gaze and Regulus rolls his eyes into his champagne glass, “You might have already been found out before you even know.”

“Then I would tell you that you underestimate me,” he replies, turning back to him and leaving the sight of musicians as the ballroom fills up.

“Hmm,” the Alpha makes sceptically.

“Hmm,” Regulus mocks, wobbling his head.

James narrows his eyes, mouth twitching, “Are you mocking me?”

“I would never dream of it, my Lord,” Regulus answers.

James makes a noise resembling an indulgent Sure and takes the almost empty glass out of Regulus’ grip and replaces it with another. The new glass is more curved, with a glittering golden rim and the liquid inside equally sparkling but with a delightful added hue of soft pink.

It looks enticing but Regulus knows better than to trust just any obscure Alpha, “Are you trying to get me drunk, my Lord?”

This time it’s James’ turn to roll his eyes, “Take a sip.”

He doesn’t use the voice yet Regulus finds himself almost eager to obey nonetheless, so he lifts the glass to his lips.

It’s lemonade.

When Regulus looks back up, licking his lips off the residue, James cocks his head expectantly with a smirk.

Regulus can’t stand his arrogance.

It’d do him some good to be knocked down at least several pegs. Regulus certainly wouldn’t pass the opportunity to volunteer for the task. Wipe that self-assured grin right off his face and for some reason there is heat crawling up into Regulus’ cheeks suddenly—the champagne must be getting to him.

He sniffs quickly, eyes darting away to occupy his gaze with something else and falling to swirl along the intricate pattern on James’ coat. His broad chest is well on display with the way his hands are folded at the small of his back.

Regulus blinks again, studying James and the way he’s been standing next to Regulus at the drinks buffet for minutes without ever attempting to take one for himself.

“You’re not drinking?” he asks curiously, brushing an errant curl back behind his ear.

James does something weird then. A flutter of his lashes, nostrils flaring, and his jaw drops open slightly. A breath punches out of him that tapers into a chuckle as he slips into a grin, averting his eyes for a moment.

He winces slightly, still smiling, and then takes another half step closer. Regulus narrows his eyes in warning but James just keeps the short distance, grinning shamelessly. “Well, actually, I came to the buffet because I could have sworn I smelled lemon tart—see, they’re my favourite.”

Regulus frowns, head swivelling to glance behind James’ big form, along the length of the table, occupied solely by glasses of champagne and lemonade. He turns back to James, a derisive scoff tumbling from the centre of his chest that would have earned Regulus a sharp warning glance from his mother, “Perhaps you should consider a visit to the Doctor, my Lord. Your sense of smell must be awfully off.”

Or maybe he’s just particularly dull. Well, Regulus thinks, it is only fair this way. If you’re already this handsome and well-built you don’t deserve to be a genius as well. Balance of nature and all.

The Alpha’s grin does not wane though and Regulus feels a shiver run up the curve of his spine when the tall Alpha hums in a deep timber. “My nose works just fine, actually,” James tilts his head to the side, eyes wandering down Regulus’ face towards his neck, “As opposed to your scarf.”

It takes a moment and then Regulus’ mouth drops open. Oh, the sheer audacity. A sound of disbelief jumps from his dry throat, “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, no need, I am perfectly capable of controlling myself even with such a delicious treat dangled right in front of my nose,” James grins. It’s infuriating.

Regulus can feel the vein in his forehead popping with his anger, “Have you no manners?!”

“I certainly do,” he volleys back, “I just take my liberties with whenever to apply them.”

“Well, then I advise you to take a tighter reign of them when in the company of strangers,” Regulus spits, cheeks warm.

It’s just that James is still so close, smelling divine and knee-weakening and now that he’s been made aware he can’t help but notice their scents mixing in the air surrounding them. Their space neither of them seems quite taken to leaving, creating a wonderful concoction of syrupy sweet-sour citrus and heavy spicy-woodsy musk.

“There will be no need around you then, Regulus,” James counters and Regulus gasps, head reeling, feeling like he’s just fallen from his horse, “Given you are my fiance, love.”

Oh, there is no way.

No.

This must be a joke.

Regulus feels like his eyes are about to pop out of their sockets as he eyes the length of the Alpha again. The tousled black hair, the handsome features, the pleasant build, the clearly expensive clothing. Reminded of the fact that his aristocratic, powerful family would never arrange an engagement with anyone less than fully deserving for their only Omega. “You–”

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he grins, stooping into a curtsey, “James Potter, Duke of Godric’s Hollow.”

“Oh, goodness in the heavens.”

“Now I believe I was promised a First Dance?” James looks in no way angry with Regulus’ disrespect, if anything, just as amused and cheerful as the whole time. The whole time in which he evidently knew who he was talking to, making a right fool of Regulus, just for the fun of it.

Regulus barely has the time to pout when the Alpha already continues, “I think that is the least you can do after calling me an ugly tr—”

“Yes,” Regulus cuts him off, clearing his throat, “I will dance with you.”

Something softer shimmers in James’ warm, chocolate eyes and then Regulus gasps silently when a warm hand touches the gloved curve of his palm, “I am nothing short of delighted to hear that, love.”

They step onto the dance floor together, hands entwined and basking in each other’s presences. Regulus feels fizzy and warm on the inside.

James is witty and interesting, effortlessly able to keep Regulus on his toes—both metaphorically and literally—and excellent dancer and an even more stunning conversationalist. Not to mention, quite easy on the eye. And Regulus doesn’t even want to get started on James’ scent again.

One dance turns into many, turns into walking around the room side by side bickering and gossiping and laughing, turns into a lively game of chess, turns into wandering through the halls and appraising art, turns into Regulus passing out on James’ shoulder on a settee before Sirius eventually finds them and takes him home.

The next day, James is there in the drawing room for tea, as he promised he would. Regulus has told the kitchen staff to prepare lemon tart.

And the rest is history.

#jegulus #jegulus microfic #regulus is wearing the prettiest emerald suit it's not mentioned but i need yall to know for the big picture #starchaser #sunseeker #jegulus fluff #a/b/o au #james potter #regulus black #arranged marriage #all the silly funny cute tropes #might make more of this if the little bridgerton obsession stays #james potter x regulus black #regulus black x james potter #lune’s tiny fic

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jesawyer · 3 months

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I recently finished Pentiment and enjoyed it tremendously, thank you for making it!

Act 3 spoilers below

Why was Magdalene chosen to be the player character in act 3? Obviously the mural is hers but was there ever an alternate vision for act 3 with someone else? I'm asking because the choice surprised and delighted me when I got to it, the printer's daughter felt right at the later stages of the game but I didn't see it coming

Thank you! Pentiment Act 3 spoilers below:

Andreas struggles to understand events that have happened outside of his perception and I wanted to contrast that by showing how someone else struggled to understand what happened outside of their perception but within what the player directly observed. The player knows what they witnessed in Act I and II, but Magdalene does not and has to filter everything through the memories of other people and surviving records.

I also wanted to contrast the experiences of Andreas as a man who was both set up for success and allowed to "fail" (dropping out of university) with Magdalene as a woman whom the council hovers over despite having done nothing to provoke doubt. Professional female artists existed in central and northern Europe in the 16th century but their paths into the trade were often not the same as their male counterparts.

The entire idea was inspired by the film Andrei Rublev, in which the focus of the last part, The Bell, shifts to the young son of a dead bellmaker, Boriska, who takes on the responsibility of casting a massive bronze bell for the grand duke. The title character watches Boriska from a distance throughout the act until it reaches its climax. It's one of the most moving sequences I've seen in a film and I highly recommend it for those with patience for slow pacing.

#pentiment #game design #andrei rublev

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dnd-smash-pass-vs · 14 days

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Bael, The Bronze General, Duke of the third layer of Hell! 8 feet (2.4 meters), telepathic, can transform into other humanoid species, make illusions, mentally dominate creatures, turn invisible, and fly! Also supernaturally frightens anyone nearby, though he can turn that off! He's a brilliant tactician, a terror on the battlefield, but is actually happy to show mercy (he'd much rather have an ally than a corpse). As for personality, he's a straightforward guy with a skill and interest he likes, but is privately frustrated because he can't seem to rise in rank. He's just too naive. The political hellscape of hellish politics is the one place he's just outmatched. Most people know he'd be a much better choice for ruler than many of the actual archdevils. But while some seek to help him because of this, they're balanced out by all the people who eventually wish to rule. They prefer having someone less competent on the throne, makes it easier to steal it.

#Bael #dnd #dnd5e #DnD 5e #d&d #smash or pass #5e #monsters of the multiverse #mpmm

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yuwigqi · 2 months

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Batfam members by which obscure Olympic Sport(s) they would be (its a stunt for charity or something):

Bruce: His inquisitive nature leads him to ask: Is there a limit on how many Sports You're Allowed to Compete In? Not for him. He wins gold in Golf, Diving, Badminton, Greco-Roman Wrestling, Ice Dancing with Cass (she's not going to prom of course, so this is his best chance at a father-daughter dance) BMX Racing, Men's Skeet (he has nothing against sport shooting! Honest!), Dressage, and Weightlifting (wait? 860 KILOS??), and Beach Volleyball (Dick is his partner). In fact, he already did sports with Dick and Cass! Why not all his kids! Badminton with Bette (she's basically his niece, come on now), Tennis with Jason, Luge with Tim (Tim literally falls asleep on top of him), and 3x3 Basketball with Damian and Duke.

Kate: Kate runs a poll on twitter asking for the "Straightest sport possible" and that's how she ends up doing a fucking 50 kilometer race walk. Why the fuck is walking an Olympic Sport?? I don't know Kathy, its for charity, just do it please. So for one day, Kate turns into Karen, and speed walks 3. Fucking. Hours. Kate is tempted to melt her Bronze of course its fucking bronze medal down into parts for nose piercings out of malic

Luke: Obvs wants to go into a combat sport. Which is why Dick purposefully tells he he wouldn't be able to do anything else, and dares him to try Artistic Gymnastics. He gets Gold in Rings and Silver in Pommel Horse and Vault

Dick: Dick wants to challenge himself by doing the other Gymnastics he's never done. So he signs up for Rhythmic Gymnastics! But...it's a women-only sport. Which is why Dick comes out as genderfluid and is a woman specifically for the games (cue Tim being fucking furious at Dick about enforcing negative stereotypes). And naturally, Dick wins. But also....you know...he kind of really feels...empowered with she/her pronouns. Like....it feels right. And thus, it took winning an Olympic Sport for Dick to realize he was bigender all along.

Bette: She's like actually a Tennis player, so that. Also, she idolizes Dick and wants to impress him with her super good Gymnastics skills. After winning the gold she bites it in tradition, and it actually bends. She actually ended up with a fucking poorly made tin medal fuck this is so embarrassing noone look at me

Babs: Curling, another weird fucking sport. It's basically like shuffleboard on ice. And honestly, like, its not an athletic sport. Honestly, you probably could do it in a wheelchair. And a huge part of it is technique and intellect. It was MADE for Oracle. After she wins Tesla reachers out for a sponsorship deal to make a robotic wheelchair, and Babs makes a working spaceship just to fucking spite Elon. She also hacks X and removes all the X branding, literally turning it back into Twitter.

Jason: I kid you not, in 2024 they will add competitive breakdancing To the Summer games. Jason is on the first U.S. team. It...you know there were worse ways to make money on the streets than street performing...and you know...it was fun too...I made like $74 one day outside an iHop. No shit fuck Babs don't look for it please don't fuck no please

Tim: Skateboarding has also been recently added to the Olympics. Tim isn't allowed to put his Superboy stickers on it because Young Justice happen to be involved in several international incidents.

Steph: Everyone remembers Steph lived in Africa, but no one even bothered to ask her about it, much less ask which country. Ethiopia, thank you for asking. Curious how they offered her citizenship right after she announced her Olympic plans. Steph wins gold in Speed Skating, giving the continent of Africa its first ever medal in the Winter Games. (She mentions this every single time possible)

Dami: Modern Pentathlon is by far the weirdest fucking sport in existence, but Dami loves it. He gets to swordfight, shoot things, and most importantly. meet a horse.

Cass: Karate kata. Cass in a combat sport would just be unfair, so she does the Kata, just showing off the execution and form. Ice Dancing with Bruce, as mentioned earlier. Her outfit is based on the Black Swan, of course. Frustratingly Bruce is much better at it than her, and she's unsure why. Until it dawns on her she's competing and he's having fun with his daughter. After she stops caring about scores, they two get the highest score in history.

