venusvixen20

Latest Posts by venusvixen20

Angela Carter, from a poem titled "Unicorn", featured in Unicorn: The Poetry of Angela Carter

omg jade stop being a slut fshdsh

A Truth Universally Denied - CH. 2

Lucifer x F. Reader

When a struggling, reclusive, but wealthy single father calls upon the help of a governess to help tutor his coming-of-age but unruly daughter, one has no choice but to accept the most gracious invitation of employment. Especially if your new employer is the King of Hell. (aka if Hell, but if it was set similar to Victorian Era England, so like circa 1830 to 1900 A.D.)

“As I mentioned previously, it is wonderful to make your acquaintance.”

Well, this was certainly a surprise. Not only was Y/N’s employer a wealthy recluse, but the wealthy, reclusive King of Hell. The ruler of the Underworld, who was once beloved and well-known, kept away after the tragic disappearance of his wife a year ago. Such a sorry state the family would be in, she thought after hearing the news, and after meeting Charlie, it was evident that there were familial damages. 

It was evident in her eyes the state of shock Y/N remained in, Alastor off in the corner with that self-satisfied upturn on his face. Of course, his letter neglected to mention any name or evidence of her new employer, a tactic she assumed was on purpose. A sly demon the red deer was, and while Y/N had not known him for long, she knew he would do anything for his own amusement. 

After fixing her expression and a quick clear of the throat, Y/N gave a small curtsey towards Lucifer. She could feel her eyes rake over her form, taking in every detail. The muted blue of her dress, the cracked lace embellished hem, and the burnt umber color of her boots. Simple, plain, ordinary. Something Lucifer felt the need to remedy, though he also found a strange comfort in. Surrounded by niceties every day, often, even the finest of things often become lackluster. Seeing something so contrary to his everyday was…nice for a change. He could not help his eyes from trailing the new governess as she took her seat right beside him.  

“Truly, the pleasure of this meeting is all mine, Your Highness. I am grateful for your offer of employment.” 

“Of course. I heard you were the best. Now please, sit—“

“Dad! Dad! Did you know Miss Y/N taught me a magic trick? Here, let me show you!” 

As if on cue, Charlie mustered all her power, eyes scrunched in deep concentration. A flickering gold light filtered from her hands, and with a puff of sparkle, a small daisy appeared in the small girl’s hand. Her excitement was nothing short of positively adorable, at least Y/N thought so. With a giddy smile and squeak, little Charlie presented the delicacy to her father, who took it with a gentle hand and grin. 

“Why, it’s beautiful, apple pie. Your new teacher seems to be starting early with her lessons–” 

Y/N’s face flushed a deep shade of rose at the compliment, though she quickly busied herself with her napkin, brushing it over her lap as if crumbs had gathered there, though not a single one had.

“Oh, well, it’s nothing really. A simple parlor trick I was happy to give the secret to.”

 Lucifer’s eyes scanned Y/N once more, his attention drawn to her near-mute comment. Noting her modesty with a passing thought of admiration, a rare trait these days, he nodded softly before returning to fawning over his daughter. Y/N remained reserved, though scrutinizing every moment between the pair. Both Charlie and Alastor had expressed…thoughts on Lucifer’s absence and its effects, yet here he seemed so loving. Was it all a charade, some false act put up to appease her before shrouding himself in mystery again? Whatever it was, she was wary.

The rest of dinner passed in elegant quietude, punctuated only by Charlie’s occasional chatter and the clinking of cutlery on fine china. The food was divine, unlike anything Y/N had ever tasted in her modest, mortal life. A medium-well duck stuffed with orange and rosemary, cutting through the otherwise gamey flavor with a chestnut sauce to accompany. Rich, garlic asparagus in a balsamic glaze, paired with a sparkling Harvey and Osborne sherry*. Each bite seemed tailored not only for the palate but for the soul, a richness that made her feel, somehow, unworthy. Even the water tasted like it had once been kissed by stars. Lest she forget about dessert, a three-layered chocolate cake delicacy that seemed only could have been made in Heaven when Y/N saw it was topped with a strawberry cream. 

As the plates were cleared and the last of the wine sipped, Charlie, drooping slightly in her seat, yawned behind one small, gloved hand. “I think someone’s ready for bed,” Y/N said gently, rising from her chair, placing her napkin folded on the seat, and offering the girl a hand. Charlie took it without protest, rubbing at her eyes. Lucifer gave a nod, a soft expression playing across his features.

“I’ll see you both in the morning,” he said, voice low and warm. It rolled like thunder in the distance, promising rain but not yet bringing it.

“But I don’t wanna–”

“Charlie, my dear, what do…um…ducks do when they are sleepy?”

“They snuggle!”

“Right, now, how about we snuggle upstairs like fluffy ducks, mhmm?”

Y/N guided Charlie up the stairs with a gentle hand, offering a knowing smile back to Lucifer, winding through the candlelit corridors until they reached the child’s chamber. It was grand but not cold, warmed by plush pillows and soft toys that looked lovingly worn. As Y/N previously noted, red apples and golden leaves decorated even the furnishings of this room and every other. A common theme, an obsession perhaps? Though she supposed it made logical sense for His Highness to refer to Charlie as ‘apple pie’ with the way the house was decorated. Charlie climbed into bed with a drowsy smile, a small red and black lamb stuffed animal tucked snugly in her arms, murmuring something incoherent. 

“Good night, sweet duckling,” Y/N whispered, brushing a strand of golden hair from the child’s forehead.

“Miss Y/N?” came the sleepy reply.

“Yes, dear?”

“How long are you going to stay?”

Y/N tucked the sheets around her with a soft chuckle.

“As long as you’ll have me.”

Y/N turned down the lamp, casting the room in shadows and warm gold. She lingered for a moment, watching the little girl’s chest rise and fall, peaceful, untouched by the grief that still seemed to cling to every inch of the manor. Then she closed the door softly behind her. The hall was quiet now, except for the occasional groan of the old wood underfoot. She made her way back toward her room, arms loosely folded across her front, her thoughts already drifting toward rest when—

“Oh! I–I’m sorry!” she gasped, nearly colliding with a tall, familiar figure rounding the corner.

Lucifer stood there, one hand lifting in mild surprise, the other tucked behind his back. His smile was calm, almost boyish, though something far older rested behind his eyes. “No harm done,” he said smoothly. “Though I imagine I startled you.”

She nodded, blinking. “Just a bit, Your Highness–”

“Lucifer will do,” he offered with a small tilt of his head.

There was a beat of silence, long enough for her to notice the faint scent that clung to him, like spice and cedar smoke, something deep and earthy. Rarely did Masters give permission of their given name; usually, the use was met with sharp reprimand. And yet, he was here, the literal King of Hell, allowing a governess to use his first name. A peculiar man, Y/n thought as she studied him further in her shock. The sharpness of his jaw, the carved elegance of his features. A dangerous thing to dwell on.

“Well… good night, L–Lucifer,” she managed, voice catching slightly.

“And to you, Miss Y/N,” he replied, his smile widening just enough to show the faintest glint of fangs. “Sleep well.”

She turned away, trying not to trip over herself in the effort to walk naturally. Her heart beat just a little too fast, though she wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or…

Click. A sudden, singular sound broke the hush. Her head snapped to the side.

From the other end of the hall, Alastor stepped into view as though peeled from the shadows themselves. The radio demon’s ever-fixed grin was in place, but there was no warmth in it, only that manic sharpness, like a blade made of teeth.

“My, my,” he drawled, voice curling through the air like smoke. “A midnight stroll with royalty, Miss Y/N? That’s rather bold of you.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he held up a hand.

“Let me spare you the effort. Don’t. Say. A word.” The cheer in his voice had gone brittle. “I do hope you’re not getting comfortable here. It’s a dangerous thing, darling, to cozy up to kings. Especially ones with hearts still rotting from grief.”

“I wasn’t—” she tried again, only for him to step closer.

“They all start with good intentions,” Alastor said, eyes glowing faintly red beneath his brim. “But everyone who gets close to Lucifer Morningstar ends up broken. Or worse.”

Y/N swallowed, unsure whether it was the words or the glint in his gaze that chilled her more.

He stepped back, his grin relaxing again into something faux-friendly. “Just a word of caution, dear. Good night now.”

With that, he disappeared, swallowed again by the shadows as easily as he'd emerged from them.

Her legs felt stiff as she walked the last few steps to her door. Once inside, she locked it, more out of instinct than fear. What did that skilamalink** of a man mean? Surely, it could not be so bad as to have a kind word or look towards the Master of the House. Of course, make no mistake, there would be no scandal. Lucifer could barely afford to even look at her that way, much less would he even be inclined to do so, plain as she was. 

The rain had begun to fall outside, a soft pattering against the tall, arched windows. Thunder rumbled far off, and in the silence of her room, it echoed and seemed to shake the very foundations of what seemed to be an immaculate manor. She undressed slowly, folding her clothes with care, trying not to let her mind spiral. A simple white nightgown seemed to match the embellishments of her housing, much to Y/N’s agreement, but just as she pulled the covers up and lay her head on the pillow, a noise reached her ears. Subtle, almost unnoticeable to anyone other than a skilled governess.

A soft creak from above. She froze, straining to listen. Did Charlie awaken and wander to the attic? Again, a sound. The faint groan of something shifting… something moving in the attic. Her heart thudded once, painfully. The one place she is forbidden to enter. But no further noise came. Only the rain, steady and indifferent, whispered across the roof like a warning.

A trick, a play of an old house on a vulnerable woman. Y/N let out a mild chuckle, eyes still shifting wearily around the confines of her room. As if the curtains might come to life and strangle her. The musings of a woman tired from travel and mingling, Y/n determined. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Tomorrow…tomorrow would make it all right. 

It was a drear and dismal evening in the city of Pride, the kind of night when the rain, in its persistent descent, seemed to gnaw at everything. Lucifer Morningstar sat alone in his study, a heavy glass of brandy cradled in one long, pale hand. Cast in white marble, adorned with dark, almost velvety oak floorboards and bearings decorated in gold leaves and feathers, and alabaster and maroon furnishing, it was a cavern of solitude for the weary ruler. The hearth crackled behind him, but he afforded it no glance; his gaze was fixed upon the long, arched window before him, and the vast city stretched below in an opulent sprawl of crimson light. It was his. All of it. Every tower forged from brimstone, every gas-lit avenue, every sound of revelry or agony that echoed through the infernal streets, his dominion, his rule. And yet…

What ailed him? What hollowness dared take root in the chest of the Morningstar? He could name it, of course—he was no stranger to truth, even when it stung like salt in a wound. Lilith. It had been a year since her absence. It was a scandal to be sure, the complete disappearance of her from Hell itself. A search party led on for about a month before it was called off and a single purple ribbon had been brought back to the manor as the sole evidence found. 

A year ought to suffice to forget, or at the very least to grow numb. And he had Charlie still, bright, foolish, impossibly earnest Charlie. But even she, in her stubbornness, could not quite drag him from the abyss of his own discontent. He had to do better. For her, if not for himself. Yet each day the manor grew colder, heavier, a mausoleum clad in marble and gold. He hadn’t even brought himself to remove the mourning curtains from every portrait of her in the house. There was barely a use for them anyhow, her gaze burned through the coverings into him. 

His thoughts turned then to the new governess, what was her name again? Ruth? No, that had been the last one. Mary? No, she had quit in tears. Perhaps… Y/N? Yes, that seemed near enough to the truth. He had barely spoken a word to her since her arrival, save for a few polite formalities at supper. She had smiled, genuinely, no less, and unlike her predecessors, had not once scolded Charlie for her peculiarities. That in itself was remarkable. Perhaps she would prove a balm to this household. A softness amidst the steel.

He even allowed her to use his rightful name, his given one! How absurd she must think he is breaking formal protocol. He had barely known her for two hours! Damned lonliness crept in his throat when he saw how she gazed at him in the dark, the candlelight doing her features some good. By no means was this new governess beautiful, he could outright admit that. But something was off, nothing wrong per se, but in the darkness, she almost looked like a dream. A woman out of a monumental still life***. 

But the stillness did not last. A sound, sharp, rhythmic. The tapping of clawed raptors upon the marble floor outside the study. Lucifer did not startle; he merely exhaled, slow and with growing irritation. He turned. The shadows by the hearth twisted, stretched, and from their centre, like a sinuous thread drawn through the eye of a needle, came Alastor. The man, if one might call such a creature that, stepped forth from the gloom with the unshakable grace of a stage actor making his final bow. His smile, a ghastly fixed thing, was already in place.

“Master,” he said, voice slick as oil, “a fine evening to drown one’s thoughts in rain and brandy, is it not?”

Lucifer did not answer at once. He sipped his drink, turned again to the window.

“You're early,” he said at last. “I summoned you for the morning.”

Alastor chuckled, a sound like bones dancing in a lacquered box. “And yet I found myself drawn here, compelled by curiosity, perhaps… or concern. The new governess?”

Lucifer’s lip curled slightly, but not in mirth. “There is. She seems… competent.”

Alastor’s grin widened—impossible though it seemed. “Competent? My, my. That is high praise, coming from you.”

“She’s kind to Charlie,” Lucifer said, more sharply. “That is what matters.”

“Of course,” Alastor drawled. He moved closer, the shadows whispering at his heels. “But tell me, do you not find it dangerous? To let someone new into the fold? Into her orbit?” He leaned closer, voice a shade quieter. “Into yours?”

Lucifer turned toward him then, eyes cold as the storm lashing the glass. “I am not so soft as to be threatened by a governess.”

“No,” Alastor replied, not backing away. “But even the softest things can wear through stone, given time.”

Lucifer did not answer. He turned back to the window, to the city that burned and shone beneath his feet, to the kingdom forged by will and wrath. And yet, as the thunder rumbled and the rain traced long trails down the glass, he felt the weight of Alastor’s words settle, bitter and steady, in his gut. Perhaps it was foolish, this hope he’d begun to nurture. This flicker of curiosity. People, in the end, always disappointed. Always betrayed. Still… she had smiled.

And perhaps, he thought, perhaps disappointment was a price worth paying for the illusion of warmth.

FOOTNOTES———————————————————————————

*Harry and Osborne = Harry and Osborne was a popular wine company in the 1890s **Skilamalink = Tricky or dishonest person ***Monumental Still Life = Typically, still lives focus on inanimate objects with no human focus, but monumental still lives or genre pieces are the exception.

The Epiphany

Alastor/2P-Alastor x AFAB!Reader

18+, NSFW, minors do not interact istg

Summary: Alastor tries to sever his feelings for you from his physical form and it has unexpected results—a blue, mirrored-reality doppelgänger of himself whose emotions and physical experiences he can still feel in his own immortal coil.

You decide to cuck him into being emotionally available.

Warnings/Promises: 🌶️ 18+, NSFW, AFAB!reader and related bits, p-in-v, oral [both m- and f-receiving], cucking, edging, tentacles used for bondage, toes the line of dub!con at first [Alastor is pissed off, but he wants it, and he's pissed off that he wants it], frustrated switch!reader, praise kink, bookended by mild angst with hints of future fluff at the end, sex-favorable asexual Alastor

A/N: Idk what came over me, enjoy x

Also on AO3 ✍️✨ | Tip Jar 🫙✨ (Ko-Fi ☕️)

Caring about the Radio Demon was a full-time job that had never been listed to the public. You simply bebopped into the hotel one day with your proverbial application in hand the second you laid eyes on him.

And, good god, you'd suffered for it ever since.

The worst stages of the entire months-long ordeal were the indecisive ones on his part. The ones that came long after the chuckling "jokes" of flirtation, the delicious tidbits of tension, and the initial realization that feelings were, in fact, being caught amidst all that. It was all fine until he decided he wanted to try to build something with you, got your hopes up, and then dashed them the second things got too real. The second he got in too deep.

The asshole tried to ghost you. When you lived in the same fucking hotel. Needless to say, it didn't work and you'd just days ago had the most explosive fight you'd ever had in any of your failed relationships. Explosive on your part because you were deeply hurt—because you still cared, you silly thing.

And explosive on Alastor's part because, well, he did, too. But you couldn't know that. No one could know that. It would ruin him.

He'd determined the only path forward—to solidify the barriers around a heart he'd refused to believe he had up until now, to maintain his image as the ruthless overlord who roamed the Pride Ring without a shred of weakness to be found—was to find a way to cut that part of himself out, either via viscerally physical means or by way of magic. There had to be a way. He'd tried everything to simply forget you and he couldn't. He was getting desperate.

Which was how your current predicament had come to be.

You stand with no shortage of confusion or shock at the end of the hall when you turn the corner and see a watery-eyed, blue-toned version of Alastor sitting outside your suite door. He stares despondently at his kneecaps, his booted hooves turned inward toward each other in a position that very much mirrors a schoolboy put in the hall for a timeout. His face is blushy—which is also blue, fascinatingly enough—and his clothes are rumpled. His shoulders sag with a confidence shortage and, most of all, he frowns at the crimson carpet.

At least until he sees you.

His ears flick back when he espies someone in the hall with him, but they perk up immediately when his eyes latch onto your face. He scrambles clumsily to his feet and then second-guesses himself, glancing backward down the hall before turning back to you. You're sure this is some kind of prank or another deer demon who might just look very much like Alastor until he says your name.

You decide to call him Blue in your head rather than Alastor. It's unoriginal, but it's less weird than calling this individual and the Radio Demon both "Alastor" in your thoughts, even if you don't dare call this version of him by any other name out loud. Just in case.

"Um… Hello," you say as you approach him, fiddling with the shopping bag you're carrying from a recently completed round of retail therapy with Angel and Cherri. "Are you okay?"

Blue hums, wringing his hands, and says in a watered-down version of Alastor's bombastic voice, "Yes! Well, no. I… I'm a bit overwhelmed, you see."

You can see that plainly on his face, but it doesn't tell you anything. "Why's that?"

He huffs a small sigh and says, "Well, darling, you see… I know you because Alastor knows you. I am, in essence, his broader range of emotions."

"Uh-huh…," you murmur, studying him. "Have you been just…missing from him all this time? Because that would explain a lot actually."

"Oh, no," he says, seeming frustrated that he's not articulating better. "I've actually just been, er, removed. And then he was quite angry at the result of, well, me and I've since been kicked out." His ears flattened as he continued to ramble. "And then he left, you see, but the door is locked and… And despite not feeling new to this place, I'm terribly new to feeling alive. It's all been quite a lot."

You decide Alastor isn't pulling some weird prank on you as you watch tears well up in his eyes, noting that even his monocle resembles a teardrop. And, well, you still love the guy, unfortunately. How are you not supposed to comfort a being that is, in essence, his softest parts?