Duke: Artistic Swimming. 2024 is the first year men will be allowed. "No Bruce, I'm isn't going to use my powers to see easily in the water, god." And showing off his abs to that pretty girl in his Women's Studies Elective is definitely not part of his choice of sport. Nope. (She's turned off by his puberty acne, and Duke cries in his room for 8 days straight)

Harper: No Bruce. No Steph. Fuck you Cass. No. No. No. Hey Harper, just wanna let you know, as part of the charity thing, we're doing a gala, and Bernard's busy. Do you think Cullen would like to go?...Fine Tim, I'll do it, for Cullen. Harper of course needs to do something to make an impact though. If she's gonna do this shit, she might as well have fun with it. Which is why she starts a one-woman crusade to add a new sport. It takes petitions, conferences, and a few million dollars in charitable donations to the IOC...but a new sport is added, and Harper Rowe because the Olympic's first ever gold medalist in Sumo Wrestling.

#This was fun to make #Batman #Batfam #Bruce Wayne #Dick Grayson #Kate Kane #Luke Fox #Jason Todd #Bette Kane #Barbara Gordon #Stephanie Brown #Cassandra Cain #Tim Drake #Damian Wayne #Duke Thomas #Harper Row #Alfred of course makes them take group photos with their medals when they get home

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puppiesandnightlock · 5 months

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Link to Ao3: A Robin's Song

Summary: Since diapers, Jon and Damian have been best friends. Accidentally encouraging jon to go ask out a girl, damian must now deal with the consequences of pushing his what he thinks are unrequited feelings down. He turns to music to vent, posting under an anonymous online username "Robin".

What he was not expecting, was for the music to blow up, leaving him internet famous, and his feelings out in the open.

and Jon is completely clueless.

A/N: THIS IS A REVERSE ROBINS AU AGES R: Damian is 17 Duke is 16 Tim is 14 Steph is 13 ½ Cass is 12 Jason 10 ¾ Dick is 5 Jon is 18 Kon is 14 Bart is 13 Wally(will be mentioned eventually) is 5 Roy(also will b mentioned eventually) is 11

Based on this post by @jaybirbie

December 3, five weeks before.

“Can’t believe you, Mr. Jonathan-its-under-fifty-degrees-please-wear-a-jacket, didn’t wear the biggest coat you could find today.” Jon snorted, rifling through his closet.

Damian’s bronze skin was dusted with a pretty pink as he scowled, a knitted green sweater and black skinny jeans his only defense against the cold.

“It’s a weekend, Jon, I had no intention to go out, and I let Duke take the big jacket because he was going out with friends.”

Jon hummed sympathetically before pulling out the next sweater he had, his letterman.

“Try this on, Dames.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that warm.” Damian eyed it skeptically. Jon gave him a look, and he scoffed, shrugging it on anyway.

“Looks better on you than me.” Jon cackled, snapping a quick picture.

The sleeves went past his hands, the jacket going down to his mid-thigh. Damian was drowning in a sea of warm fabric, and for a moment he was lost, inhaling deeply and smelling the fabric softener Jon’s mom used, a hint of the cologne he stole from his father, and a smell that was utterly Jon. Just Jon. His best friend, and definitely nothing more. Never…anything more.

“Dami?” Jon croaked nervously, silence taking over the room.

Damian snapped out of his little dream world and flushed red, scrambling to take it off and hand it back. “Way too big.”

“Is it normal for you to smell clothing?” Jon raised an eyebrow, was that a small, miniscule burst of pink on his cheeks?

No, stop messing with your own emotions, Damian.

Damian turned his nose up and scowled. “Yes, when was the last time you washed that thing?”

“Hey! It’s clean, thank you!” Jon shot back indignantly, but not before sniffing it quickly, just to make sure.

His friend snorted, before putting on the light jacket he’d brought over his knitted sweater.

“We can just stay home and watch tv or something,” he offered.

“Should I put on Glee?”

“I’ll grab some cocoa.”

Five weeks after.

“What a sight for sore eyes.” Jon sighed, slumping against his locker. Damian looked up, shutting his as he grabbed his books.

“Your locker?”

Jon let out a breathy chuckle. “No. Her .”

He followed his gaze to a girl walking down the hall, laughing with a group of girls. Some wore a cheerleading outfit, but she wore a skirt with leggings, white shirt, and a low cardigan. Her skirt and sweater were varying shades of blue, and when she opened her eyes, one could see her eyes were as well.

Thick pieces of brown hair fell to her hips, two long layers framing her face, slightly shorter bangs parted in the middle of her forehead.

And with one glance, he could already tell. Jon was utterly enamored with her.

“What’s her name?” Damian asked quietly.

“Haisley. She’s one of the cheerleaders, and god, her voice when she sings. Angels, Damian, I swear to you she’s what angels sound like.”

Every word out of Jon’s mouth was ripping him to shreds and he fought the sudden urge to scream. Instead he swallowed hard, spitting out words like they had done him personal harm.

“You should go talk to her.”

Stop, Damian, don't do this to yourself.

“I’m sure you’ll get on very well, she looks sweet.”

Jon went pale. “Oh, God, she’s coming this way! Damian, what if I screw up?”

“Jon, it's a simple greeting. Say hi, I’m Jon, I’ve seen you around, then blah blah, say something charming. You’re good at that.”

He said it so dismissively, it nearly convinced himself that he didn't actually care. His taller friend inhaled sharply before meeting her halfway. Before he made it to her, she was tripped by something, and dropped her books. Being the good boy he was raised to be, he rushed over to help.

Damian winced as Jon said something to make her laugh, his pale complexion flushing crimson at the sound.

Fighting off the stupid emotions, he kept his head down and sped out of the hallway.

What had he done?

Present day.

Third wheel again.

It was lunch, and instead of the usual eating under the big oak in the courtyard of their high school, Damian was stuck between Haisley and Jon, trying not to scowl as they chattered and flirted.

It was disgusting, frankly, and never failed to make his appetite disappear.

He had long since stopped trying to join their conversations, always drowned out by the “we’re-not-together-yet-Dames” couple.

“I’m just going to throw my tray away.” He called loudly over their talking, the only acknowledgement that he received was a thumbs up from Jon and a sweet smile thrown his way by Haisley.

Never one to waste food, he tucked the remaining packaged snacks and apple in his backpack before returning.

Before he made it to the table, he saw Jon draping his letterman over Haisley. The same one he’d been given on that cold day. Bile rose in his throat as he saw her lean her head tentatively on his shoulder, watching as Jon grew flustered, and just as hesitantly, wrapped an arm around her.

Damian suddenly felt as if he’d stumbled across something private, and hastily turned and walked away.

The walk turned into a run, and suddenly he was in the library, holed up in a corner as he cursed the sniffles he got.

This is hardly something to cry over , he scolded himself. I knew it was never going to happen.

He stayed in the little corner until the bell had rung, sketches of characters that didn't exist pouring over his sketchbook.

*****************

Walking home had always been something held to high regard for Damian these last few weeks since Haisley arrived. The only time he could have Jon to himself like he used to. These moments were treasured now, more than ever.

“Where’d you go at lunch, Dami?” Jon asked, strolling along the sidewalk.

“The library. There was a book I wanted to check out.” He said smoothly.

“Where is it then?”

“Oh, they didn't have it, so I had to put it on hold. I must have gotten distracted looking at the other ones.”

Yes, he had precrafted a story or five to tell.

“Did I miss anything important?”

“No, not really.” Jon let out a whoosh of air. “Just that I may actually be falling in love with Haisley.”

Hurt struck him like glass daggers to his heart, but years over playing games with his brothers had ensured he had an absolutely stellar poker face.

His mask of indifference washed over him as he responded with a tremor to his tone.

“Is that so? What makes you think that?”

“Gosh, she’s so pretty, for one.”

Damian’s stomach twisted, and he spoke. “So, is it just physical? That’s not love, Jon, that’s a crush.”

“Wha-? No, I'm not done. She’s sweet, kind, and funny. She can actually have a snarky side if you hang around her enough. She has a good heart, and I know my parents would approve. Besides, do I gotta mention all the other stuff? The way her eyes get all squinty when she laughs, her smile, all the blue. I look good in blue, don’t I? We could match~”

Jon continued gushing and at the corner, Damian clapped him on the shoulder and declared with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes that he was happy for him.

“You sure, D? You don’t look too excited.” Jon seemed worried.

“Course, J, I only want you to be happy. If you're happy, I'm happy. Just…this won’t come between us, right?”

He would die before he let their friendship burn, even if that meant he had to keep his distance.

“Never. You're my best friend, Damian. We’ll always be like this won’t we? Forever?”

“Yeah. Forever.” Damian swallowed the lump that formed in his throat and breathed a sigh of relief as he hit the row of small houses.

“My stop. See you tomorrow.”

Before he could hear the response, he scurried away and across the street to the little tired house on the corner.

He unlocked the door and shut it behind him, slumping against it. The inside of the house was warm and cozy, the smell of cooking food making it homey.

When he opened his eyes, he could see his oldest younger brother, Duke, in the kitchen, the old yellow apron they had tied around his waist.

“You okay, Dames?” Duke set the pan down and lowered the fire, moving to help him up.

“Peachy.” He responded, letting himself be pulled upwards.

He hung up his coat and backpack and tried a smile, which Duke returned sympathetically.

Marching into his room, he starfished across his small bed and screeched into the pillow.

“✨Anger issues✨” Was hummed from above him.

Grumbling, Damian launched his pillow towards the person, his mood lifted slightly as he heard an “oof-” as the pillow hit his target.

“My dear menace to society.” Damian grinned as the pillow was thrown back and a black haired head popped up from the top bunk of the bunkbeds next to him.

“How was imprisonment for you today?”

“Fine, fine, I won't bore you with details .” The teen waved his hand dismissively, before raising an eyebrow.

“How was your day, is the question we should all be asking if you came in here and tried to summon a demon with those screams.”

“And summon a demon, I did.” Damian gestured upwards to his little brother.

“Asshole.”

“Swear Jar.”

A quarter was thrown at his face.

“I’m serious, I'm fairly certain you and Duke are the ones who pay like half the bills from just the jar.”

“Shut up.” Tim stuck his tongue out, Damian returning the gesture.

“Kon told me Jon got a girlfriend.” His tone softened. “Are you okay?”

The crush was well known between the three oldest brothers and Cass, and it was often used as a teasing device, if not them actually trying to convince Damian to say something.

“Fine. And they’re not together yet, tell Connor to get his facts right.” he waved off his brother’s concerns.

Tim looked at him, seeing directly past the lie, however, knowing better, he kept his mouth shut.

“You should write,” He said instead. ”Healthy venting.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Nonetheless, Damian followed his advice and took out a writing pad, proceeding to stare at the blank page for the next half hour until his youngest siblings and father arrived home, much like the author of this fic.

************

After dinner, everyone lounged around the living room, chattering and doing activities with each other.

Dick bounced onto the couch next to Damian and turned on the biggest puppy eyes he could muster.

“Dami?”

“Dickiebird?”

“Will you play for us?”

Damian inhaled sharply. It had been awhile since he’d touched his guitar, but it still remained one of his younger brothers favorite pastimes.

“I’m a little rusty, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt to try.”

He went and grabbed it, repositioning himself back on the couch. His siblings paused in their activities to watch.

Hesitantly he tunes and strums, before playing around with some notes. Finding he quite liked the pattern, he continued with the slow melody, switching it up and returning it.

“I’ve never heard this song before.” Steph turned her head to the side, pausing in painting Cass’s nails.

Jason bookmarked the page in his book and tore a page from one of Damian’s sketchbooks, coming to sit in front of Damian.

“Can you play that again? It was really pretty.”

He repeated it, again and again until the tune swirled around the house, bringing everyone into the song.

The kids had made a small circle around the couch, Bruce putting down his newspaper in favor of listening to his eldest.

There was nothing in his heart that spoke of pain and longing, all poured into the melancholy melody surrounding them.

When he came back to the present, the paper Jason had torn was covered in little scribbles.

Music notes.

“Timmy helped, but these were the ones that we got, so that you can play that again sometime.”

“Please play it again!” Dick chirped.

“ Very beautiful.” Cass agreed out loud, trying to sign, but stopped by the wet paint on her nails.

“You should write lyrics!” Duke suggested. “I can help!”

The rest of the evening was spent curled in the living room, Damian writing furiously and Duke helping him make things flow, Tim leaning over occasionally and remarking how similar they sounded to Damian's own predicament.

Damian was subjected to yet another day watching “Jaisley” as Tim and his group of friends, Duke, and if he was honest, he called it that as well, pine after each other.

If he had to hear the words “She’s an angel, D.” in a lovestruck tone one more time, his father would have to pick him up at the local police station for arson and vandalism.

Luckily, his savior came in the form of one Duke Wayne, who magically showed up almost every time Damian was on the brink. Today was his full school day, so he walked with Jon and Damian back home, wincing everytime Jon opened his mouth to gush about Haisley.

“Well, fuck.” Duke muttered as they walked into the house, dropping a quarter into the large jar as they did.

“It’s bad.” Damian sighed. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I can sweep this under the rug, it’ll be fine.”

“Dames-” his brother started, before Tim came barreling through the door.

“Bye guys!” He screamed from the porch, two boys and a girl waving back at him.

Shutting the door, he turned to his older brothers. “We gonna record?”

Damian crossed his arms, staring up at his taller (only by a few inches!) little brother.

“Wonderful idea, Timothy.”

He stalked towards the room, overhearing Tim whisper to Duke. “ He called me Timothy, was it really that bad?”

“Worse, dude. Wayyyy worse.”

*******************

Damian was wearing an oversized black hoodie with yellow lining, a dark green domino mask from an old halloween costume, and had left his hair out in a way rendered mostly unrecognizable to most of his school peers.

Tim screwed around with the beat-up old laptop they’d salvaged awhile back, and a suspiciously high-quality recording mic.

He would ask where it came from later.

The three brothers threw out some song requests for Damian to warm up, and then began recording.

After the third take, they stopped.

“Dami, you sound monotone. Like you’re rehearsing a line and we have you at gunpoint behind the camera.”

“Sorry.” Damian flushed.

Duke spoke up. “This is your song, your story. Try singing it how you feel, like you’re watching them and monologuing internally.”

He chewed his bottom lip, nodding. “Can we try again?”

Tim smiled, counting down.

This time, he shut his eyes, letting the soft strumming of the guitar take him back to the moment when he felt his heart break for the first time.

He floated away into the memories of them on the cold December day, to when they saw Haisley for the first time, to just recently listening to the voice he loved to hear pine for someone else.

The tune flowed around him, lifting him up into the song until he was nearly sobbing with the pain of reliving those painful moments, pouring all he had into the few minutes.

When he hit the final notes, he let the tears building up catch in the mask, a few stubborn ones slipping past the white out eyes and being hastily scrubbed away as Tim stopped recording.

The silence was loud, and nervously, Damian spoke up. “Should we retake?”

“That was perfect, Damian.”

“God, I could have cried. That is how this song was meant to be sung, and I'll be damned if this doesn't blow up by next week.”

“SWEAR JAR!” Tim and Damian chorused.

“I’m giving compliments.” Duke grumbled.

Tim stuck his tongue out and Damian skimmed the top of his guitar with his fingers gently.

“I…I don't think I want it to blow up too much. These are my feelings, and to be honest I wouldn't be surprised if they find out it's me just by the words.”

“I guess.” Tim shrugged, going over the footage in his computer, and tweaking with the picture and turning the sound up over the videos, adding subtitles with the lyrics.

“Your old profile pic is that symbol you drew a few years ago. Do you wanna keep it?”

It was a bubble letter R in dark colors of green and red, a hint of yellow making it pop. Damian studied it before nodding.

“Yes. I'd like to keep it.”

**************

They had played the song after dinner, the family applauding at the end. Tim posted it online with everyone onlooking, and although Damian claimed he didn’t care much about any of it, he sent the link to Kon, and asked him to pass it along to his older brother.

And if he hacked into a few accounts to put the link in their recommendations, who would know but him?

…And the FBI agent that Bernard from across the street told him was watching the computer, despite using a VPN.

It was for a good cause anyways.

****************************

BIG HUGE THANKS TO MY AMAZING BETA READERS FOR THIS CHATPER @robbed-ghost and @redasuree !!!!!!!!!!!

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wolfylady · 3 months

Text

Accursed Urge

I could not sleep until I tried my hands at Durgetash. Their first interaction had so much tension I couldn't stop thinking about it! So here it is.

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Enver Gortash X Gender neutral Dark Urge/Durge

Word Count: 2,568 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The opulent hall, adorned with ornate gold and weathered stone, glimmered in luminous hues of gold as the stained glass filtered streams of light. Yet, the resplendent glow illuminated only one figure. His attire, adorned with bronze accents, shimmered against his sun-kissed complexion, further deepened by his dark wardrobe.

“Ah! Welcome!” His voice boomed, rattling around Durge’s mind, conjuring a feeling of familiarity that tugged at their heart.

“Gortash!” Karlach snarled. She sounded like a wild beast at the end of her chains, half-crazed by rage. It would take only Durge’s allowance for her to burn everything to the ground; even without it, she might still snap should Gortash say the right or wrong thing. “This is it! I can practically taste his blood from here!”

“Karlach!” Wyll urged, voicing his concern for his father. But Karlach looked wild, so ready to strike that Durge doubted she heard him.

Gently brushing hands with Karlach was like placing their hand within a roaring fire. But Durge swallowed the yelp, using the slight contact to grab Karlach’s attention. Meeting the flames that burned within her gaze, Durge urged softly in what they hoped was a calming tone. “I couldn’t bear to see Gortash get his hands on you again,” they squeezed Karlach’s hand. “Let’s wait for a more opportune moment.”

Karlach sank with a deep breath, her skin cooling and the flames returning to a more comfortable heat. “I hate how you can do that.” She whispered in defeat, squeezing Durge’s hand and letting go with a grimace upon seeing the burn that now resided there.

Stepping closer, Durge’s mind churned, trying to decipher the sudden swell of emotion this man’s face conjured and how their body vibrated with anticipation.

For a moment, Durge regarded Duke Ulder Ravengard, but his mind was an empty husk, a pawn to the absolute awaiting orders.

“My lord, it seems your guest has arrived.” Ulder bowed their head to Gortash, Wyll tensing.

“Exquisite timing, as always.” Cerulean blue eyes bore into Durge’s red glare, a smile more tender than it should for a stranger, pulling on his lips.

“Lord Enver Gortash at your service.” He spoke of Kethric Thorms’ downfall, and a sadistic satisfaction rose up at the memory of the man’s death. But then he looked at Karlach, and Durge felt rage not only for Karlach but also for how the word darling rolled off Gortash’s tongue. It felt almost like jealousy.

Then he spoke of the netherstones and the elder brain; as crucial as that was, Durge was fixated on his mouth. A tirade of emotions swept through Durge, their fingertips tingling, begging to touch the enigmatic lordling.

And then, before they could stop, words came tumbling out, sounding so much more confused and lost than Durge ever wanted to be known. So much of themselves was missing, and despite fighting the dark urge as best they could, Durge desperately wanted to know themselves and the life they’d lived. “Do you know me?”

“Of course, we were partners,” There was a flash of heat not only in Gortash’s blue eyes but also in Durge’s stomach. “You, I, and Kethric were in on this plan from the start.”

For some reason, Durge felt disappointed.

“I seem to have trusted you once before, and it ruined me.” Durge leered through clenched teeth. They were a Bhaalspaw with a fractured mind and no true memories of who they had been before they awoke on the Mindflayer ship and began the journey to rid themselves of the parasitic tadpole that chewed through their hole-riddled mind and uncover who had tried to kill them. Durge suspected that Gortash may be the key to knowing who they had been before they ended up on that ship. A flicker of a memory fluttered through their tattered and hole-addled mind. There was something painfully familiar about the phony lordling before them, their heart fluttering and fingertips aching to reach out, to touch or maime, Durge didn’t know. They had already felled Myrkull’s chosen, and even though Kethric had recognized Durge, Durge had not been overcome with these odd emotions; they hadn’t even felt any familiarity with the now-dead general of Myrkull’s undead army.

“Together, we can restore authority over the elder brain.” Gortash grinned. “I am changed,” Durge sneered. “I have no interest in whatever plan we concocted; I wish only to avenge myself and be rid of this accursed tadpole.”

“Then our goals are still aligned!” He grinned. “Ousting Orin and helping you reclaim your birthright would be my greatest honor,” Gortash spoke in a hush. Still, his tone was sincere before shifting into a business-like manner. “With Kethric gone, Orin proves treacherous. She wants the netherstones for herself.” He sneered. “She only cares about blood.” Gortash gestured to them. “And your blood and mine are of particular interest to her.”

Durge clenched their fists. They had suspected as much. If they were a Blaahspawn, and Orin worshiped Blaah, the god of murder, it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume it was Orin who had tried to kill them.

“I cannot trust easily,” Durge spoke, the dark urge subdued but not extinguished. “But if your words hold truth, and if ousting Orin aligns with my path to vengeance, then we may have an alliance of necessity.”

“Understandable.” Gortash grinned. “Why don’t we step into my office? There are matters I would like to discuss without... extra ears.” His eyes took in Durge’s company.

It was an eclectic assortment of victims of the tadpole, each with a tragic past and circumstance to overcome. Karlach, Astarion, Shadowheart, Wyll, Gale, and Halsin: the only one without a tadpole. Though Durge had no memory of who they had been before the tadpole, they were lucky and happy to have their company. Particularly Astarion and Halsin.

“Hardly.” Astarion scoffed. The vampire’s gaze hardened upon Gortash. His suspicion seeped from his crimson gaze, sticking in the tension-filled room. “Not a chance, you scheming–”

But Durge was already following Gortash.

“Durge.” He croaked out, clutching Durge’s arm in an uncharacteristic display of desperation. It felt too much like handing Durge over to the wolves and hoping they’d return.

But then Durge met Astarion’s gaze, not wavering or holding fear within those crimson eyes. “Just a moment, Astarion.” Durge soothed, bringing their free hand to gently cradle Astarion’s cheek, thumb smoothing away the distress that danced in Astarion’s icy red gaze. Durge looked deeply into Astarion’s eyes, that gentle smile settling Astarion’s troubled heart. A reassurance. A promise. “I’ll be right back.”

Gortash turned around with his smooth words to say, “Hurry along, I won’t keep you too long,” already on the move, with Astarion growling like a starved dog. However, Astarion was halted as Durge gently brushed their lips against his hand, a sign of tenderness that sent shivers down Astarion’s spine and ignited something protective within him. Durge was far too important to risk.

“You had better be.” He warned lowly to Gortash’s retreating form, glaring at the man’s back before turning his eyes back to Durge, dropping his voice to a mere whisper for Durge alone. “Stay sharp. We’ve fought too hard to be taken out now.” Durge smiled before looking up at Halsin and offering him a reassuring squeeze of his hand as they passed.

When the pair reached Gortash’s office, a surprisingly humble room for such an extravagantly dressed man, Durge felt their chest constricting, an unnatural tightness that no measure of strength or spell could loosen. Durge could hear the beating of their own heart resonating loudly within the walls of their skull. Their head pounded, filling with disjointed fragments of memories that danced teasingly out of reach. Something deep within stirred, reacting to Gortash’s presence as he shut the heavy wooden door behind them.

“Relax,” Gortash turned and offered a tight smile, though his usual charm was not fully present in his deep voice. He approached the window, hands on the sill as he glanced out over the land stretched beyond.

Durge bites their lip, tasting the iron flavor of blood. Even without a memory of who they used to be, Durge’s instincts and gut intuition remained a formidable part of their psyche, and they didn’t trust Gortash. And yet... something lingered at the back of their mind, a fond remembrance and gentle whispers of warmth and care they couldn’t comprehend.

“You remember us, don’t you?” Gortash asked softly. It felt more a challenge than a question, and Durge clenched their hands. A flood of disjointed memories welled within Durge. Though some were more distinct than others, the feelings of warmth, confusion, and sorrow mingled together to create a cacophony of dissonance in Durge’s mind.

“Gortash,” Durge’s voice hardened as they squared their shoulders, maintaining the distance between them. The word sat heavily on their tongue, carrying a bitterness they could not place. “If this is what you wanted to speak about, then this conversation is over.”

There was a cold flash of emptiness in Gortash’s eyes that, for a split second, caused Durge’s heart to clench uncomfortably. And then it was gone, replaced by that charming mask once again. But that fleeting emotion shook Durge.