"Hey, it's okay," you murmur, carefully placing a hand on his arm to steady him. He sucks in a breath at the contact, but instead of looking repulsed, he looks enamored. "Um… Oh! Hey, pspspspsps—"

He thinks you might've malfunctioned until he follows your gaze to a little black and white cat he knows is named KeeKee. His eyes shine with affection at the cute cyclopian creature, especially as it trots up to you and nuzzles into your hand.

"Who's a good li'l kitty?" you baby-talk to her, missing the way the blue deer demon nearby is watching you with unbridled adoration in his eyes. "Can you let Al back into his radio tower, please?"

KeeKee looks at Blue and her ear flicks back in time with her tail swishing. She clearly knows this isn't Alastor, at least not really, but she doesn't see any reason not to, apparently—she's already trotting down the hallway, their own personal, precious skeleton key, to do precisely that.

You smile after her before looking back up at Blue. "She'll let you in," you tell him with confidence.

"That's… That's very kind—thank you," he says sincerely, clasping your hand in his as if it's made of glass. He looks like he's marveling at the act of merely touching you. "I should feel better once I'm in my most familiar territory, no? When I have a place I can rest that's a bit more predictable?"

"I hope so," you say and you do hope so. He seems sweet and unbearably fragile in some ways. It's like he's experiencing existence at a rapid-fire rate for the very first time.

"Would you come with me?" he asks softly, imploringly as he runs his claws oh-so gently over your knuckles, almost petting you. "Please?"

"I think Alastor would kill us both if I did that," you say and your tone isn't without residual bitterness.

Blue shakes his head with a surprising degree of certainty. "Oh, no, he would never hurt you, dear," he insists.

Could've fooled me, you think but don't say aloud. Instead, you ask, "What makes you say that?"

"Because I'm only here due to his desire to extinguish his feelings for you," Blue says as if it's obvious.

And suddenly, you're more inclined to go with him because your questions just multiplied tenfold.

It turns out that Blue is probably being completely honest when he says that he's part of Alastor. That he knows you via that connection. He's just his genuine opposite and it's as jarring as it is refreshing.

Is that why you've ended up making out on Alastor's couch with his doppelgänger? Maybe. Look, breakups are hard—if breakups are what happens when the concept of a situationship falls apart—and the only thing that makes this a weird rebound is the full set of circumstances.

Still, it's hard to ponder that with a clear head when Blue's tongue is halfway down your throat and you've just learned that sucking his lower lip will make him bleat like a fawn. It's harder not to wonder if the same thing would theoretically happen to the whole version of Alastor.

It's only the slam of the suite door that proves enough to divert Blue's—and yours, don't put this all on him—attention from methodically consuming your mouth. When you both look over, Alastor is standing there, his smile snarled up with rage and his fists balled at his sides. His eyes ensnare Blue and he stalks forward.

"I thought I ordered you to dissipate," he seethed, his shadow tentacles writhing like a living threat on his back. "Instead you—," he began, only to hiss and shake his head at his unfinished thought. "No matter. Dear, be a doll and give us some privacy, would you?"

Your fingers clutch gently against Blue's coat and he grips you in turn, seeming less afraid of Alastor and more simply unwilling to relinquish you. "What are you going to do to him?" you ask and it's a brave thing to address Alastor in this moment.

Alastor rolls his eyes and regards you reluctantly. He can only imagine the follies this accidental duplicate has filled your head with and it's only added thorns to his already riddled side. "Nothing that ultimately matters in the grand scheme of things," he snaps. "That slip of a buck you're clinging to is barely a figment of a demon, you see."

Your brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

He scoffs. "Warm-blooded as he may seem, he is but a fragment of me. And he won't last on his own, so I'm told," he said with nothing short of relief. "I can only hope he simply disappears entirely and that my problem is solved despite some strange delays."

You supposed you were overdue to ask what Alastor's problem was, but you'd never thought the context would look like this.

"And what 'problem' is that?" you ask.

His pokerface solidifies as he assesses your expression and determines, "He hasn't told you. Good."

"No, I did," Blue claims too honestly. He looks at you, a cute tilt to his head as he says, "He desires you, dear. And, in turn, so do I. That's the whole matter of it."

Alastor's teeth grit and he brushes off Blue's claims. "Nonsense, all of it. You nee—"

"Hold on, hold on," you cut him off with a laugh. It's a harsh, breathy sound that holds nothing close to humor. "You…split your feelings from yourself? You're that scared of having a crush?"

Alastor bristles and you may have been frightened—he was lethal, after all—had you not known him just a bit better than that. Had you not also seen and heard firsthand from this strange, still-connected manifestation of his heart that he felt something for you.

But you did. And you had. And there was no going back now.

Blue clings to your arm, his large hands almost dainty as they wrap fully around your bicep. He shivers, but it is less the tension in the room and more the aftermath of your unexpected canoodling. He is shivering with desire, with anticipation as he feels your muscles tighten beneath his palms as you react to Alastor's enduring denial. He wants you to have a break from tearing into his origin so you might tear into him instead.

"Scared?" Alastor repeats, scathing. "Watch yourself, darling—you know better than most the things I do to demons who dare to cross me. You've seen it, yourself. I've regaled it to you, myself. I would be most put out if you forced my hand."

"That's not a 'no', now is it?" you boldly counter and his ears flatten against his head. Impatient, you ask, "Is that what he is then? Is he still you? Or is he his own being now?"

"A fragment, I'm afraid, as he's indicated," Blue meekly says beside you and your demeanor softens a little as you behold his wet, teary eyes. "I am an embodiment of a heartfelt craving. An affection. Something electric and impossible to keep checked. That is why I was shed."

"Hold your tongue, you abomination," Alastor growls, his eyes flashing black as the dials of his demon form tick away in place of pupils. "Not another word."

"So you're still an extension of him," you both realize and ask Blue at once. "Forever?"

Blue shakes his head. "Not forever, I don't believe so. Feelings are fleeting, although ours run deeper than we like to admit. Well, than he likes to admit." He offers you a watery smile. "I admit freely that I crave you, dear. Down to the very dregs of my origin's dead heart. Carnally, too. That is what frightens him most. The intertwined two."

"Why?" you ask, your eyes on Blue even as your question could've been asked of the room.

Blue shrugs his thin shoulders. "Power. It's a heady thing until you realize it's no longer entirely yours," he says with a soft, shaky sigh. "I have no need for power. I would ask that you take it from me before I fade. Take everything from me, dearest. Before I'm gone."

You realize what he's asking for just as Alastor snarls, "You will do no such thing." You eye him in your peripheral, watching the stressed heave of his chest and likening him to an earthly buck. "I still feel everything that little wretch feels—you will do no such thing. You will stand aside while I smite him from this realm entirely, reabsorb the essence that made him, and—"

"Can you use his powers, too?" you ask Blue in a lowered tone, eyes locking on his.

Blue furtively glances at Alastor's tantrum before nodding once.

You nod in reply, a slow contemplative motion. The gears in your head are turning.

Alastor has just taken a threatening step toward you both, his claws flexing as he sees you whisper to Blue. This feels like a coup in motion. Ordinarily, he would tear apart anyone who dared question or turn on him, no matter the reason, but he can't bring himself to destroy you. Even if it would ultimately behoove him to do so.

Blue's eyes flicker in his direction as if that aggravating recognition of his own affection has signaled its embodiment nearby. Alastor bristles at being known, even by his own self.

In the meantime, you've made a decision.

"Tie him up," you murmur.

Alastor is so shocked, his radio dials momentarily flicker out. "I beg your pardon?!"

"To the armchair," you clarify to Blue beside you, nodding to the plush velvet armchair adjacent to the fireplace. "Bring him over here and keep him in the chair."

Alastor's form ripples, but it's a vain attempt at intimidation. His own shadow tentacles have already surfaced to displace the chair and they angle the seat to knock Alastor off his hooves, extending to bind him to the chair as they settle their hostage caddycorner to the four-poster bed on the other side of the room.

He's furious.

"Release me, you cretins!" he bellows at a volume that shakes the room, his claws shredding the arms of his favorite reading chair as he struggles against his own power, against the will of his own temporarily sentient heart. "When I get out of this—and I will, I assure you—I will rend your soul apart, mark my fucking words!"

"Maybe," you say and his feral, snarling grin wavers just a little. "But it's better than the slow death you've been giving me and everything I've tried to give you for months, Al."

He scoffs at your comparison. "I assure you, darling," he seethes. "The swift death you're picturing is nothing compared to your due reality. Why, you will be lucky if you only die in my clutches." He watches as you lead Blue by the hand across the room, his gaze narrowing on the contact. "Well? Out with it. What do you want, hm? Do you wish to plead for his pathetic little non-life? Strike a deal to protect you from my eternal ire? Or—"

His ramble catches in his throat, however, as you guide Blue to sit on the edge of the bed by the footboard. He watches your hands move, something tender and yet assertive in them, as you press them against his chest, easing him onto his back.

"What are you doing?" Alastor asks, his voice uncharacteristically hollow with nerves.

"Giving you an epiphany," you say without taking your eyes off Blue as he softens against the mattress beneath you. Well, most of him softens. "Now, hush."

The tip of a tentacle slaps over Alastor's mouth at your command.

Blue only has eyes for you as you lean over him, your dextrous fingertips unfastening the buttons of his shirt as you say, "Tell me what you need, sweetie."

The doppelgänger's eyes fill with moisture, even your fingertips tracing his chest fluff through the parting fabric of his shirt making him tremble and arch against your palm.