Durge paused. “Were-” they struggled to form the words. “Were we in love?” Durge’s question hung in the air between them, shrouding the room in tension.

Gortash drew in a shaky breath, folding his arms across his chest as he closed his eyes momentarily, opening them again to pin Durge with a heavy gaze. His usual charm disappeared, revealing a vulnerable man who clearly hadn’t expected such a question.

“I like to think so,” he answered softly, without the usual veneer of confidence and charisma he wore. His gaze dropped to his boots, “But when I lost you, I thought my heart would stop beating too.” He confessed, his eyes not daring to meet Durge’s. Something clenched inside Durge; it was sorrow and regret, but they weren’t their own. A long lost feeling that buried deep within, so foreign yet so familiar.

Following his confession, Durge remained rooted to the spot, struggling to process Gortash’s confession. After a while, Gortash stood and walked toward Durge, stopping in front of them with barely a hand’s breadth between them.

Gortash broke the distance and whispered in a husky voice full of desperate hope and anguish. “I’ve missed you.” His fingers hesitated near Durge’s face before gently grazing their skin.

His act was so swift and spontaneous that Durge barely registered it until it was happening. Gortash had closed the distance and pressed his lips against Durge’s, pulling them closer, crushing his body against theirs. His fingers tangled in their hair.

Lost in the throes of memories and connection, Durge surrendered and responded to the kiss as Durge’s tattered memory sought something familiar in Gortash’s taste and warmth; they could almost feel their old selves tingle in their veins. A lingering sweetness fluttered within their chest. Overwhelmed by their mutual need and yearning, they met him halfway, their guarded suspicion replaced by growing warmth.

However, as quickly as the memories welled up, Durge cut off the kiss. Stunned and overwhelmed, they stepped back, attempting to catch their breath and clear the mental fog clouding their rationality.

“Whatever we had is over, Gortash,” Durge spat, their voice catching slightly in their throat as they grappled with their feelings. Durge wiped their mouth with the back of their hand as if to rid the lingering taste of Gortash. “We’re nothing.”

Gortash regarded Durge, a shimmer of heartache crossing his handsome face before he quickly wiped it away with a sardonic smile. Eyes darkening. “That is where you are mistaken, darling,” Gortash moved towards Durge, predatory. Durge could feel his voice vibrate against their skin, each word stinging. “We were never over.” Gortash seemed to radiate certainty; an eerie air of resolve clung to him as though he intended to claim Durge back. “I have always cherished you, Durge, even if you don’t remember your body does,” Gortash’s tone was painfully sincere, which made Durge wince internally. His words seemed to open up a wound in Durge, yet their body felt the flicker of emotions stirring beneath their skin. The flame that once danced in Gortash’s eyes burned brighter as his hands softly cradled Durge’s face, “And I have every intention of reminding you, love.” His fingers slid over their cheek, pushing away a stray lock of hair before sliding around Durge’s neck. His thumb brushed over their lips, and Durge almost felt something soften in their chest.

“But-”

“I’m patient, my dear. I’ll wait.” He said softly, leaning closer to kiss their forehead softly.

“I hate you.” Durge rasped out. Their fingers tightened into fists at their side, rage coloring their voice.

“You love me,” Gortash said simply. There was a challenge in his eyes, an intensity Durge had missed.

“I…” Durge stuttered, faltering under his intense gaze.

“That’s right, you do. And you can’t deny that.” He murmured against Durge’s ear, a note of certainty weaving into his voice.

Durge swallowed hard. “Even if I did, I am no longer the person I once was. We can’t go back, Gortash.” Durge spat, tugging away from his grip. They stood, both figuratively and literally, at odds with each other.

He was silent for a moment, eyes lingering on Durge. A sigh slipped from his lips before he said, “Even if that is the case, it changes nothing. My feelings haven’t altered. We will sort this out together, just like old times.” Gortash said resolutely, turning his back towards them as if to shut out the hurt he had been unable to hide.

He was immovable, like a sturdy rock standing against a violent sea. Durge tried to speak, to push away his claim. To tell him to get over whatever phantom was stuck in his head because they were not the person he claimed to remember.

But as Durge opened their mouth to speak, Gortash suddenly closed the distance, clasping Durge’s chin firmly, drawing them to look into his cerulean blue eyes. “We’ll have all the time in the world once you get the last netherstone from Orin.”

In that moment, Durge knew the inevitable truth. Despite all that they wished for, despite all the confusion, there was an undeniable connection. It was raw and turbulent, much like the man who held their gaze, not flinching, not yielding.

Durge pulled back sharply from his grip. Their breath hitched as a strange pain gripped their chest. “We’ll see about that, Gortash.” They bit out.

There was no compromise with Gortash. He had his own peculiar way of stirring the still waters, making the familiar unfathomable, pulling out an obscure string of feelings that Durge had so stubbornly kept hidden beneath a carefully maintained façade of stoicism.

Gortash chuckled dryly, turning his back towards Durge, crossing his hands behind him as he looked out the window. He was content with his ultimatum.

And in that moment, despite their fragmented and distorted memory, Durge was acutely aware of the storm that awaited them in their shared future. For better or for worse, Durge was aware that Gortash had set them on a path, a storm that neither could escape.

With that, Durge slipped out the door, leaving Gortash behind. Their body tingled from the brief yet intimate encounter, leaving their mind spinning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

wolfYLady: I posted this on my other accounts and got some request to continue so I have another chapter up with another on the way!

Please be kind and leave a comment, I would love to know what you think of my angsty work!

Part 2 > Part 3 (Smut)>

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larkspyrr · 6 months

Text

chapter v — would i run off the world someday? (wc. 4.6k)

prev — masterlist / ao3 — next

reblogs are appreciated!

Wriothesley ducked, narrowly missing your glove as it brushed across the peak of his shoulder. You withdrew, making a tiny, frustrated noise and narrowing your eyes. You shook out your fist before returning to the stance he’d taught you, poised to strike again, a viper with its fangs bared and glinting.

"Good," Wriothesley barked, flashing you a breathless smile during the momentary lull between swings. "Keep it up!"

A wild grin lit your face, your eyes catching an arc of golden light. You lunged again and Wriothesley sidestepped it with ease, weaving in the opposite direction of the coming impact. "I intend to."

"Get one more good hit on me and we'll call it a day."

You stopped abruptly, arms sagging to your sides. Your face fell, the very picture of disappointment. "Already?"

Wriothesley tilted his head, letting his arms relax a bit, fists lowering from his face. He spared a glance at the massive bronze clock ticking away overhead. "We've been here for over —"

He had barely enough time to register your sorrow morph into savage delight before you struck, gloved fist landing squarely in his gut. He recoiled with an oof.

You straightened up, stretching your arms and neck with a grin. Your training shirt lifted slightly more than was strictly proper with the motion but he was almost too busy trying to process that he'd been duped to enjoy it. Almost. "Never let your guard down, Wrio," you said coyly. You stretched your arms out in a wide arc on either side of your body, bring them — and your shirt — back down where they belong. "My teacher tells me that all the time."

Wriothesley laughed despite his sudden air deficiency, a surprised hand still pressed against the point of impact on his stomach. "I suppose he does, doesn't he? Wise and handsome,” he said, lifting a brow. “But that was a cheap shot."

"Nothing about me is cheap," you shot back with a wicked grin and a wink, knocking the breath out of his lungs once again, more effectively than any punch ever had. You looked at him as you descended the stairs, grabbing a towel off the side of the ring and throwing it over your shoulder. "Tea?"

“Of course."

He forced himself not to watch your departure too closely — he was a gentleman, after all, no matter what the sight of you in your training clothes did to him. He'd thought, that first day when you emerged from the locker room in black trousers and a loose-fitting shirt that covered your skin all the way down to your wrists, that you looked more beautiful than you had dripping gemstones and lace — that you looked radiant, powerful, in your element. That maybe this ruse had been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea. That you’d be the death of him.

He still thought all of those things, from time to time. He was a perfect gentleman, of course. But no one could fault a man for admiring art. So long as he didn't participate in any heists down the line.

Or attempt to, anyway. Some art seemed quite resistant to being stolen, reinforced glass and thick screws in iron walls and armed gardes and he was absolutely fine with that because Wriothesley was a duke and would never disrespect art's wishes, especially when art had no intentions of ever marrying.

He felt perhaps the metaphor had gotten away from him a little.

In the weeks since you'd come to your arrangement, he had learned quite a bit, about not only the aristocracy and etiquette, but about you as well. Your relationship was unconventional, that much was certain, but nothing about Wriothesley's life could ever be called conventional, so he elected to roll with the punches, and Archons — you certainly kept the punches coming.

You stopped to pick up your dress from the basket near the locker room door, waving your hand at him as you slipped through and out of sight. Wriothesley released a catastrophic exhale as the door swung shut behind you and he was left, mercifully, alone.

He had expected a thousand different things from your attachment — not many of which falling under the umbrella of 'good' or 'easy'. He historically had a penchant for keeping people at arm’s length, not only for their own protection — but his as well. From the time he entered the Fortress for the very first time, young and shivering and wisp-thin, bloodstained and naive, traumatized and defensive, he'd had a knack for attracting trouble, from every corner of every nook, of every name and variety. It found its way to him like sharks to an open wound and all he could do to stop it was try not to flail and make it worse and hope that the shiver would pass him by.

As much as Wriothesley enjoyed companionship, he had to face the reality that he had to be particular with those he allowed into his inner circle.

He would never admit it out loud, but it was terribly lonely.

People relied on him. No one ever asked him to take the role after the previous administrator fled—he chose to fill it, opening the doors to the office and taking up the mantle while he still wore his production overalls. He took it, so it was his duty to take every responsibility that came along with it seriously. He knew that it would mean sacrifices; that it meant never truly belonging to the overworld again. But when he thought about it, had he ever belonged there anyway? Not even since he was first sentenced, but before? Perhaps even from the day he came to be, had he ever truly belonged?

Determination, cowardice, obligation, fury. Righteousness. Loneliness. The cocktail that made Wriothesley who he was and guided his every move left little room for anything else, his own desires be damned. And when his home and his people were threatened, he knew he’d find a way to overcome, as ‘overcome’ was what he had always done, through hell or high water or whatever primordial miasma or sunken cities existed in between.

He'd hoped you would be the key. He'd expected you to be a pawn; a convenience. Perhaps another obligation, another surefire trouble hounding him, hot on his heels. He'd expected you to maybe renege on your word; to call off the ruse or fail to rise to the occasion. He'd expected you to end up being just as cold, critical, and capricious as the rest of the court had led him to expect from one of their own. He'd expected you to confine him to a singular, stifling box lined with the barbed wire of perception, to treat him like dirt — or worse, to treat him like a duke.

He hadn't expected to find a friend. But friendship was easy with you, as everything was. Easy to bare a tiny shard of his soul, easy to laugh, easy to walk by your side and feel like maybe he belonged — somewhere.

Easy to want.

And if he had to remind himself from time to time that you were off-limits — for his sake as well as your own — well, that was no one's business but Wriothesley's.

"Not gonna change?"

He snapped to attention at your voice, seeing you'd returned, as lovely and perfect and put-together as though you'd never been in the ring at all, never left bruises in the shape of your fingers on Wriothesley’s skin. Your hair once again fixed back away from your face, all the little flyaways that made his pulse jump tucked back away where they had originally been. Jewels dangled in front of your exposed collarbone, still flushed from your shower. Your head, tilted in confusion as you looked at him still standing on the platform, covered in sweat, undignified and slack-jawed.

"Ah, sorry, I was, uh. Wrapping up," he said haltingly. "I'll only be a minute."

You smiled at him, unsure but trusting, and nodded, looking for all the world out of place against the backdrop of splintered wood and battered dummies and limescale.

Wriothesley pushed down his want to a place where it couldn’t reach him, and turned away.

"This is unexpected," Wriothesley said, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes from behind his desk. He hadn’t even gotten to his morning tea yet; you’d entered his office unannounced about as soon as he’d dropped into his chair.

You folded your arms in front of your dress — which, today, was an enchanting sea green with mesmerizing eddies of opalescent pearl. He stared at them blankly, tired eyes following their swirling path as he searched his brain for answers that continued to elude him.

"You were aware there was a ball today, were you not?"