"Shhh, you're alright," you coo softly, leaning in and kissing his forehead. Alastor winces slightly in the chair nearby as he feels the faint ghost of that pressure, the barest brush of the warmth you're providing his double. "You can tell me. What do you need? More than that, what do you want?"

"Strip me bare, dearest," Blue whimpers, a couple of overwhelmed tears streaming down his cheeks. "Down to my soul. I want to feel you everywhere. I want you to ravish me, take hold of my control so long as you please, and tell me what you need of me."

You smile, unable to help the affectionate way you look at him. The tender way you touch him. You hold the personification of Alastor's heart against your hand—and now between your thighs as you crawl onto the bed with him.

Alastor can't look away, as much as he wishes he wanted to. He follows your supple body as you loom over his double, his most sensitive traits and desires unintentionally made corporeal. Every trace of your skin against Blue's sends a fraction of that feeling tingling across Alastor's nerve endings and it's pure torture, yet it's precisely what he deserves after all this.

He's realizing that all too late.

You're diligently working Blue's clothes off his body, admiring the tufts of fur that dot his physique, softening the harder angles and wiry muscle that make up the rest. You can't wait to find out if he has a tail.

Blue's ears are flattened and trembling and there's something beautifully pliant and trusting about the sight. He's almost high on his unparalleled excitement as his eyes follow your movements.

Alastor is horrified to realize that Blue is, in fact, his exact copy in every way. And when you have Blue naked beneath you, it's akin to having Alastor lying there with just shades of fur as the sole difference. He looks away in disgust and shame at his double's rock-hard cock standing proud from the fur at his pubic bone, already purpled with neglect and weeping precum at the tip. And yet his eyes are drawn back, almost unwillingly, as you finish marveling at what you've unveiled and investigate your find instead.

"Look at you," you murmur soft praise as you admire his trembling length. "So responsive. You're already so unbearably needy for me and I've barely even touched you."

Blue's eyes tear up with embarrassment and shameless hope as he looks between his starving member and you, his only salvation. The only body Alastor, himself, has ever wanted. He keeps his hands fisted in the sheets on the bed, hungry to touch himself but not wanting to displease you. You look fascinated, tantalized by the sight of him and he can't get enough. He doesn't want to rush this. Your eyes on him and him alone is everything he's ever wanted.

A soft whine escapes Blue as you begin to disrobe, yourself, and his desire gratifies you. In the chair, Alastor's eyes are on you, too, wary and hungry and angry and laser-focused on every inch you bare.

Shed garments whisper against the floorboards as you let them fall from your fingertips until you kneel upon the mattress over Blue in your full glory. Blue's face is dusted navy with the intensity of his blush as he stares up at you, drinking you in and subsequently drunk on the sight of you. He feels uncertain of his worth in comparison, but he's willing to risk anything to deliver you to ecstasy.

He can smell your combined arousal mingling in the air around you both and his eyes roll back as you lean forward to press open-mouthed kisses along his neck and collarbones, all while keeping your core well away from where he needs you most.

Up to this point, Alastor has been able to convince himself that the stirrings he feels in his slacks are a cheap echo of his double's lust, but as he hardens at the sight of you laving the velvety expanse of a torso that, by all rights, should be his, he can no longer persist in the lie. As his own touch-starved cock twitches to life, he can't even cross his legs to ease the tension—he's bound to the arms and legs of the chair, held captive, and all he can do is watch.

He shudders as he hears your voice in his ear despite your whispers falling against the sensitive canals of his double. "You're so pretty, Al," you're whispering as you run your hands along Blue's almost ethereal body. "You're so good for me. So patient. I'll make it worth your while, I promise." His ears begin to flatten in submission, even as he tells himself it's an attempt to block out your words.

Blue hiccups a soft, whiny bleat from the bed as you let the curve of your stomach brush his throbbing member and it smears a glistening line of precum from your navel to your tits.

"Tell me what you want, my darling little buck," you murmur in Blue's ear. "Tell me what you've fantasized about. What you've dreamed about."

"I…," he murmurs breathily. "We do have one… One fantasy…"

Alastor's ears flatten completely at the betrayal.

"Tell me about it," you encourage him, noticing Alastor's silent despair in the corner of your eye. "I won't judge you. Let's see if we can make it real—does that sound good?"

"Yes," Blue half-sobs.

"Then describe it to me," you say between more kisses pressed across his chest, working your way down his abdomen. "In detail."

"W-We're coming home…sometimes from a date, sometimes from anywhere," he stammers, staring up at the red velvet canopy above him as he relishes every press of your lips to his flesh. It's hard to think with you kissing and licking him, with his cock throbbing in the cold air between your bodies, but you've asked him so nicely to share his secrets with you. What can he do but fulfill your request? "We come here…to our suite. You live here with us in the fantasy. We're rarely apart."

Your eyes soften where Blue can't see them, but Alastor can see the thoughtful, tender look on your face. It breaks something in him, to see you look like that in response to secrets never meant to be borne aloud.

"We… We dress each other down from the day," he whispers, his lashes fluttering as you run your tongue along his navel. "And we embrace, kissing each other—sometimes with us carrying you in our arms—as we make our way here. To the bed."

"I can visualize it," you say and the slightly breathless tone of your voice sends a chill up both deer demons' spines. "Keep going. You're doing wonderfully."

The praise makes his eyes well up even as he whimpers out, "We spread you out on the bed. You… You look like an angel, darling—you deserve so much better than us… We should have never—"

But you shush him gently, petting a hand along his thigh to soothe and ground him. "That's behind us, sweetheart," you tell him and Alastor as well. "We're making up for all that lost time now. What happens then?"

Alastor watches you with something unfathomable in his gaze.

"We devour you," Blue grinds out between clenched teeth, his hips jerking slightly as his pupils blow wide at the fantasy replaying before his mind's eye. "We ask you if you've ever dreamt of being tongue-fucked by the Radio Demon and, darling, the way you moan…it's pure music. We spread you out and shatter you on our tongue again and again…until you're shaking and writhing and incoherent beneath us."

You swallow against a suddenly dry throat, mesmerized by his words. By the raw emotion in them.

"And then you reciprocate… We tell you that you needn't, but you want to. You taste us and your lips wrapped around our cock is second only to your—your—"

"My cunt?" you purr and it sends a painful throb through both of them individually.

"Y-Yes," Blue breathes, his chest heaving. "And then we make love to you, dearest. As many times as you like, in whatever way you like. And then we hold you close as you rest and recharge. We keep you safe while you slumber and count the minutes until you wake and we can pleasure you all over again."

You study Blue and his fragile state as you ask, "Would you like to do that?"

His eyes widen and he leans up on his elbows. "Right now?" he whispers, his features slack with awe at the possibility.

You nod. "Right now, Al," you murmur as you crawl further up the bed, further up him. "You and me. Just like in your fantasy. Only we can make it so much better than what you've only imagined…"

Blue's eyes darken with depraved lust as he takes you in, his gaze fastening on the juncture of your thighs as he asks lowly, "May I taste you, darling?"

Alastor presses back against the chair he's bound to, his cock aching and staining a dark dot into the crotch of his slacks.

"Would you?" you request in turn, a blush staining your face.

Blue memorizes the look of the blush on your cheeks as he lies back down and, opting for boldness, reaches out to adjust you into a position over his face. "It would be my greatest honor, my darling," he murmurs, looking on the verge of a spiritual experience.

He encourages you to lower yourself just a bit further before laving a slow, hot stripe along your slit. You shiver at the contact, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as he pulls you more tightly against his mouth, gently spreading your glistening folds with careful claws and nosing against your clit as he begins to fuck you in earnest with his tongue. Its demonic length unfurls and thickens in your quivering channel, reaching far deeper than a tongue ever should—it's the epitome of sin and would have been a one-way ticket to Hell were you not already firmly there.

Alastor can taste you on his own tongue and he salivates, so focused on your slowly unraveling expression that a string of drool cascades from his thinning smile, unnoticed.

Your nerves regarding your position to the thin but eager buck beneath you fade out with your thoughts. When the first moan falls from your lips, Blue redoubles his efforts, slipping one long finger into your weeping cunt and then a second as he uses his mouth to instead suckle and lick tight relentless circles around your swollen clit. He makes a beckoning motion with those clever fingers and the terminology of "coming" has never made more sense than the exact second you start to fall apart on his fingers from it.

"That's it, my love," Blue moans against your folds, his eyes fixated on you from the vee of your thighs as he buries his mouth back into your lower lips, intensifying every effort he's made so far until you're shaking like a leaf, your hips grinding down against his mouth as you mindlessly chase your release. "Use me, love me, give me every drop of your pleasure so long as I've earned it."

You can't help but do precisely as he asks. A wanton moan escapes you as you come apart on his mouth and fingers. He eases you through it, his fingers slowing their pace but not leaving your trembling, clenching cavern. He noses into your mound and inhales deeply as his origin shivers nearby, learning secondhand precisely how delicious your musk smells post-orgasm.

Blue licks up every bit of your slick, diligently cleaning you and holding you in place until he's satisfied he's found it all. When he shifts you down to straddle his torso instead, his nose, mouth, and chin are all shiny with your pleasure and you blush at the sight.

"That was incredible, dearest," he murmurs, his claws massaging the meat of your hips like a contented cat. "You taste divine. Far better than we could've imagined."

You smile at him and lean down to kiss him deeply, a soft moan escaping you as you taste yourself on his tongue. When you finally need to breathe, you shift your lips back to the elegant column of his throat and ask, "Would you like me to tend to you now, sweetheart?"