He frowned in sleepy concentration. "I was,” he said slowly, recalling your words the last time you’d been by, a few days previously. You’d mentioned it in passing over tea, while explaining to him the differences between various silverware and what they were used for in polite society. He was pretty sure he knew the differences on a fundamental level, though the reasoning behind so much specificity still evaded him, as much about ‘polite society’ eternally did. “But —"

"There are still be a number of balls we must attend together,” you interrupted. You tapped a heeled foot against the bronze floor of his office. “To keep up appearances, as you well know."

He sighed. "And I take it one such ball is happening today?"

"Indeed it is." You tugged at the sleeve of your dress absently, angling a slow smile his way.

He rubbed a hand over his face before eyeing you warily. “And what is the occasion this time?”

“It’s a two-parter," you said cheerily, beatifically, an expression which immediately filled him with a sense of dread. You daintily sat on the edge of his desk. He sent up a quick prayer to whatever Archon might be listening to give him strength. You crossed one leg over the other, the action causing the fabric at your thighs to bunch slightly. Wriothesley's fingers twitched. "The ball itself follows a performance happening today at the Opera Epiclese. Some tragedy or other. It would be wonderful if you could accompany me, which —"

"Which is why you are here to bother me at the crack of dawn," he finished.

"Precisely," you confirmed, expression light and impish. "I wanted to make sure you didn't have other plans. Plus, I knew you'd have a harder time turning me down after I made the journey all the way down here."

Wriothesley sighed again. Defeated. You were right.

He’d spent the night dealing with a possible issue among the inmates — some scheme or other George had brought to his attention before it could come to pass, a warning passed along the other day in a surreptitious walk-by, the skittish boy disappearing back into the crowd before Wriothesley had even noticed the letter stuffed into his palm — but after a night of searching alongside a few other trusted staff members, had been unable to find anything amiss anywhere within the facility.

He’d suspected it would be the culmination after months of mutterings about something nefarious at play, rumors and tips promising enough that the absolute radio silence the night before had only increased Wriothesley's worry of what such a conflict would entail. Not to mention who and how many could possibly be involved. The challenge in learning more about such details did not bode well for their origins. Rumors spread like wildfire within a prison — unless there was someone you didn’t want to know you’d been talking.

Wriothesley was, as a result, nowhere near being in a physical or mental state to deal with the aristocracy’s games on that particular day. Frustrated and exhausted, he was fairly sure it had been a miracle of human will that he managed to drag himself to his office at all.

But it had been a while since he’d been inside the Opera Epiclese, and he supposed fewer curious eyes would be on him in the darkness of the audience chamber.

Plus, you would be there.

“Fine,” he grumbled, reluctantly getting back to his feet. He dropped his pen back to the desk where it clattered, a mascot for his own inner turmoil. “Just give me a bit of time to get ready and we can depart.”

You shot off his desk excitedly. "Oh, we have time! It isn't until this evening," you said. Your eyes were eager; an expression he was getting too know a little too well. He already knew the next words that would come out of your mouth. "I figured we could squeeze in a training session beforehand."

He laughed quietly, the sound quickly transforming into a yawn. "Of course you did."

“Also,” you said, holding up a silk-clad hand with an apologetic smile. “Today, I will help you select your attire.”

Wriothesley bristled. “What was wrong with my attire last time?”

“Oh, it was perfectly fine, if you were attending as a prison warden," you said carefully, one eyebrow delicately arched. "This is an opera, Wriothesley, and we are going to be attending arm-in-arm. I need to make sure you look the part.”

Wriothesley’s face fell. He was almost too tired to ask... but he had to know. “Is looking the part going to be uncomfortable?”

Your smile was wide and innocent. He didn’t believe it for a second. “Oh, absolutely. That’s a vital part of the experience.”

Arriving in the overworld never got any less disorienting, no matter how many times Wriothesley ascended from the depths to the Opera Epiclese, passing by centuries of despair and decay and brine. But finally, at last, the sun made its appearance high overhead, unimpeded by the sea, and he was above ground once more.

He fidgeted, adjusting his sleeve. You were right. The suit you had picked for him was uncomfortable.

He looked good, though.

And when you scanned him head to toe with an appraising eye before declaring he looked ‘very handsome’, well, he decided then and there that maybe he’d have worn anything if it made you think that. He was a simple man.

Wriothesley spared one more longing glance at the entrance to the Fortress before he descended the steps into the Fountain of Lucine courtyard, into an ocean whose waters he still didn’t understand, vibrant bursts of color, diamonds and champagne and violins and titles. You, on his arm, looking as though you had not a worry in the world. He was feeling strangely reminiscent of the night of your meeting. Proud to be the one you chose to stand beside.

It didn’t make the experience any less dizzying, of course. He marveled once more at the sheer force of the glittering, suffocating display and the legions of people who looked so at home in the midst of it, so in contrast to how Wriothesley felt with his stomach on the floor. He felt the same as he had as a boy, when he looked out of the viewing windows at the end of the ferry and into the vast Fontemer, living and breathing just ahead — close enough to touch, but separated by an impenetrable wall, forever separate from the shimmering iridescent fish who swam by with no regard for Wriothesley at all, wide-eyed and so, so young.

He realized too late that he had begun to hold your hold arm a little more tightly to his side. If you had noticed his moment of weakness, you didn’t say a word, smiling and offering a polite greeting to an acquaintance as you passed by.

He hadn’t even noticed he was being guided until you came to a stop by a flowerbed, identical to the one he had first approached you at, weeks ago. This time, the look on your face was kind, understanding, lacking any of the boredom and resentment of that first evening. Looking at him, as opposed to staunchly away.

His heart pounded.

"Wrio," you said, your mouth curving into a gentle smile. You paused, a bare breath of a moment, and then reached out to adjust his tie for him, your knuckles brushing gently against his throat as you fussed over it. He swallowed, wanting yet unable to look away from you, close enough for him to kiss, if he wanted to.

He definitely didn’t.

Archons, was he fucked.

You finished adjusting his tie before patting it down, straightening out his coat, fingers curled around each lapel. You let your hands rest on either side of his chest, apparently content not to move them just yet. He hoped desperately that you couldn’t feel his pulse thundering beneath your palms.

"Ready for the show?" you asked, eyes bright and playful.

A question which Wriothesley knew had two meanings. A question to ground him. He exhaled, willing a wave of tension to drain out of his shoulders. He lifted his free hand to give yours a squeeze, just above his heart. A small number of neighboring attendees watched the gesture raptly, gossiping mouths hidden away behind their hands.

"With you by my side," he said with a lopsided smile, "I'm ready for anything."

Wriothesley had always liked the opera. He had even when he bore a different name.

As a boy, when he would hang out around the Fountain of Lucine to pluck out stray mora that the other children hadn’t gotten to yet, he would cling onto the soft, warbling notes that radiated from the opera house’s shuttered doors. The boy would relish the sounds of the plays — tragedies, comedies, romances. He’d savor the voices clear as a Fontainian spring. He’d delight in the orchestras, telling a story together in perfect harmony, painting a landscape upon the blank canvas of his adolescent imagination.

He would find a quiet corner behind some flowering bushes to sit and close his eyes and dream. Sometimes, the boy would just appreciate the gift he didn’t have any mora to buy or any right to steal. Sometimes, if he was feeling brave, the boy would let himself imagine the voice of a mother he’d never known, singing to him from somewhere forever out of his reach.

After a while, whenever he went to the Opera Epiclese, the boy would forget to check the fountain at all.

After the boy who went by a different name was taken in by a host family, the faceless voice in his mind was replaced by the voice of a woman who smiled warmly at him and drew smiles in mustard on his sandwiches and gave him friends — brothers and sisters, bright, beautiful spirits — and he didn’t have to imagine anything at all. She and a man, a mother and a father, a bewitching duet, cradling his lonely soul and giving him a song of his own to fill the empty spaces in his heart. And for a while, the boy felt like maybe he wouldn’t have to close his eyes in a dark corner to dream anymore.

Until the man and the woman betrayed the boy and the song in his mind went silent, ceasing beneath the violent whip of a conductor’s cruel hand. The boy hadn’t gone to the Opera Epiclese to hear the singing since. In fact, the first and only time he had been at all was to stand trial for their murder.

He'd barely had any interest in music after that at all; until one day when he had marched into an administrative office to find a rusty old gramophone sitting on the desk, dusty and silent and dead.

He’d pulled out a record he found in a nearby drawer and fiddled with the device until it played an unfamiliar piano tune; crackling in protest but alive. He almost always let it play now while he worked. A new song for a new name.

You shifted at his right side, your arm pressing against his own, and the boy was brought back to the present, sitting in a high-backed, elegant seat in a darkened opera house he hadn’t been back inside since he was convicted, a lifetime and an identity ago.

A young woman stood center stage, head to toe in shimmering sapphire, illuminated from above by a singular spotlight shining unforgivingly at her from somewhere in the dark catwalk. She sang of the Oceanids, a haunting, reverberating melody which ushered the audience through her sorrow and loss, her dark eyes glittering with theatrical tears.

She brought her lament to its conclusion, eyes shut, manufactured tears sliding delicately down her cheeks at last, a finely manicured hand pressed demurely to the swell of her chest. Her voice echoed and waned before coming to its inevitable conclusion; the chamber’s silence reigning supreme for only a moment before an applause far too polite to have properly encompassed the appreciation for the performance spread amongst the audience. The singer curtsied low, the curtain falling and obscuring her from view before she rose once more.

Wriothesley clapped politely alongside them until the throng began to rise and make its way back out of the venue in orderly rows, like hundreds of affluent ants.

“I didn’t realize you were such a fan of the opera, Wriothesley,” you were saying from his side. You hummed thoughtfully. Eyes on him, even in the dark, even as the lights slowly returned to the opera house. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so attentive.”

“I’m a very worldly man,” Wriothesley said smoothly. “But I’m afraid you must have not noticed yet, my lady. I am far more attentive when it comes to you.”

You snorted, a quiet sound—one of his favorites—meant only for Wriothesley’s ears, and he smiled, suddenly feeling rather warm. You tapped your finger on the back of his wrist as you stood. “My father is just ahead. We should stop and say hello.”

Wriothesley nodded in agreement, allowing you to tug him in the direction you had indicated. His eyes finally found your father in the crowd, talking to a squat, older man he didn’t recognize.

“Hello, darling. And hello, Your Grace,” greeted your father as you and Wriothesley approached. The Viscount turned, a flute of champagne in his left hand, half-drained and sloshing with the rotation. His cheeks were pleasantly flushed, his smile friendly and open. He was steadier on his feet here than he had been at the previous ball. He was dressed impeccably. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“The pleasure is mine, my lord,” said Wriothesley earnestly, dipping his head. He nodded as well to the other man, who returned the gesture in kind.

The Viscount grinned toothily. “I do hope my daughter isn’t giving you too hard a time.”

Wriothesley chuckled, looking at you as you gave your father an unimpressed glare, arm still tucked in the crook of Wriothesley’s elbow. He didn’t have to work too hard to appear fond for the benefit of watching eyes. “Of course not, sir,” he said at last, tearing his eyes away from you to return his gaze to your father. “In fact, your daughter’s company has been the highlight of these past few weeks.”

You made a startled noise. “Oh, stop it,” you said hurriedly, cheeks coloring ever-so-slightly. “You’ll make a lady blush.”

Wriothesley smiled, hopelessly endeared. “It seems I already have.”

“Hush, you.”

Your father beamed, eyes darting between your pout and Wriothesley’s smile, wrinkling even further at the corners. “Nonetheless, you have my gratitude for looking after her,” he said, and gestured to the man still watching patiently at his side. “Your Grace, this is Lord Paquette. He’s an old friend of mine. Paquette, this is Wriothesley, the Duke of Meropide.”

The other man bowed shallowly, form perfect, nearly mechanical in its precision despite his apparent age. “It’s an honor to meet you at last, Your Grace.”

Wriothesley smiled tightly, swallowing down the usual nerves that gripped him when meeting a new person who almost certainly knew his past — and held his precariously positioned future in their hands (and in their vote). “The honor is all mine, Lord Paquette."

The man smiled and turned his attention to you, still watching the exchange with a careful expression. “It’s nice to see you as well.”

Wriothesley could feel you relax a little as you smiled at the older man. “And you as well, my lord. How is Gerard? Still in Sumeru?"

"He's well, thank you," he responded absently. He turned his attention back to Wriothesley. “How did you find the performance, Your Grace? Have you seen Mademoiselle Genevieve perform before?”

Wriothesley felt a twinge of irritation at his dismissal of you; could have sworn he felt you stiffen at his side. He tried to ignore it for now. “This was the first I've heard of her," Wriothesley answered honestly, managing a polite enough expression. "Her performance was very moving. It's been… quite a while since I’ve been to the opera.”

Your father smiled sympathetically. Lord Paquette looked very much the same as he had before.

Wriothesley didn't think he was a fan.

“Say. We’d love to have you join us on our next ride, Your Grace,” said the Viscount.

"Oh, yes." Lord Paquette offered Wriothesley a conspiratorial grin. “It's a nice afternoon for some of us gentlemen to get away from the missus for a bit. You'll understand one day, I'm sure."

The Viscount snorted indignantly, and suddenly Wriothesley knew exactly where you got it from.

"Oh, I very much doubt that. There are scant few places I'd rather be than by her side," Wriothesley said easily, turning his best devoted smile on you. Your returning smile was dry and humorless, a tiny private eye roll just for Wriothesley's benefit. Wriothesley looked at Paquette, then your father. "But I'd be honored to join you all for an afternoon."

"Oh, how wonderful," said the Viscount, clapping Wriothesley on the shoulder. "I will send word once we have a date set.”

“Thank you, sir. I will be looking forward to it.”

"Take care, Your Grace," the Viscount called as he departed, amicably greeting no fewer than three separate people before he was even out of earshot.

Lord Paquette watched him go, turning back to face the two of you once more. He smiled at Wriothesley and then at you, nodding his head. “And I actually would like to speak with you as well at some point in the near future. I have some business I think you’ll be interested in.”

Wriothesley watched you hesitate, glancing at your father’s retreating back before returning to Lord Paquette, who waited patiently for your response. “Me?” you asked incredulously, head cocked. “Not my father?”

“Precisely,” he said ambiguously, already looking detached from the conversation, eyes wandering over the rest of the crowd. “We will speak then, my lady. Enjoy your evening.”

“And you, Lord Paquette,” you said slowly, an uncertain tint to your voice.

With that, Paquette left, disappearing into the crowd. He had left his own champagne flute behind, standing empty and neglected on the stone ledge ringing the courtyard. Wriothesley found that he could breathe a bit easier without the added scrutiny of the older gentleman, exhaling slowly.

“That was odd,” you said, pulling your arm from his and leaning against the ledge. Your eyes were narrowed analytically as you scanned the rest of the attendees. The ball was getting going in earnest, violins making their reappearance, servers darting around with startling agility amidst the crowd, balancing mountains of champagne and hors d'oeuvres on the trays held precariously aloft in their hands.

Wriothesley hummed in agreement, moving to lean against the ledge at your side. “That sort of thing not happen often?”

"Someone having business with me, of all people?" you said dubiously. "No, I can’t say it does. Should be interesting, at least. But he probably just intends to ask me to marry his son, having not even consulted him about it, if I had to wager a guess."

Wriothesley was quiet for a beat, lost in thought.

“So,” he drawled finally, the vowel long and drawn out. You quirked an eyebrow at him curiously. “Riding?” he prompted.

You laughed lightly, shaking your head. “My father would just like for you to come riding with him. You should be honored. It means he likes you," you explained. “It’s something they do often in the warmer months. An age-old tradition for the men of the court to go frolic in the fields for a few hours and talk about fishing or gambling or whatever it is they talk about out there.”

Wriothesley blanched as realization finally dawned on him. “Like on a horse?”

You look at him deliberately, lips curved with amusement. “Yes, Wriothesley. Like on a horse.”

“And you can’t come?”

“Traditionally speaking, no, I can’t come.”

He swallowed thickly, a sharp pang of trepidation seizing his chest. “I’ve never ridden a horse.”

“Well, then,” you said brightly, ruffling his hair as he stared on in horror, seeing nothing in particular. “There’s a first time for everything. I suppose we have our next lesson laid out before us.”

Wriothesley’s eyes snapped to yours. “We’re going riding?”

“Yes,” you said. You flicked a sly look at him out of the corner of your eye as you turned, weaving your arm back through his. ‘Like on a horse’.”

a/n: wrio: haha it's totally fine to be actually attracted to the person i am pretending to be attracted to. just physical attraction. totally normal. nothing to see here

i have been really looking forward to this chapter. it’s more character study than plot but after this, we get into the real thick of things :) honestly i could spend 200,000 words just ruminating on this guy's character and potential past. i want to put this man under a microscope. hoyo give me more challenge!!

also, to answer a question i got in a comment and a couple DMs - no clorinde/wriothesley will be happening here! i avoid writing/reading love triangles like the plague because they do not spark joy for me, personally. in here, wrio and clorinde are just good friends! clorinde has other prospects <3

i have been bad about naming songs from the titles, this chapter's title is from 'runaway' by AURORA

#wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #wrio #wrio x reader #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x you #genshin imagines #reader inserts #reader insert #lark.writes #🌊

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yuri-is-online · 1 month

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Your fantasy AU sounds fun… Do you have any other thoughts?

Mostly just world building if I'm being honest. The real spicy thoughts could count as spoilers so I'll try to put some fun things first before the building block stuff.

Yuu has a lot of physical damage on their body, and a pendant they're extremely protective of but don't remember why. I had a specific idea for that pendant was in the first outline but since I'm not 100% on this being a JadeYuu fic anymore I'm keeping it vague.

Yuu has some vague memories of being in a coma and several people talking to them, but they don't know who they were or what they talked about. It really hurts their head to think about, but they truly trust Idia and aren't afraid of him or Ortho. Somehow they know neither of them are responsible for what happened... or maybe they just don't blame them?

Idia is the one who brought Yuu to his and Ortho's house, but not everyone who should knows that they're there. Ortho doesn't know how Idia knew where to find them and has decided to not ask questions.

Ramshackle Party currently consists of Ace, Deuce, Yuu, and Ortho! Jack, Epel, and Sebek might join later but I'm undecided if they'll be permanent or temporary members. Ace is meant to be a rogue, Deuce used to be a barbarian who has been training under Trey to try and be a proper knight, Ortho is an alchemist, and Yuu is a mechanist a la FFXIV. Or gunslinger if you prefer that. Grim still follows them around and insists he's a great mage but his magic is... well you know.

Oh and Jack is a druid, Epel is an unwilling palidan/squire, and Sebek is also a palidan sworn to the oath of the crown.

Speaking of Trey, he and Riddle are influential members of the Queendom's royal guard, with Riddle being the Commander and Trey being his Second. Cater used to be a freelance information broker who has settled in the Rose Court as the chief of it's spy network, but he's publicly known as a semi famous bard. Neither Ace or Deuce know his real job ha.

Speaking of information brokers, Azul is still a merchant. He doesn't have a monopoly on physical goods since Sam is still here, but his information services can't be beat. He's actively involved in mapping the labrynth floors and has a lot of pull within the Adventure's guild. The twins still work with him but Floyd like to run off and explore the labrynth on his own for funsies sometimes.

Leona is actually a fairly influential politician in this AU, he's lacking the color scheme but he's in his Duke of the North era. He's known for being the first real adventurer in the labrynth, but how that came to happen, and all of his current personal life, are unknown to the general public. He sends Ruggie to bother Idia a lot.

No one knows how many floors the labrynth has, the S.T.Y.X. keeps detailed track of the known floors and assigns them a difficulty ranking based on things like terrain, monsters, weather etc. The Charon units are stationed at all known entrances to check if people trying to enter have the proper adventurer rank and to keep an eye out for dead mages.

Speaking of that, only mages can be resurrected if they die in the labrynth. Magicless people do occasionally venture in, but usually as merchants and never past floor 10.

The Adventure's Guild has a ranking system that determines how deep into the labrynth you're allowed go. Idia is an Obsidian ranked adventure, which prevents him from forming a party with Ortho who is only Bronze rank. Idia's party he gained that rank with has since disbanded, which makes things annoying for him as adventures are required to form a party with a minimum of four people before adventuring. Ortho has only really met one of Idia's previous party members, but he looks up to him a lot. Idia never talks about the other ones.

I have an idea for what I want to do with Malleus but it's a bit... weird? And I'm not 100% sold on it yet. I need to think more. But I know Briar Valley doesn't have much of a presence in the Labrynth or it's nearby town as they have been able to prevent it from spreading into it's territory. Silver and Sebek do occasionally participate in some of the exploration of the lower levels S.T.Y.X does though.

#<3 asks #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #fantasy au #to be clear i know what's wrong with yuu i just haven't decided on who is “responsible”#or if i want it to be vague and write a general route and then add scenes w specific characters

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whereserpentswalk · 8 months

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The people of this land built a burial mound for their dead. They fell in a conflict with the hobgoblins of the western hills, more bodies may be added as warriors fall with honer, and spear heads of bronze and copper are placed upon their chests. Nobody will write of these stories, but they will tell them for as long as the people exist.

It was a cold autumn day. For the gift of conquering a new region, the grand lord of the infinite empire built a fortress for his troops on what was once a burial mound. Though the mound is older then memory can tell nobody will think to honer it, to the infinite empire those people who have no writing are thought to have no gods, and those who have no gods have no souls.

The fortress holds strong as countless people riot outside. Food supplies from the far south aren't coming in, as barbarians raid the land using a strange shadow colored metal known as iron. Only the faries remember when this fortress was built, since then it's defenses have only existed in theory, but tonight they prove themselves strong, the old stone standing true. The soldiers tasked to defend this place will never seed the empire's might to the peasants. But food runs scarce for them too, and time only ever marches forwards despite their prayers.

The fortress of bone looks high upon the grand city. Legends say it's older then the rest of the city, taken by the ancestors of the current population from the infinite empire, the soldiers inside starving to death rather then fighting with honer. Though the infinite empire is only a myth. The high king of the city looks down at his people with pride, the gods have smiled upon him. He waits in the balcony of the fortress for his brother to return to his room, with a sword at his side and the attendents called away for privacy. There is conspiracy that his priests favor his brother over him on the throne. They will talk, hold eachother, think of times long gone, and then one of them will perish.

The high king addresses his men. Above him stands a statue of a mythical ancestor, who strangled his older brother in his bedroom after he tried to slay him. The legend brings the king a sense of power as he addresses his men. Invaders come from the west, sources say three quarters of their soldiers are human, and a quarter undead. And though the city is grand and shining tonight, it may be nothing but ash soon. He could tell his men to fight to their last breath, to let the city burn, all so that he may be king. But, as he stands atop the fortress of bone, he declares his conclusion, he will not let his city burn for honer, if his ancestor could face the dishonor of kinslaying for his life, he could face surrender. He will be duke instead of king, and many of his people will be sacrificed or enslaved, but he'd rather it all then his death or torture, rather keep his house then his people's freedom.

The dutchess thinks back to her ancient ancestor, the one who bowed to the empire long ago. He was remembered as a hero by some, but a coward by others. Though her house is loyal, war wyverns still stand atop the walls, waiting for her to make a choice. Ten years ago the king of kings declared himself part of a new faith, of the God of the stars and moon, and all other gods to be demons, idols and angels. This day, the option for the people to stay true to their local gods have been taken away. The dutchess has two choices, she may convert, watch as her priests are sacrificed, the gods she holds dear are burnt, and accept the place of women in the new faith as she lets her brother take the throne. Or alternatively, she may die with her gods and priests. She has made her choice, though her attendants will not agree, her gods will honer her, and she will rule from the underworld. She will be asked to convert, as her head is shaved, as her bones are broken, and as she has taken to burn, but she will not betray the gods.

A band of knights rips through feral undead, creatures that have long outlasted the ancient empire they once served. No wonder why this place is called the fortress of bone. The abandoned fortress, surrounded by a long ruined city, may seem disturbing now. But once the undead are cleared it will likely all be taken by one of the local kingdoms. Though most princes want to build a new castle for this type of thing, the fortress could serve well as a temple, the one God of the moon and stars will smile upon this new city, built upon the dead.

Muskets fire off in celebration, as a red, blue and black banner is raised above what was once a temple. People sing songs, play games, and drink blue wine, and they cheer as the nobility and priests of the city meet their end, some by hanging, some my gunfire, some by blade. A great leader gives a speech, a black and gold coat and red cape is all they wear, no gold nor gemstone for they are one with the people, their face covered in the tattoos of a common soldier or sailor. Tonight the people celebrate, for they will fear neither God nor king, and live and fight for themselves. Though it was built as a defensive structure, the wyvern skulls serving as a reminder to why it was called the fortress of bone, cannons will make short work of it if the temple returns to its purpose. The revolutionary council will decide the temple must become a university, people will study literature there that barely escaped the fires of tyranny, and they will study gods long ago thought to be demons.