The pitiful, silent shape of a "yes" falls from Alastor's covered mouth, every muscle in his frame straining.

"Yes," Blue says, too, before looking a little chagrinned. He adds a demure, "Please."

You almost feel badly when you work your way back down the bed and notice how many pearls of precum his needy cock had wept while he was eating you out, but you're determined to help. He seems unbothered, more or less—rather, he appears to have enjoyed seeing you through to oblivion before worrying about himself.

His hooved feet kick out a little against the footboard as you lick him root to tip, following the pulsing vein wrapped around the underside of his dick and mapping him out with your tongue. You can hear the sheets shred beneath his claws as you kiss and suck the long, thick ridge of him before getting brave enough to take him into your mouth. You gently clean the sticky, salty trails of drying precum from his velvety skin, moaning around his tip and causing a violent shudder to wrack through his limbs.

Alastor can feel the phantom heat of your mouth bobbing slowly down his clothed cock and he throws his head back against the cushioned back of the chair, his claws splintering the wood beneath them in synchronicity with his double's destruction of the bedding.

"You feel like heaven, cher," Blue whimpers, reaching a trembling hand toward your hair. He just rests his hand upon it, featherlight, as if afraid you're an illusion he's capable of shattering. You reach up and encourage him to grip your locks and the groan he rewards you with just spurs you on.

Only when he's shaking, not with anxiety but with the threat of euphoria, does he use his hold on your hair to stall your efforts. As much as he'd love for you to keep going, he doesn't know how much longer he can last at this rate and doesn't want to lose the opportunity to lay proper claim to you. He's emboldened in this time with you and it shows as he pulls your mouth slowly off his cock with a soft, wet pop.

Blue stares at you, your bruised lips and the thin thread of saliva bridging them to the tip of his cock, and he looks like he's admiring a work of art. "Exquisite," he breathes, loosening his grip on your hair and cradling your face in one large hand instead. "Absolutely breathtaking."

You blush a little as you ask, "What now?"

Something petty is roiling in Blue's chest at the very idea that Alastor has wasted so much time when this was right in front of him—in front of them when he was still part of Alastor—for the taking. It's occurred to him that his origin, his maker of sorts, will double down after this despite the absolute mess Blue knows he is internally via their connection and externally via one brief glance toward the armchair.

And he wants to ensure that before he fades and his existence's fragment returns to the whole—and it will happen, he can already feel it—that he makes it as difficult as possible for Alastor to ever forget that this happened. Call it a favor, call it revenge. Whatever it is, it's as personal as anything ever could be.

"Get on your hands and knees for me, sweetheart," Blue says in a whisper that is still sweet and even a little fragile, but now holds edges of purposeful intent. "For both of us. Face him, if you would, please."

Your blush darkens a few shades as you do as he asks, turning to face Alastor fully for the first time since you three were arguing with one another across the room. He's a mess of the proud, angry overlord he was before and you've never felt more proud of yourself or more physically confident in your misdeeds. A sheen of sweat decorates his brow and makes his shirt collar cling to his neck, wooden ribbons have curled out of the chair from beneath his claws, and then there's the unmistakable ridge of his painfully hard cock in his slacks, a dark stain seeping through the fabric from the tip.

At first, when you meet his eyes, you think he's still angry. But he's not—his stare is pure intensity and focus, a mesmerized state of debauched and desperate. He looks into your eyes and doesn't look away this time. He can't.

The legs of the chair scrape across the floor as the shadow tentacles drag it and him closer to the edge of the bed. Not nearly close enough to get any sort of collateral relief, but close enough to see even more closely and in further detail what he's missed out on. To inhale the aroma of your sweat and slick and ache even more deeply in his lower belly.

Your thighs clench as you see his cock give a pathetic twitch in his pants.

Soon enough, you feel Blue's heavy, throbbing cock nestle against your folds and your body jumps slightly at the contact before his gentle, guiding hands steady you by your hips.

"Is this alright, dear?" he asks softly behind you and it's a very shy way to ask something while someone is already bent over in front of you, unwrapped and spread open like a gift. When you nod, your breath coming in small, uneven pants, you feel him lean over you and his breath tickles the shell of your ear. "If at any point it isn't, please say so."

"I will," you say, still locked in Alastor's stare like a bird confronting a snake. No, like a snake confronting a snake. You have the upper hand here, not him. To Blue over your shoulder, you murmur, "Thank you."

"No need to thank me for that. It's simple etiquette," he says, still sounding a bit shy. He sounds far less shy as he says, "I'm going to fuck you now, darling. With all I have left in me in this form, I'm going to claim your lovely body and worship your lovelier soul. And, on the off chance he hasn't grasped the concept of what we feel yet, I want you to look him in the eyes while I do both."

You draw in a shaky breath, but you nod. "Okay."

"Good girl," Blue whispers and you feel yourself buckle under the praise, swallowing hard as you feel him rock his hips against yours and lubricate his cock with your slick. You shudder as he stimulates your already overstimulated cunt, but he runs a gentle hand over the curved length of your spine to reassure you. His stroking hand settles against the nape of your neck as he says, "You're going to take me so well, sweetheart. Remember, eyes on him."

"I remember," you whimper, leaning your head back against his hand.

"That's my good girl," Blue praises you again as he begins to push his thick cock inside you, inch by precious inch.

Your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open at the feeling of being so perfectly stretched, so incomparably full. Alastor watches you take his cock while his cock still weeps, unattended, in his trousers, practically throbbing with desperation as he witnesses you unraveling all over again.

You whimper and Blue groans as he fully seats himself inside you to the hilt with a pratical snap of his hips on the final few inches, his balls settling against your clit. You grip the bedspread like a lifeline as he slowly begins to roll his hips again, building a slow, sensual rhythm that makes you salivate and melt down against the mattress in a reverent bow.

"That's it, darling," Blue moans, adjusting his hand from your nape to tangle in your scalp when you're in danger of hiding your expressive face from Alastor's unwavering stare, his eyes a storm of envious agony at the mere sight of you speared on his doppelgänger's prick. "Show him how good he feels inside you. Show him what he's squandered, sweetheart."

Blue's thrusts become a little harder, a little faster as he speaks and you mewl in response, the sound going straight to Alastor's straining erection like a jolt of electricity. His hips buck against his restraints, once and harshly, as a muffled groan finally falls from his covered mouth.

Hazy-eyed, you look up at Alastor and note the knitted pain in his brow, the redness in his cheeks, the wild wanton desperation in his eyes that look on the cusp of watering.

"What do you think, my dear?" Blue grits as he continues stirring your insides with every purposeful pistoning of his hips. "Should we free one of his hands? Let him touch himself while we finish what we started?"

Sympathy sparks in the dopamine-fog of your eyes and you nod, a moan ripped from your throat as Blue angles his hips and finds that sensitive, spongy spot inside you that makes you see stars.

The tentacle holding Alastor's right hand recedes and he's immediate to rip his trousers open, freeing his red, angry cock from his pants and pumping it with his hand. First quick and with desperation and then, gradually, matching the pace at which Blue is pumping into you. A shuddering breath eases from his nose as his eyes roll back with relief—only briefly before refocusing on you.

Your eyes shift between Alastor's hand wrapped around his twitching length and his face as Blue works you into a flustered, babbling, cock-drunk mess before him. You feel yourself clench down around him, your walls fluttering and his resulting sharp gasp.

"A-Al, I'm…," you whimper out as Blue rocks you back by his hold on your hair and his hand gripping your hip to bounce on his cock. "I'm close… I'm so close…"

"I know, sweet girl," Blue grits, holding himself off as long as he could in spite of the way your channel squeezes and tries to milk his length. "Come for me, dearest… I'll catch you, you'll be alright."

Your glistening, swollen pussy spasms around his cock and you scream his name—their name—as you fall apart, his hands the only support you're able to afford as your body goes boneless in his grasp. He chases his own release, his rhythm getting quick and sloppy as he fucks you in earnest and Alastor sits before you, gripping and pumping his own cock at a pace that borders on violence.

As Blue is on the cusp of his release, he looks at Alastor, something feral in his eyes as he mouths, "Don't waste this, too," and Alastor doesn't entirely understand what that's supposed to mean until his double fades from existence and the tentacles holding him down to the chair finally recede in full.

And it's a good thing they do—he's just in time to catch your weakened, thoroughly sated body before you slip off the bed.

You startle a little at the sudden emptiness inside you, at the change of hands touching you, and you feel a pang of loss when you glance back and see that Blue is, in fact, gone, as he suspected he would be soon. You knew it would be temporary, but it still fills you with a sort of loss to know the demon you were just so enraptured with in the throes of passion is simply gone now. Rather, he's part of Alastor again, but there's no guarantee that Alastor has changed his mind past your little "show."

A soft sigh passes through your lips as you look up at Alastor, who still holds you under your arms until your hands find purchase on the bed again. His grip eases once you do, but he doesn't remove it—rather you feel the very tip of a claw trace across your forehead, smoothing away the hairs that cling to the layer of sweat on your skin.

He looks abashed, or at least a touch guilty, as he returns your stare. Perhaps embarrassed. You're both disheveled and far more nude than your bodies could account for—your clothes may be gone, but the walls around his heart have been cracked enough to peer through. You've seen him in the most visceral way possible, he thinks, and he's not sure how to feel about it yet.

Still, he takes in the fucked-out, delicate state of you with mixed appreciation and concern. And he clears his throat, tucks his still-hard cock away in his trousers, and stands on shaky legs with the taste of you still lingering on his tongue to stalk away to the en suite.