The old university was a fortress once, it's probably a better place to hide them most. Though as grenades and tankfire can be heard blasting as the millenias old stone, it's proven to be only a matter of time. Two soldiers crawl into an empty classroom, machine guns still in hands they embrace. They're alone, the city will fall, and only death surrounds them. They put their gas masks down, as chemical weapons won't be needed to kill just two men. They talk about their past, their childhoods, things they'd want to do in a future they'll never have. And they'll kiss, and their eyes will be closed when they're found, and they'll barely hear the bullets.

The old fortress is being torn down today. They're building new condos there. They could have made it a museum, but a lot of it was ruined by the war, and there might be some unexploded shells down there. Really though, it's just more profitable for the city to build condos there. At least some archeologists will get to dig through everything first, so there is a bright side. They'll find a lot of things they didn't expect. It's pretty old. When they finally break the floors to see what's underneath they'll find skeletons from before the fortress was built in the hill below, with bronze and copper spear heads of their chests. And they'll know that those people had gods, and that those people had souls.

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importantwomensbirthdays · 1 year

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Selma Burke

Selma Burke was born in 1900 in Mooresville, North Carolina. Art historians believe that Burke's bronze relief sculpture of Franklin Delano Roosevelt was the basis for his image on the dime. This sculpture, however, was just part of a long and distinguished artistic career. Burke, who described herself as "a people's sculptor", created sculptures of notable African-Americans such as A. Philip Randolph and Duke Ellington. She completed her final piece, a sculpture of Martin Luther King, Jr., in 1980.

Selma Burke died in 1995 at the age of 94.

#african-american #black history #art #artists #art history #sculptures #sculptors #sculpture #black women

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nikethestatue · 9 months

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The Agreement

Part 8

Elain Archeron and Azriel, Lord Night, Duke of Velaris

What do you say to a naked man, who is in your bedroom, just fresh out of a bath? What do you say to this man when he tells you that he is going to ‘fuck’ you ‘before the end of the week’? What do you say when it’s Thursday morning, and ‘end of the week’ is in three days? Or did he mean within a week? As in, maybe until next Thursday? But no, it didn’t sound like that at all. He said ‘end of week’.

Did it really mean lying with this man, together? Having him…do things to her. Having him inside her body?

“Oh-oh, what is that panicked look for?”

Azriel’s teasing tone jolted Elain out of her very panicked state and her jumbled thoughts.

“You look divine in the morning,” he said, his voice warm and generously husky. He prowled towards her bed, running his head with another towel, mussing his thick black hair until it was stuck in every which way.

Elain snorted.

She snorted like a baby piglet, and then, horrified, she snorted again.

“Laughing are you?” he challenged with mirth in his eyes, as he cocked his head at her, watching her try to stop her laughter.

“Your hair, sir,” she cried out and then flopped under the blanket, hiding beneath it, laughing.

The next moment, she felt the blanket being pulled down, slowly, but deliberately. It slid from her face, then down her chest, over her breasts…He dragged it down her belly, her hips and finally, her thighs.

Elain squirmed wildly, because her nightgown was hiked up high over her thighs and he could see her bare legs…see more of her than even her sisters had seen.

“I’ll get you some new nightgowns,” Azriel decided, observing her calmly, as he sat on the edge of the bed, “this is atrocious,”

“It’s not so bad!” she protested.

“I want something beautiful and delicate to touch your skin,” he decided. “That is until you learn to sleep naked next to me.”

Elain coloured instantly, watching him in awed shock, but as she tried to pull her legs up and maybe even try to tug the blanket over herself, he stopped her brashly. Stretching across the bed, he folded one arm under his head and grabbed her feet, stopping her from any further movement.

“God you are fussy,” he complained under his breath, and then placed her legs on his stomach, keeping his other hand curled over her ankles possessively.

“Sir,” she began, but he interrupted,

“No. Just fucking stay there, Elain, and stop wiggling,”

‘You can’t curse like that!” she exclaimed, outraged.

“Yeah, I can. But if you’d just relax for a moment, maybe then I wouldn't need to be cursing.”

Before she could say anything else, his rough, huge hand caressed her legs, slowly snaking from her feet, up to her knees. She stilled, barely breathing.

He seemed calm and completely at ease, while she could barely inhale a breath, seeing how he was naked and that towel around his waist didn’t seem to provide much of a barrier. Nude, he was even more massive, his bronze skin in stark contrast with the white bedding, and the black tattoos harsh and primal in the light of day. His shoulders spanned a massive width and Elain couldn't help herself, when she propped her body on her elbows and watched him. He didn't seem to mind the scrutiny, caressing her legs and her feet absently, while he stared at the ceiling.

“This is nice,” he decided.

“What is?” she asked softly.

“You and me. Together. It’s nice.”

“It is,” she agreed. Because it was. When it was the two of them, and the world outside fell away as only a mirage, then the two of them were nice indeed. Azriel was a strange, unusual and highly desirable man, and Elain…well, she liked him. Simple as that. She was shy, but she didn’t mind being with him at all. Even in the same bed. Even when he was basically bare in front of her. It didn’t hurt that he was so beautifully made.

“You have a staggering amount of muscles,” she marvelled, and before she could stop her hand, her finger jutted out and she poked him in the stomach.

His muscles had muscles. He was stacked all along his torso with gorgeous rippling lean sinew and perfectly defined slabs of muscles.

“Do I?” he chuckled, glancing down where her finger was lightly tracing his abdominals. “Well, let’s make sure that you never see Cassian in the buff. If you are taken with muscles, he has a great overabundance of them.”

Azriel’s brother was handsome. Elain couldn’t deny it. His beauty was more rugged…untamed. He was only a tad taller than Azriel, but he was wide of shoulder and powerful, reminding her of heroes of old. His features were rougher and not as refined as Azriel’s, but she could imagine him being a heartbreaker. He was funny and easy-going, delightful and seemed like a genuinely good person. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Elain wished for her sister Nesta to get better acquainted with him. It was absurd of course–Nesta had no idea about the arrangement, and it was impossible for Elain to introduce them socially, but she could see it–Cassian’s warmth melting away the iciness of Nesta’s character.

“I don’t want Cassian,” she murmured under her breath, looking at the man before her. His thighs were thick and firm with muscles, and his legs incredibly long. Even his feet were handsome–he was actually an example of someone who was striking head to toe.

“Well, thank god for that,” he growled and then reached out and suddenly snapped her jaw in his hand, holding it tightly. His golden amber eyes watched her carefully and he warned,

“You are mine.”

She swallowed, sitting in a strange uncomfortable position, with her legs on top of his stomach, and her back scrunched, while he held her in place by her chin.

“Say it,” he ordered. “Say that while you are with me, you are mine.”

She gently crapped her hand around his wrist, and he relaxed his grasp on her.

She nodded.

He didn’t release her, but looked at her expectantly, waiting.

“I am yours,” she promised.

He grabbed her legs, holding them tighter.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Cassian isn’t for me.”

“And who is?”

“You,” she said simply. “Only you.”

“Don’t ever forget it,” he cautioned.

At last, he released her chin, but then his arms wrapped around her waist, and he forced her to sit up, just as his other hand, warm and bumpy from the scars, moved higher than her knee and caressed her thigh.

Elain shivered.

God it felt good.

Why did everything feel so good with him?

Why was even looking at him gave her so much pleasure?

His finger scraped the skin of her thigh, exploring it slowly.

Why was she not feeling embarrassed? Why did she not want to jump out of her skin from anxiety? She was in bed with a man who wasn’t her husband, half-bare before him, her legs resting on his body, his hands caressing her legs. What’s more, the strap of her nightgown slid off her shoulder, exposing her even further to his hungry, fiery gaze.

The way he went from smouldering, to demanding, to dominating, to possessive all in one sentence, all in one breath, in fact stole the breath from her.

“Are you going to kiss me?” she inquired shyly.

He hauled himself up on one elbow and turned on his side, lightly running his fingers over her messy braid.

“Are you going to show me your hair?” he asked in turn.

“Why do you want to see it?”

“I want to see everything that you don’t reveal to the world,” he said after a pause. “Every bit of you, everything that you hold to yourself, your secrets and all the dark parts of you–I want to see them. I want to insert myself into them and cherish them.”

Elain bit her lips and whispered, “you want too much’.

“I know,” Azriel sighed. ”I want everything.”

And therein lay the problem.

Elain pulled away from him and muttered, “I need to go…freshen up.”

He waved his hand, letting her go, and she heard him say ‘I’ll be waiting’.

As she washed her face, cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair, Elain struggled with the notion that in fact, Azriel did want too much from her. Instead of just taking her body and using it for his needs and for his heir, he now wanted to burrow deeper…he always wanted more of her and she wanted to give it to him, but she feared him as well. Feared that if he burrowed in too deeply into her soul, he would crush it in the end. He’d smite her and nothing would be left.

“I’ll show you my hair if you kiss me,” Elain announced loudly once she came out of the bathing room.

Azriel had hardly changed positions, still lying across the bed, though he did exchange the towel for his long sleeping pants. Problem was that they were thin. As in, they draped over everything and left nothing to the imagination. And Elain’s bravado dissipated just like that, because Azriel was…big. Down there. He was thick and bulging, and she just stared. Shocked. He was a tall and muscular man, so his manhood was in line with his physique, but it was still overwhelming.

Though his eyes were closed, he suddenly said,

“Stop staring at my cock, beautiful.”

Elain coughed loudly, squirming with embarrassment and virtually hyperventilating. How did he know?!

“I mean, what else could you possibly be looking at right now?” he teased, again, without looking at her.

Elain didn’t know what to say, but he added, “also, no.”

“No, what?”

“No, I will not kiss you in exchange for seeing your hair.”

He opened his eyes at last, and then propped himself on his elbows.

“Come here,” he ordered.

Elain had put on a silk dressing gown while in the bathing room, but his eyes narrowed and he said, “Take it off’.

“I just dressed!” she complained.

“I didn’t tell you to dress,” he reminded her lazily. “Take it off,” he repeated. “I don’t know why I am repeating myself though.”

“What are you going to do?” she demanded, clutching at the ends of the sash, not untying it, but actually tying it tighter.

“I am not going to do anything,” he shrugged indifferently, his mouth stretching in a hungry, challenging grin.

“Then what do you want?” she asked impudently.

Azriel eyed her with that same dark smile and licked his lower lip, crossing his long legs at the ankles and making his manhood bulge even further between his legs.

Elain didn’t know what to do with herself, as she just stared at him. The morning light made everything more…obvious. Explicit. Just more.

Yes, his muscles were beautiful, and his body was generally a stunning example of masculine form, but that didn’t mean that Elain was comfortable with seeing all of it.

“I want you to take off the dressing gown,” he instructed her slowly. “Then I want you to come over here,”

“And?”

“And you are going to kiss me.”

“Me?” she cried out.

“Yes, you. You seem to be under the impression that I am here to service you. That’s a misconception. You are here to serve me. However I want you to. As I told you before, I will give, and you will take...And now, Elain Archeron, you will come here and you will take your first kiss.”

Elain stepped onto the warm, soft rug, her bare toes sinking into the silken threads, and then wordlessly, dropped the dressing gown down her body. She remained only in her satin brassiere and a pair of satin and lace underwear. Azriel was watching her every move, his eyes needy and his expression encouraging and excited. He did not judge her and that gave her strength to walk across the bedroom in nothing but her unmentionables. There was only desire and appreciation in him, and for the first time in her life, Elain felt acutely wanted. This magnificent man: big and powerful, wealthy and strong, indescribably handsome and rugged in every enticing way was enchanted by her. He was wanting her. As incomprehensible as it was, but Elain knew that Azriel chose her and her specifically, because he desired what she had to offer to him. Yes, of course he chose her a few times already, but here they were, stripped down to their most bare, and Elain found the strength inside her wildly beating heart to approach him and allow him to take her by the hand.

Elain wasn’t sure what her first kiss would be like, so even just the touch of his hand, his huge paw clasping her fist made her whimper, and she released a soft, pathetic sigh of pleasure.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he sat up and pulled her down.

Azriel, Lord Night, Duke of Velaris

Azriel attempted to maintain steady breathing, but seeing Elain Archeron nearly nude, only in pretty undergarments, her sweet plump tits cradled in satin and silk, bouncing with every step that she took, her body slim and still underfed, but womanly and so damn…delicious–it all made him achy and hot.