You hold back tears when he leaves without a word. It feels almost worse than his anger of earlier, than any sort of death threat he could've drummed up for your audacious actions. You pull your knees to your chest, trying to sort through your delirium and the encroaching shame until Alastor's stained maroon slacks reappear in your vision.

When you look up at him, he looks torn but he doesn't avert his eyes to hide that from you. Softly, almost tenderly, he says, "I've drawn a bath… I imagine you could use it, dear, after…well. Would you care for it?"

It's better than any apology he could've given although he will give an apology once his head's a bit clearer. He'll apologize a few times over, in fact, before he's forgiven himself, which is well after you will have forgiven him. But neither of you will be surprised by this discrepancy.

"Thank you," you murmur, cautiously uncurling your legs from your chest and wondering if you'll be able to stand just yet.

It doesn't end up mattering because Alastor carefully scoops you up from the disaster that is his sheets and bedspread and carries you to the steamy bathroom. He settles your spent body into the tub and the warm water immediately begins soothing the knots in your muscles. The air contains the faint aroma of lavender oil.

"You needn't look so sad, dear," Alastor says suddenly in a lowered tone. You glance at him and he's leaning against the counter, watching you mope. "You look like someone's just met their second death."

"Didn't he?" you murmur as you smooth the water up over yourself, settling back against the side of the tub to better sink into the hot water.

"Not precisely," Alastor said with a rumbling sigh, coming down to sit on the floor beside the tub. He sits with his back to you, respectfully giving you privacy despite seeing you in your entirety and for more than just the trip to the en suite. "Merely part of me again, as I suppose it—he—always should have been. It was foolish to attempt what I did, but I was scraping for solutions."

You feel a bit silly for grieving a fragment of the man who still sits, very much alive, beside you, but it was a complicated situation even before the intimate tryst you shared. Now, in the aftermath, Blue is gone and Alastor seems thoughtful and uncharacteristically quiet, but still detached. You're where you were before again, just with more hopes dashed now than when you started.

"He still exists as part of me. Unchanged. For whatever that might be worth to you."

You freeze, but turn a glance toward Alastor. He's turned his head just enough to watch you in his periphery, his eyes careful but with something tender in them just beneath the surface. It's a more complicated glance than you've ever seen, something with layers on layers that are all at war with one another. He's fighting himself so much, of course he would be overwhelmed with needing to fight you, too. It's a strange concept and it feels like you're making excuses for him. And maybe you are.

But the fact is that caring for Alastor remains an unlisted position. And no one—not one soul in this hellscape, especially not now—is more qualified than you.

Book 5 au where everything’s the same except Yuu interrupts Neige like Kanye did Taylor Swift at the Vma awards

Young love~

Vox vs. gossip-

Lilia doodle bcs i feel happy lately

Wedding ID, i'm still working on Noir's :⁠-⁠P

I wanted to make something like a centipede on his tail

Romance Dialogue Starters

Tender / Confessional Moments

"Come here. Just for a minute."

"You don’t have to be strong all the time."

"Stay. Please, just stay."

"You make me feel safe. That’s terrifying."

"I missed you so much it hurt."

"When I’m with you, I forget to be afraid."

"Is it okay if I hold your hand?"

"You’re not a burden. You never were."

"I wish I’d met you sooner."

"You’re my favorite ‘what if.’"

Protective/Overprotective Behavior

"Where were you? I’ve been calling for hours."

"You could’ve died, you idiot."

"Don’t ever scare me like that again."

"Next time, I’m going with you. No arguments."

"You’re hurt. Let me see."

"I’m not letting you do this alone."

"Overreacting? You bled through your shirt!"

"You think I care what they say? I care about you."

"If anything happens to you, I’ll burn the whole damn world down."

Conflicted Longing

"If I kiss you now, I won’t be able to stop."

"We can’t do this." – "Then don’t look at me like that."

"You’re the last person I should want."

"Tell me to go, and I will."

"I want to hate you. But I don’t."

"This changes everything."

"Just tonight. Just this once."

"You’re always in my head. I hate it."

"You deserve better. But I’m selfish."

20 Lies Your Character Believes

(These can shape their behavior, choices, and arcs... until they’re forced to confront them.)

✧ I’m hard to love.

✧ If I don’t succeed, I’m worthless.

✧ People only stick around if I earn them.

✧ If I show weakness, I’ll be left behind.

✧ Everyone eventually leaves.

✧ I’m just like my father/mother—and that’s a bad thing.

✧ I’m too broken to fix.

✧ Happiness isn’t meant for people like me.

✧ The worst thing I ever did defines me forever.

✧ If I’m not useful, I’m disposable.

✧ My anger is dangerous. I have to bury it.

✧ If people really knew me, they’d leave.

✧ I don’t deserve forgiveness.

✧ Love is weakness.

✧ Control is safety.

✧ I can fix everyone else but not myself.

✧ I owe it to them to suffer.

✧ If I rest, I’ll fall apart.

✧ Hope is a trap.

✧ This is the best version of me they’ll ever get.

Signs a Character Is Falling in Love

ෆ They Start Noticing the Small Things. The way the other person laughs. How they stir their coffee. The exact shape of their handwriting.

ෆ Hyper-Awareness of Touch. A brush of fingers becomes a full-body event. They replay it later. On loop.

ෆ They Look for Them First in a Room. Just a glance. A check. Not because they care. Obviously.

ෆ Jealousy They Can’t Explain. A spike of irritation when someone else makes them laugh. What’s that about? They don’t want to know.

ෆ Their Defenses Go Weird. More sarcasm. More teasing. Or less of everything. Silence, suddenly.

ෆ Uncharacteristic Generosity. Lending a book. Making a playlist. Bringing coffee “just because.” They’re not in love. They’re just nice.

ෆ They Get Irritated by Their Own Reactions. Why do they care so much? Why are they thinking about this? Why won’t it stop?

ෆ They Start Mirroring. Their speech patterns shift. Their posture echoes the other person. It’s subconscious. It’s terrifying.

ෆ They Avoid Eye Contact More Than Usual. Because they’re afraid if they look too long, the truth will pour out.

ෆ They Rehearse Conversations in Their Head. Over and over, what they could say, what they wish they said. They’re not in love. Nope. Definitely not.

this goes so hard

Ways I Show a Character Is Deeply in Love (and Doesn’t Realize It Yet)

Falling in love doesn’t always come with violins and kissing in the rain. Sometimes it looks like, “Why do I know their coffee order, favorite pen, and dog’s birthday?”

They remember everything. Not because they’re trying to flirt. Just because their brain decided, “This person’s data is important now.”

They get annoyed by other people talking to them. Why are you laughing at their joke? He’s not even funny.

They show up. For dumb things. Things they wouldn’t normally care about. Your cat’s vet appointment? They’re there.

Their body reacts before they do. Smiling before their brain catches up. Leaning closer without realizing. Looking at their mouth while they talk. Oops.

They pretend they’re just "helping out." You know. Just being a good friend. A good friend who stares at your texts like they’re holy scripture.

They get flustered when the other person flirts with anyone else. “I’m not jealous. I just… think they deserve better. Like someone emotionally mature. Who knows their coffee order. Who… wears this hoodie. Okay bye.”

They panic when the other person gets too close. Not because they’re scared of them. Because they’re scared of how much they care.

May I have your hand, my lady?

I think I'm developing a crush on Lilia drawn in your style send help ;-;

He just looks sooooo dksbskbsjdvdjbdlsn I can't find the words

Anywayyyy what would happen if Little Silver gets turned into a child (I just saw the follow up to the baby dragon malleus post and I got inspired) would the Diasomnia family take care of him alone or would the other cast members join in ?

Get yourself a man that can do both.

As for the second part, I actually got asked about that a little while back. I've been thinking about expanding on it a bit, but distractions happen.

Lease and Let Die || Lilia Vanrouge

You needed a roommate. You got Lilia Vanrouge. He’s upside down on your ceiling, burns every meal, might be immortal—and weirdly? He’s perfect.

You’ve hit rock bottom. Not the dramatic, movie kind—no, this is the quiet, pathetic kind where your roommate runs off to “find themselves” in a polycule commune and leaves you with the full rent and a fridge that smells like betrayal.

Running on three hours of sleep, gas station muffins, and a caffeine tolerance that borders on war crime, you post the most honest roommate ad you can manage:

“Please, just pay rent on time and don’t leave knives in the sink. Or summoning circles. I’m tired.”

Five minutes later, your phone pings.

“I’ve never missed rent, my knives are ceremonial, and I haven’t summoned a proper demon in decades. When do I move in? —L.V.”

You blink at your phone. You reread the message. You decide it’s probably fine.

Twenty-four hours later, Lilia Vanrouge shows up at your door.

He’s wearing a leather jacket, eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass, and a smile like he knows exactly how you’re going to die—and thinks it’s kind of cute.

“You must be my new roommate!” he chirps, setting down a suitcase that audibly hums.

You nod slowly, brain buffering. “Are you... bringing more stuff?”

“Oh, no,” he says, cheerfully. “Just this. And the coffin.”

“The what—”

But he’s already inside, complimenting your curtains and asking where the nearest leyline convergence is.

You stare blankly. Somewhere in the apartment, the Wi-Fi cuts out.

You have no idea what the hell you just signed up for.

But at least he promised that he does his own dishes.

It started off sweet. Really, it did.

You had late evening classes three times a week and by the time you trudged across campus toward home, the only light came from flickering streetlamps and your phone screen at 3% battery.

One night, as you packed your things into your bag, Lilia appeared beside you like a helpful poltergeist.

“I’ll walk you home,” he said cheerfully, slinging your bag over his shoulder before you could argue.

Your first reaction? Touched. Emotional. Betrayed by your own sentimentality. Because nobody had ever said anything that nice to you on this hell-washed campus. Not your professors, not your classmates, not even your overpriced coffee machine, which had begun growling whenever you approached.

You looked at him with stars in your eyes and said, “That’s… really kind. Thank you.”

He shrugged, the picture of casual coolness, if casual coolness was wearing a floor-length black cloak and bat earrings. “The darkness listens better when I’m near.”

And that was when the stars in your eyes shriveled and died.

You blinked. “I’m sorry, the what?”

“The darkness,” he said, like this was self-explanatory. “It whispers sometimes. And when I’m around, it’s polite about it.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Reopened it. “And… that’s supposed to be comforting?”

“It means I’ll hear if anything wants to drag you into an abyss. I can bargain with those.” He beamed at you. “Some of them owe me favors.”

You stared at the sidewalk as you walked. You were no longer sure if this was a sweet gesture or a prelude to demonic possession.

At one point, a crow landed on a lamppost and screamed. Lilia tilted his head and murmured something in a language you didn’t know, and the crow just nodded and flew away.

You weren’t sure if you should feel safer.

“Lilia,” you said cautiously, “do I need to be worried?”

He laughed, delighted. “Oh, no! You’re not a threat to the veil between realms. Not yet.”

You did not like the word yet. Not one bit.

Still… you made it home. Your front door was mysteriously unlocked (Lilia claimed the house “let him in”), the kitchen light had fixed itself, and your dying plant had perked up. So maybe walking home with your roommate wasn’t the worst idea in the world.

You just had to make peace with the fact that the shadows sometimes waved at him.

And that he waved back.

You were dying. There was no other way to describe it.

The dining table was a battlefield: open textbooks stacked like defensive walls, notes scattered like fallen soldiers, and a graveyard of empty mugs bearing silent witness to your descent into academic hell. Your eye twitched. The caffeine was doing nothing. You were 84% sure your soul had left your body three hours ago. The only thing keeping your bones upright was spite.

“I swear to every cruel god out there,” you muttered, “if I don’t pass this exam, I’m just gonna lay down in the student union and let the crushing weight of debt take me.”

From the couch—where he had been laying upside down like an actual bat for the past twenty minutes—Lilia made a thoughtful noise.

“Do you require reinforcements? A siege beast, perhaps? I have a minor distraction spell that summons a screaming goat—”

“I need silence,” you hissed, snapping your highlighter in half with the ferocity of a person pushed beyond reason.

“Oh,” he said, far too delighted. “Say no more.”

He snapped his fingers.

There was a pop and then—nothing. Utter, blissful, terrifying silence. You blinked. The world was muffled in a sparkling purple haze. It was like someone had wrapped your brain in a pillow and told all your problems to go wait outside.

You got two pages of notes done before the smell hit you.

Burnt.

Burning.

Popcorn?

You looked up just in time to see a column of smoke trailing lazily from the kitchen.

You screamed. You didn’t hear it.

Lilia waved at you cheerfully from inside the fire alarm’s muted chaos.

You were too tired to cry and too caffeinated to blink. The popcorn was ruined, the fire alarm had only just stopped shrieking, and Lilia was poking at the charred remains in the microwave like it was a curious new species.

"I thought I had it set to two minutes," he said cheerfully, as if the kitchen wasn’t filled with smoke and the smell of scorched sadness.

“You set it to twenty,” you croaked, pointing accusingly at the still-blinking numbers. “Twenty minutes, Lilia.”

“Ah. So that’s what the little zeroes were for.” He turned around, beaming like a deranged warlock. “Good news is—I know just the thing to cheer you up.”

“No,” you said immediately. “Lilia, no.”

But it was already too late. He clapped his hands once, a ripple of eldritch magic shimmered through the air, and with a flash of light and a small puff of brimstone, something appeared.

Stanley, the goat.

He stood in the middle of your scorched kitchen. Just… stood there. He had little beady eyes, unimpressed with this plane of existence. A single bell jingled around his neck like it was mocking you personally.

And then he screamed.

It was the sound of every due date you’d missed, every essay you’d written at 3 a.m., every existential panic you’d had at the grocery store over the rising price of cheese. It was a scream that echoed through your soul and possibly opened a portal to another realm for a second.

Stanley screamed again. Lilia clapped, delighted.

“He’s motivated troops into battle before,” he said proudly. “And one time, a wedding.”

You stared at the ceiling. “I am going to be arrested. They’re going to cite you as the reason and the judge will nod solemnly because they’ll get it.”

Stanley climbed onto the counter and knocked over your last mug of coffee.

Lilia looked at you with the serene calm of someone who has caused kingdoms to fall. “Would you like me to summon Stanley’s cousin? Her name is Beatrice.”

You sank to the floor. “I just wanted popcorn.”

Stanley screamed.

It starts innocently. A Tuesday. You’re behind on three assignments, your laundry smells like something died in it (possibly your GPA), and Lilia is humming in the kitchen while making (very burnt) eggs in a suspiciously perfect spiral. Nothing unusual.

Until you open your history textbook.

You're scanning for bullet points—just enough to fake engagement during tomorrow’s class—and then you see it.

The name.

Lilia Vanrouge. Underlined. Bolded. In a war tactics section titled "Unconventional Victory: The Northern Siege and the General Who Outsmarted Death."

There’s even a sketched portrait. It’s him. Smirking like he knows something you don’t. Which is probably true.

You sit there for a moment, staring at the page, then at the kitchen doorway. Then back at the page.

Then you scream.

Lilia pokes his head in. “What’s wrong? Ghost in the textbook?”

“You’re in the textbook!” you shout, holding it up like it might exorcise him.

He blinks at it, tilts his head. “Oh. That one. I told them not to use that portrait, it’s terribly outdated. My cheekbones are much sharper now.”

“YOU’RE A WAR GENERAL.”

He grins. “Was. Ages ago. The title’s more of a... dusty old accessory now.”

You pace. “I’ve been yelling at you about buying sugary cereal for weeks.”

“You called me a ‘coward of capitalism.’” He sounds fond. “It was very compelling.”

“I made you split a bag of off-brand marshmallows with me because I couldn’t afford dinner.”

He beams. “It was charming! Very wartime spirit of you.”

You throw yourself face-first into your pillow and scream until the pillow gives up.

“I didn’t think you’d care for old titles.”

“I care that you’re in a textbook!”

He sits beside you, offering the plate. “I also invented this egg spiral. There’s a footnote about it in Chapter Seven.”

You consider the egg. You consider your life.

And then you accept the plate. Because apparently you’re living with a retired war general who hoards cereal and hums lullabies in ancient dialects.

And somehow, this still isn’t the weirdest week you’ve had.

You don’t ask him seriously at first. It’s a joke—half a groan, half a petty fantasy as you drag yourself home from another night class, your arms sore from carrying too many books and your pride bruised from yet another “spirited” discussion with your favorite nemesis: Professor Drywall Brain.

“I swear to the gods, Lilia,” you mutter as you slam the door behind you, “if that man says ‘technically that isn’t historically accurate’ one more time, I’m going to scream in four different languages. Loudly. In his office. While holding a tambourine.”

Lilia, sprawled upside-down on the couch in his usual dramatic corpse pose, peeks open one eye. “Want me to come with you next time?”

You laugh. “God, imagine. You in class with me. You’d eat him alive.”

But the next time your professor interrupts you for the third time in one sentence to cite a source he co-wrote with his own ego, something in you snaps.

Lilia shows up twenty minutes early the next class.

He’s wearing:

• A sparkly lavender Hello Kitty hoodie.

• Black platform boots that make him almost legally too powerful.

• A “#1 Gamer Granddad” hat, slightly crooked.

• A notebook. A very serious notebook. Labeled in bold marker: “HUMAN RITUALS (vol. I)”

You blink. “...This isn’t what I meant when I said ‘scare him.’”

“Too much?” he asks innocently, spinning the hat backwards like this is a very niche sitcom. “I can lose the boots.”

“No. Keep them. I want them burned into his memory.”

He does sit in on class. The professor, clearly confused but trying to be professional, asks who he is.

Lilia doesn’t answer with his name. He just smiles and says, “Observer of mortal wisdom,” and opens his notebook like he’s ready to witness a natural disaster.

Every time the professor says something snide or borderline wrong, Lilia makes a show of scribbling a note with an expression of mild horror. At one point he even raises a hand—a single gloved finger, dainty as sin—and asks if “contradicting published data is part of the mortal learning experience.”

By the end of the class, your professor looks like he’s aged six years.

On the walk home, Lilia loops his arm through yours and hums. “That was very educational. I should attend more.”

“Please don’t,” you whisper, though you’re also grinning. “You’re going to get me expelled.”

“Not if I become the dean first,” he says cheerfully.

You don’t know if he’s joking. You don’t ask.

You just feel very safe walking home that nihgt.

The day your professor emailed your grade, you were still deep in the throes of post-group-project resentment. You hadn’t slept. Your eye had developed a twitch. You’d seen God briefly while editing the final slide deck at 3AM and He told you to log off. You didn’t.

You were still thinking about it. Sitting on the kitchen floor in socks that did not match, eating cold instant ramen with a fork because all the chopsticks had mysteriously disappeared (you suspect Lilia), and rereading your group’s submission like it was a cursed tome. Because somehow, somehow, it was… good?