Elain Archeron was so sweetly gorgeous, the sight of her almost gave him a toothache. Her hair was tied in some messy, lush braid, and her lips were fuller than usual–she must have dabbed some rouge on them when she was in the bathing room. It suited her. Oh it suited her just fine. Looking at those plush lips right now, all he could think of is how they would look wrapped around him–his neck, his lips, and yes, if he was lucky and persuasive enough, around his cock.

His intention was to take her fully. Intention? More like an obsession. He needed to take her fully. Everywhere. He wanted to explore every crevice of her glorious body, wanted to lick and suck on her skin, wanted her nipples in his mouth, between his teeth. He wanted to bite and smother her with his lips, his tongue. The pretty bruises that he now observed on her shoulder, her collar bones, her neck, were there and they pleased him, but he wanted more. So much more.

Elain Archeron was so desirable, he felt like he was grinding his teeth from the sheer pressure of trying to maintain his cool. He was breathless. Winded, as if he ran for a mile.

The brassiere did wonders for her breasts–it held them, squeezed them, and created a magnificent crater of her cleavage, where he wanted to dive and never come up for air. Death by tit. He wouldn’t have minded it.

Her legs were long and thin, like the rest of her, but the gentle swell of everything was there, wanting to come out and let him play with her.

He raised his hand and made a swirling motion with his finger, ordering her to twirl.

She did. Slowly. And there it was–the exposed silky flesh of her cheeks, the roundness of her bottom looking impossibly enticing. He’ll take a bite of that as well, he already knew it. Before he could stop himself, his good sense was overridden and he reached out and groped a handful of her ass.

Elain squeaked, but he sat up fully, planting his feet on the floor, and before she could escape his grasp, he gripped her hips in his hands, his fingers dipping into the smooth flesh of her behind.

In his head, Azriel was having a loud argument between common sense and decency versus his dick. And his dick hated him right now. But the dick wasn’t giving up so easily, and before Azriel really thought this through, he had Elain between his legs and his teeth were sinking into the sublime softness of her ass.

She cried out, slapped his shoulder, screamed a little, wiggled and did whatever it was that girls did when their butt cheeks were suddenly bitten by men, but Azriel held tight. He held her hip and his other hand cupped the cheek that he wasn’t biting, while he buried his whole face in her gorgeous ass and just bit and licked. She was whimpering and pleading something somewhere above him, but he didn’t care.

She was going to learn that about him quickly–he didn’t say additional words when it wasn’t necessary and he usually just acted. Much like he did right now–kissing that sweet behind, lifting the edge of her knickers up to expose more of her temping flesh. And the more he did it, the more she mellowed under his onslaught. Soon she wasn’t fighting him, nor were there squeaks of protest, or the ridiculously adorable slaps that she delivered on his shoulders and arms. No. Elain was being conquered, and quickly. Just like he wanted her to. He didn’t mind her arguing with him on other matters, but this–this was his domain. And here, he was her master. Her subduer. Her lord. Her god.

Without warning, he thrust her down, and into his lap. She flailed for a moment, but had no choice but to straddle his thighs, all but collapsing against him.

She was panting loudly, her expression that of confusion and expectation. She didn’t know what he would do. He was dangerous. And she didn’t entirely trust him. Smart girl.

He cupped her jaw and looked at her, into the pools of her beautiful brown eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, her pretty tits were rising and falling beneath the satin, her boney chest coloured in pink. He could count all her freckles, which spread over her tanned face like stars in constellations.

“Take my kiss,” he ordered firmly.

And then he kissed her.

The kiss was possessive and intense all at once. There was no working up to it–he didn’t waste his time with nips or licks. His own lips seared an undeniable promise upon her perfect soft mouth. You are mine.

She tasted of mint and smelled of vanilla, and the air was scented with jasmine and this was going to be the smell that Azriel was prepared to die in. He gently locked her arms around his shoulders and neck and she clung to him, responding to the kiss, while he held her face in his hand. Their jaws slanted together, and her kiss was tentative and inexperienced, predictably messy and without finesse, and Azriel lived for it. It was his girl’s first kiss and he kissed her greedily, tasting her, loving her, letting her take as much as she wanted from him.

It reminded him of licking a melting ice cream on a hot day. Lazy, but urgent. Slurping and eager, but also mellow and deep.

Her lovely little slit was warm and wet next to his painfully erect cock, and he brashly guided her hips against it, feeling how she sucked in her breath and made to pull away. But he wouldn’t have it. He held her right there, letting her feel the thickness of him, the power of his manhood, while he kissed her hard and wet, allowing her the time to acquaint herself with their nearness and the intimacy of the kiss. Everything was pounding–the blood in his head, the vein in his temple, the hot, pulsating artery on Elain’s neck. The two of them were deep into it now, and he held her jaw firmly in place, slowly running his tongue over her swelling lips and then forcing it inside her mouth. She gasped and cried out into his mouth, but he slipped his tongue over her teeth and then licked against her own tongue, caressing it and keeping his usual aggression at bay. She melted into the kiss gradually, familiarising herself with his presence, with low growls that he couldn’t keep to himself.

She was fabulous. Tasty like a fine candy, soft and submissive, unsure, but eager. Perfect. She was perfect.

Her fingertips dug into the back of his neck and she held on to him, while her tight hips gyrated against him–he wondered if she’d even noticed. Fear and shyness were no match for instinct and base desire. The whimpering moans that she cried out into his mouth only spurred him on, and he thrust his tongue harder against her, no longer gently licking, but sucking and subduing her.

Elain Archeron

This was forbidden, filthy, incredible heaven.

Kissing, kissing Azriel, was heaven. He kissed like he lived–dirty and passionate, forceful, demanding, and yet thoughtful. Kind even. Though maybe not. Not when he ground his member between her folds and made her so lightheaded that she thought she was going to faint right on his lap. Not when he lapped on her tongue, made her suck it, lick his lips.

She felt uncontrolled. Wanton. Tittering on the brink of desire overwhelming all her senses.

She dared not look down between their bodies, lest she’d lose all her newfound boldness. At this moment, she preferred to concentrate on their kiss. It was her first, and she was not disappointed. There was something primal about it–the sharing of saliva, the exchange of breaths, the mutual groans and gasps that they emitted, the messy tangle of their limbs and their hair.

Azriel suddenly grabbed her braid firmly in his hand and pulled away from her mouth.

Elain looked at him, dazed, her eyes failing to focus. She was gasping for air.

He was watching her, looking at her in a way that was almost studious.

“Did you love your first kiss?” he asked, his thumb brushing over her eyes, and her swollen, wet lips.

“Ye-ess,” she managed, wanting to kiss him ever more.

She didn’t even know what she expected from her first kiss, but it wasn’t this.

Neither was the second kiss what she expected, because Azriel lunged at her mouth violently and sucked on her with filthy, unbridled passion. His thumb was still on her lips, and then he pushed it inside, making her suck, while he licked on her tongue, on her teeth and lips. She was a ripe fruit of which he was taking a hungry, demanding bite.

Her nipples ached terribly, her breasts firm and so painful that she needed to drag them against his massive inked chest, over the firmness of his pecs, so as to relieve some of the pain.

He felt good. So, so good. Everything about him was strong and firm, and she couldn't get enough of mouth, his fingers, his brutal grasp, his forceful tongue. Between her legs, she was wet and hot, and everything was pulsing and hurting. He was like a heated rock between her thighs, the ridge of his member spreading her folds apart beneath the satin of her underwear.

God, she was so wet–why was she wet?--that she thought that she’d need to change.

His palm cupped her bottom, holding her close to his body, and she loved how intimate and sexual it felt. His hands on her body, bold and audacious, taking what he wanted, while giving her what she needed. And she needed the kiss.

Unexpectedly, he flipped her over and suddenly she was on her back, with him hovering over her.

He placed a few lingering, easy kisses on her lips and then got up and stood over the bed, looking at her.

She was sure that she looked a mess, all sweaty and gasping, and her hair wild and when she instinctively touched her lips, she felt how swollen they were.

“Are you ready for me, little girl?” Azriel smirked, crossing his arms on his chest.

“Not at all,” she admitted, shaking her head.

“Good,” he nodded with satisfaction. “I wouldn’t want to meet your expectations.”

“Why not?” her brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t you want to, even though I don’t really have expectations…”

“I’d like for you to buckle and buck and anticipate what is coming…I wouldn’t want to be predictable.”

Elain sighed and rolled her eyes.

“No you wouldn’t.”

He laughed softly.

“Are we done?” she asked shyly, watching him from under her lashes. She felt exhausted somehow, and she wasn’t sure why. Was kissing tiring? Apparently it was. There had to be a reason why she was so winded and sweaty.

He chuckled and asked,

“You want more, sweetheart?”

She squirmed a bit on the bed, once again painfully aware of being almost naked in front of him.

“I…” she thought and then answered truthfully, “I did not think that it would be like that, sir,”

“Like how?” he grabbed her feet and pressed them to his chest, while threading his fingers with her toes. It was a little painful–his fingers were thick and long and he squeezed her toes and her feet mercilessly, holding them to his chest, as he looked down at them.

“You painted your nails,” he noted, rubbing his thumb over her big toe.

She nodded and asked, “do you like it?”

“I do,” he complimented her, inspecting her toes closely. “This is a nice colour. First time?”

“Yes. I didn’t know that this was done,”

“High society ladies outside of England do it, and I like it. I also noticed that you were quite smooth now,” he noted brashly, like it wasn’t an outrageous comment to make to someone.

“I…I…my lord,”

He chuckled and gently smoothed his hands over her legs.

“How did you think your first kiss would go?” he demanded, watching her pink face with impatient hunger.

Elain made herself relax.

There was no other choice. She was in his house, under his control, with him in her room, in her bath, in her bed. She needed to stop fighting it. Everything about the two of them was inevitable.

“Gentler,” she admitted, her voice soft. “Not as erotic. Not as…memorable.”

Azriel thought for a moment and said, “I suppose it’s better if it’s memorable than not.”

“Painful almost.”

He didn’t apologise–not that she was expecting it–but she asked,

“Will it be the same…the first time? Painful and erotic?”

Azriel released her feet and went to the bathing room, though he didn’t close the door behind him.

Elain watched him splash water on his face, and he used her hair brush to brush his messy hair.

“I suppose,” he told her at last.

Sha sat up and crossed her legs, sitting on the bed.

“Haven’t you done that before?” she prodded.

“What? Had sex? Yes,”

“No, I mean I know you did. But what about taking someone’s virginity? Haven’t you done,”

His tone was surprisingly severe, when he said roughly, ‘no’.

That took Elain aback a little. The unequivocal ‘no’ and the vehemence in his voice.

She tried again and pressed, “but what about your lady wife? Surely,”

He came out of the bathing room and said coldly, his tone reserved, but tense,

“Surely she should’ve been. But she wasn’t,”

“Oh,” Elain didn’t know what to say to that.

He continued though, “Three weeks before the wedding, she slept with Cassian. Lost her virginity to him,” he stopped as abruptly as he began.

“But…I don’t understand? Why?”

“She didn’t want to be forced into marriage–the match was made by her father. He is a hateful, cold man, and she detests him. In order to avoid marrying him, she thought that sleeping with someone else would be a good idea, and a sure way for me to pull out of the engagement,”

“Didn’t she like you?”

“I don’t think she knew me well enough to have an opinion,” he explained honestly.

“But Cassian,”

“She spun a woeful story of how she needed to get out of the marriage…how she was forced to marry me…how she didn’t want it,”

“Well, I think it’s disgraceful,” Elain decided. “And you found out and didn’t end the engagement?”

“No I didn’t. I suppose I wanted to help her out after all. Took pity on her. She’d be in more trouble with her father if I backed out of the engagement than with me.”

Elain sighed,

“It’s sad, my lord.”

“It’s life, Elain.”

He walked to the door and threw over his shoulder,

“So to answer your question, no, I haven’t taken a virgin before. And I imagine it would be painful, though I will try to make it pleasant for you.”

“And are you planning on doing it before the end of the week?” she confirmed.

“Absolutely.”

#elriel #elain archeron #azriel #azriel and elain #elain x azriel #pro elriel #elain #the agreement #Chapter 8 #my fanfic #elriel fanfiction #my writing #victorian england #Victorian AU #elriel fanfic

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