Like disturbingly good.

It started normal. Blah blah, feudal kingdoms, blah blah, agricultural collapse—but halfway through, it got weirdly intense. The writing shifted from standard student filler to vivid descriptions of battlefield strategy and personal loss. There were diary entries from a dying soldier. Quotes like:

“The horses screamed louder than the men.”

Who wrote that?

You didn’t write that.

Your groupmates definitely didn’t write that—one of them tried to cite Wikipedia by just linking it in the footnotes and calling it a day.

And then you saw it. On the last page, listed under "Additional Resources":

• Blood-Soaked Memoirs, Vol. II

• War and Tea: Reflections of a Veteran General

• Me (I Was There), by L.V.

You stared at the screen.

Then you turned slowly—so slowly—to face the upside-down body perched on your living room ceiling like a decorative gargoyle.

“Lilia,” you said, voice trembling, “did you write my paper?”

He flipped mid-air and landed soundlessly, mug of tea in hand, wearing his fuzzy bat slippers and a shirt that said Don’t Talk To Me Until I’ve Had My Potion.

“Of course I did,” he said cheerfully. “I couldn’t just let you hand in that disaster your groupmates conjured. I’d seen more structure in a battlefield charge made by drunk goblins.”

You blinked. “You used actual war stories.”

“Well, I was there."

“YOU CITED YOURSELF.”

“And they say self-reflection is dead.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m going to get expelled for plagiarism from a guy who fought in the Demon Rebellion of 1043.”

He patted your head. “Nonsense. I am the primary source.”

You screamed. The fire alarm went off again. Lilia casually waved away the smoke from your scorched popcorn and floated back to the ceiling.

You got an A+.

You never looked your professor in the eyes again.

The ramen’s cold. You’re sitting on the linoleum like you’ve lost all connection to chairs and dignity. Your laptop screen glows ominously from the counter, blinking with the cheerful menace of “Project Scores Available Now!” and you, a coward, have chosen denial.

It’s not dramatic. It’s survival.

You twirl a limp noodle around your fork and sigh like a Victorian widow. “If I fail this class, I’m going to live in a bog.”

From above, something shifts. A soft creak. You don’t even flinch anymore.

Lilia is upside down on your kitchen ceiling, arms crossed like a sleeping bat, hair dangling like he styled it specifically for zero gravity. His eyes are glowing just slightly in the dim light of the fridge. His entire posture says: I live here. Get used to it.

“You’ll be fine,” he says in that lilting tone of someone who has definitely hexed a registrar before.

You stare at him and jab your fork in his general direction. “Are you here to flirt with me or drink my blood?”

A beat.

“Yes,” he says, all teeth.

You shovel another bite of ramen into your mouth because honestly? Sounds great either way.

He drifts down from the ceiling a moment later, floating like an unsettling balloon and landing in a crouch beside you.

“You know,” he murmurs, peering into your bowl, “when I was in training, we had to fight actual hydras for credit. These grades mean nothing.”

“Yeah, well,” you grumble, “I’m fighting for my life against microwave deadlines and soul-crushing group projects.”

Lilia hums thoughtfully. “Still might be harder than the hydras.”

You blink at him. “...Really?”

“No,” he says sweetly. “But I am proud of you.”

And somehow, the noodles taste a little better after that.

It’s late. The kind of late where everything is quiet, the hum of the fridge is loud, and the streetlights cast long, sleepy shadows through the kitchen window. You’re both where you usually end up—on the floor, cross-legged, surrounded by mismatched mugs and half-eaten snacks, your laptop forgotten somewhere under a throw blanket.

You don’t know why you ask it. Maybe it’s the way he brewed your favorite tea without you asking. Maybe it’s the way he always waits until your shoulders slump before he starts playing that dumb, soothing lo-fi playlist. Maybe it’s just… him.

“Why are you so nice to me?” you ask.

Lilia doesn’t answer right away. He tilts his head, as if tasting the weight of your question in the air. His expression softens—not his usual mischievous grin or teasing smirk, but something quieter. Something old.

“Because,” he says, voice low, “I once led a thousand men into war for less than a kind word.”

He looks at you then, and it feels like the air stills.

“And you give them to me freely.”

“I was never quite friend. Never quite equal. Not really.”

His voice doesn’t change, but your heart lurches anyway.

“But you—” He finally glances down at you, eyes glowing faint in the dark kitchen light. “You argue with me about cereal. You yell at me to do the dishes. You make me playlists.”

He grins, crooked and fond. “You treat me like a person.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Not even a joke. Not even a deflection.

You blink too fast. You pretend it’s dust in your eye. You laugh like it’s a silly thing to say, like your throat isn’t tight and your chest isn’t aching in that strange, warm way he always brings.

He doesn’t call you out on it. He just passes you a cookie shaped like a bat and starts humming a song you don’t know but wish you did.

You think you’re in trouble.

You also think you don’t mind.

You burst through the front door like you’ve been launched from a cannon, nearly trip on your own shoes, and absolutely yeet your bag across the living room.

Lilia, as always, is committing war crimes in the kitchen. The smoke alarm gave up trying weeks ago. Today’s offense appears to be something that was probably lasagna and is now definitely a smoldering, unidentifiable cube.

He turns, oven mitts on both hands, looking entirely unbothered. “Oh? What’s got you bouncing around like a forest sprite on sugar?”

You can’t speak. You’re too giddy, too high on disbelief and the distinct buzz of miracle. You just hold up your phone, the grades page glowing like divine scripture.

“I PASSED!” you shout, already halfway into a hop.

He blinks. “All of them?”

You nod, borderline feral. “All of them. Even Philosophy, which I wrote the final paper on the wrong philosopher. The wrong century, even!”

Lilia sets down the scorched tray. “Ah. So the blessings worked.”

You freeze. Narrow your eyes. “What blessings?”

He smiles innocently. “Who’s to say? Perhaps the stars aligned. Perhaps the registrar owes me a favor. Perhaps I made a quiet appeal to an ancient power.”

“You hexed my finals.”

“I charmed your finals.”

You don’t care. You really, really don’t care. The stress is finally gone. Your body is light, your soul is free, and for the first time since this bizarre roommate-summoning-covenant began, you feel at ease.

So you cross the room in a few strides, grin so wide it nearly splits your face, and kiss him.

It’s impulsive. Honest. Stupid. Exactly right.

He hums, surprised but pleased, and kisses you back—tasting faintly of burned tomato sauce and centuries of mischief.

You pull away breathless, blinking. “I mean—uh—thank you?”

He chuckles, touching your cheek with one (still oven-mitted) hand. “You’re welcome, dearest.”

The lasagna is absolutely inedible, but you eat it anyway.

With him, even burnt food tastes like victory.

The kitchen floor is cold, the overhead light is buzzing ominously, and there’s a suspiciously damp dish towel under your back, but you’re too tired to care. Finals are over. The semester’s been crushed beneath your heel like a can of off-brand energy drink. Lilia’s lying beside you, arms folded behind his head, legs kicked up like he’s cloud-gazing instead of staring at the slightly water-stained ceiling.

There’s a half-eaten sleeve of cookies on your chest. You’re not sure who put it there. You’ve been eating them slowly, like a grazing animal trying to forget it exists.

You sigh. He sighs louder, out of sheer competition. You elbow him, he laughs. The fridge hums like it’s sharing in the moment.

Then, because it feels right—or at least stupid in the exact right way—you turn your head and say, “Hey, Lilia. Wanna get married?”

There’s a beat. Maybe two.

“Yup,” he says, cheerful as anything. “Let’s do it. Right now? I can carve the rings. I’ve got bone.”

You blink.

He smiles.

You blink again. “I was joking.”

“I wasn’t.”

Silence.

“Wait—bone?”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “What, you think I don’t have crafting materials?”

You stare at him. He stares right back, unblinking, until you crack up so hard the cookie sleeve falls off your chest and crumbles into sad little crumbs on the tile.

“Gods, you’re insane,” you wheeze, wiping your eyes.

He grins, fangs showing. “Only for you, spouse.”

You cover your face, but you're smiling like an idiot. Because even if he's joking—and you're not entirely sure he is—there’s a warmth in your chest that doesn’t feel like just cookie crumbs and post-finals exhaustion.

You’re doomed. You’re in love. And apparently, you’re engaged now.

Masterlist

"someone save me from this university" - me as i wrote this. (also was written very very high on caffeine and stress so i'm sorry for the extreme chaos)

Sly luci,always flirting

Old-Fashioned themed Vil schoenheit ✨💜

Yippie I'm finally done :D

My first twst animatic

👾👾👾

Omg this dress! That caplet/sleeve combo! 😍

'sorelle fontana evening ensemble, 1954, worn by ava gardner in "the barefoot contessa"' in high style: masterworks from the brooklyn museum costume collection at the metropolitan museum of art - jan glier reeder (2010)

🇨🇳

x

For this sketch, I decided to do Lilia Vanrouge from twst

doing Quick sketches might help me improve my drawing so that's what I'll be doing since school has been hectic. it's for me to improve if I want to do commissions in the future! ^^

where am i

my sketch for "Twisted Wonderland sketch!ZINE"

Consider: Alastor in-a-rut trope but because he's Ace it has a different effect on him than it would others. In short: he just gets super duper cuddly. Like. constant hugs and snuggles. Sucks to be you if you're his partner and you had plans. You don't anymore. Now you're snuggling. Congrats

“Tell me, do you always stare this long… or am I just special?”

Based on this: