Hi! I'm Fang, a fanfiction writer currently mostly into otome games, with the ones in the masterlist bellow being the main ones
Tag List:
If you want to be tagged to future writings of any fandom bellow, reply to this post or message me with at least the fandom you would want to be tagged for, and any other specification ou want to add.
if you can tell, I WENT ALL OUT ON SCORPIO’S DESIGN. This sketch took me about two hours to make. Again, his armor is based on his true god form. For a weapon, I give him a scythe~! My heart has a soft spot for Scorpio, I absolutely adore him. :3
note: that’s not fire he’s holding in his right hand. just… awesome godly power lmao
A/N: I know they would probably all like giving, but these three in particular give me the vibe that they love giving it so much that receiving it barely does anything for them anymore😵💫
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Vincent
...Have we ever seen the 4th birthday CG?
We know what he is.
He does it entirely for her pleasure though, because it fascinates him to see her in such a state. Especially from beneath her.
So when he asks her to sit on his face, he says it with that beautiful view in mind. Its enough to drive a man to his knees.
He'll settle her bare self on his chest and patiently quiet her concerns regarding whether he will be able to breathe or not. He just wants her on him.
Once she is hovering over him, his tongue flicks out to tease her before his hands tug her down to take her seat and let him work his magic.
His sky blue eyes never leave her as she arches and moans and cries out above him. Watching every reaction and committing it to memory.
What she likes, what she doesn't like, what gets the bigger reactions out of her. He doesn't miss a thing.
The scent, the sound and feel of her around his head makes his mind cloud in all the most lascivious ways. It reaches into something distinctly male within him, the something that only wants his lover, this masterpiece of womanhood, to be one with him.
He fondly caresses her thighs, her abdomen and under her breasts every time she finishes, his touch soothing and caring as she trembles and whines.
He very quickly gets addicted to this and when she starts remove herself, he grips her hips to keep her there.
"Stay..."
His low voice was almost inaudible, but steady, sure as she gapes down at him, shaking and mewling from the high she just came off of.
"Vin...cent, are you sure...? Aren't you tired...?"
The corner of his mouth lifts into the beginnings of the serene smile he is so well known for, yet that shadow of desire remains in his eyes, clear as day despite the storm it creates within the sky blue.
"I'm not. Not of you. Never of you."
He slowly coaxes her hips down, her thighs heating against his jaw as he repeats his earnest, lewd request.
"Please...stay."
He tugs her back down to guide her into another wave of ecstasy.
He would paint her, put this image to a canvas, but he fidgets at the idea that someone may come across it and see her like this.
No, he will keep this one in his head while her legs are wrapped around it.
Charles
One of the first ever CGs of Charles involves him on his knees at MC's feet licking her foot.
...Exposed himself so soon.
Y/N best clear her schedule, because whatever plans she may have had are to be abandoned and forgotten.
Charles has no shame, he will get on his knees and plead with her to let him taste her, to let him please her like only he can.
However, the moment she gives in, sitting on the bed's edge naked and spread to give him access, he descends upon her for hours.
He is messy, he is greedy, he is vocal. He groans and praises between fervent licks across her folds before plunging into her with his tongue, savoring her like the sweetest dessert.
He lovingly tosses her legs over his shoulders, so that he can get a better view and angle...but also so she can ground herself somewhat.
His hands aren't idle though, wherever he can reach, he will touch and squeeze, her breasts, her backside, everywhere, his fingers kneading the soft skin as she twitches and jolts under them.
Her trembling echoes through his skin and her moaning is a sweet song in his ears. One he will never tire of hearing.
"You're so perfect...I could never get enough of you~"
His own moaning makes her whine as it vibrates into her sensitive walls, barely recovering from yet another climax.
"Ch...arle...s! Too much!"
She pleads as she uses her grip on his hair to keep him at bay for a moment, which causes him to whine as well. The lower half of his face covered in her essence, his cheeks a bright lusty red.
"But ma belle! I can't stop, you taste too good, please don't make me stop, I need moreee~"
He coyly and slowly runs his tongue up her clit, his hazy sea green eyes on her, entreating and desirous as he takes her in, this beauty, this queen that grants him such a privilege.
She yields her grip on him just a little and it's all he needs to dive back in.
It's just as well that her legs are on his shoulders. Because they are going to be useless for walking later. As will the rest of her jelly limbs.
If Y/N has somewhere to be next time, it is recommended she keep her legs closed before this happens.
Drake
Ever notice in several of his CGs, Drake just... has his tongue out?
The man isn't subtle.
He will never kneel for anyone, but for her? He will gladly get on his knees, just to hear her scream as he pleasures her.
And she will scream, because he will not stop, his tongue pumping in and out of her with quick, ruthless strokes as she lay naked on her back, writhing in the sheets. His hands will hook under her knees to keep her open and still for him.
The lewd sounds coming from down there are absolutely filthy, yet they are another sensual caress to her senses.
He gets drunk on her taste, her delighted cries, the tugging of pretty hands through his silver hair as he sucks on her clit. All of it, he wants it all and he takes it again and again and again.
If she tries to move away, sensitive from so many orgasms, he will tug her back to him, a slightly wild, hungry look in his aqua eyes, his chest heaving as a dangerous smirk crosses across his face as he teases.
"Ah ah ah. No running away, darling."
She meets his gaze with her bleary, teary one, whimpering and gasping from the incredible sensations wracking her body.
"F...Francis! P...Please, you're too good, I can't...!
He chuckles, the sound low and soaked in seduction, in desire for the exquisite woman under him, who tastes as sublime as she looks.
"Too good? High praise, my love, but I think you can handle one more."
He said one more two orgasms ago.
"I'm not finished with you. So be good for me, pretty little fawn~"
He lowers his head back between her legs, holding her gaze with that smile that promises her undoing as he holds her thighs.
His enemies at sea have been shown more mercy than this.
Hello! This is my first time doing any asks, so I'm kinda nervous. I wanted to ask if a little Zayne fluff with a forgetful and often overwhelmed MC is alright (she tries hard not to buy it still gets kinda difficult sometimes)
To be specific, she tends to forget little things like her handkerchief or her id-card, things like that, except for when she makes like exhaustive checklists to ensure that she remembers everything. And sometimes when in a hurry, she sometimes misses to check everything and things happen 😂 And that in turn leads to her feeling overwhelmed and the cycle continues.
Hope I'm doing this ask thingy alright. Have a great day!
hiii cutie~ don't be nervous, this is such a cute idea! wrote this on my lunch break today and exited the app before saving so it got erased and had to rewrite everything 🥲 anywayyy hope you like it! god i love zayne sm
You’re shifting in your seat too much for it to pass as casual, your mind already miles away, and you don’t even notice how hard you’re biting your lip.
But Zayne does.
As he always notices every small thing about you, because it all is important to him, no matter how insignificant you think it is. He always takes note of you, your mood, your thoughts you are reticent to share with him but he knows you’re having.
Like the ones spiraling in your pretty little head right now.
Did you unplug the curling iron you’ve used until the last minute because the front pieces of your hair kept falling weirdly?
Did you turn off all the lights? If you didn’t, you thought of the endless scenarios of danger waiting to happen if some weirdo noticed that.
Not even your lifesaver of a checklist you keep on your phone helps every single time. Sure, it does a great deal in helping keep you calm and keep track of things that need to be done, and would not have you freak out in public (as you did an embarrassing amount of times already).
Zayne took note of it all. Carefully, he takes your hand in his, squeezing lightly. That prompts you to look at him, questioning. The lower lip hunched between your teeth was starting to hurt, but that is the least of your worries.
It is Zayne’s worry, though.
He intertwines your fingers while his other hand comes up gently to pull your lip from in between your teeth.
“Everything’s alright.” he reassures you in his gentle tone, no sign of being annoyed at your distress.
You are on your way to the restaurant he booked weeks ahead for your monthly dine-out date, already running a bit late because of your fussing around the apartment. That is another reason why your mood is so sour.
Zayne is so patient with you. So gentle, so kind. Never the one to make you feel like you are in the wrong for feeling this way. He knows you can’t help it, and he knows just how to help you through it.
Always reaching for you whenever he feels you slipping away into your own head, your own prison where everything goes wrong and everything’s your fault. He pulls you in his embrace, tethers you to him with soothing caresses and gentle kisses.
He doesn’t talk much in these moments. He knows it’ll only make it worse for you, overwhelm you even more so, and that’s the least thing he wants. He knows his presence makes up for it, knows it’s enough when you cling to him and just melt into his body.
He knows you’re struggling, and is also aware of how much you try to sweep it under the rug, try to play it off sometimes. He guesses it’s a defense mechanism you privately developed around people who would get annoyed at you for always overthinking simple things, going back and forth, pacing anxiously.
He swore it to himself he would never make you feel like that. Yet it still hurts him to see you try to make it less than it is, pass it off like it doesn’t make you bite your lip until it bleeds or nails until they’re a mess or tap your feet in an attempt to self-regulate.
So he takes care of things for you.
“I unplugged it,” he tells you, thumb smoothing once over your knuckles. “And the lights. You walked past me to the door twice, so I checked behind you both times.”
You noticed that, too. Somewhere between your anxiety attacks and his tender, soothing hugs, you noticed how he quietly took things into his own hands. You found yourself reaching for your list to go over it for the nth time in a day, and suddenly, there was Zayne there with you, checking things off the list.
Rushing to the Association early in the morning? He would be there with a good morning text and a simple reminder to not forget your Hunter ID at home, because he knew how often that happened and how it messed with your head whenever it would.
Going out with Simone and Tara? Zayne would call you, tell you to dress comfortably, not forget your jacket and keys. Vitamins? He would help set up reminders on your phone and text you just five minutes after they go off to remind you once again, because he knew you would get distracted and forget.
Many such little things, and they mattered to you. So they mattered to him, too.
Zayne is a capable man, so he only took care of small things at first. He didn’t want to make you feel like he thought you incapable of handling things on your own. Never one to push you with anything, he only made it a habit when he was sure you would appreciate it and not feel burdened by it.
You noticed all of it. It made your chest constrict in a tender, aching way. He did it out of love, you knew that. You didn’t need to hear it, his actions were the loudest confessions of love there could be. He loved you so much that he wanted to ease things for you, without waiting for anything in return.
That was the kind of man Zayne was.
Your eyes sting, throat constricting around the words you want to tell him. You love him, so much that it hurts sometimes. You know he knows that, how much you cherish him and everything he does for you.
Words fail you, as they always do. So you act instead.
You bring your joined hands up, kissing the back of his hand softly. He looks at you in quiet surprise, but before he can say something else, you reach over the console and gently bring his face closer.
You plant a sweet, soft kiss to his lips. Smiling as you pull away slightly, thumb tracing the side of his neck.
“We’re already late,” he murmurs against your cheek, recovering far too quickly for someone whose ears are still that red. “Don’t start what you can’t finish.”
How do they react to their s/o fighting with someone while pregnant?
Suitors: Comte, Leo, Vincent, Charles
Someone asked for more of this, so...
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Comte
Purebloods can't have a heart attack...he thought.
And yet, when confronted by a noble who had a bone to pick with him, his heart very much ceased the moment his wife, 4 months pregnant with their child, steps up in his defense, her chin lifted and her shoulders squared.
"If you have an issue with my husband, take it up in private, at least he can embarrass you behind closed doors."
The noble looks down his nose at her, sneering at her haughty tone as he raises his hand, likely to rudely swat her away so he can deal with the other man, making the pureblood's blood cool before heating.
He takes her gently by the shoulders and moves her away from the belligerent man, to his side with a sharp look to the foe in front of him,.
"I'd appreciate if you keep your watch your hands around my wife. I don't wish to have to make you regret it."
He won't start something physical. He wants to and he very nearly does but he won't. Not here, not in public, and most certainly not with his wife right here where she can get hurt.
He steers her away, opting for diplomacy over violence, even as his heart feels like it's going to pound out of his chest.
His scolding is full of love, a little strict and woven with concern.
"If something like that happens again, I beg you to let me handle it. Please, cherie. Don't put yourself and our treasure in danger."
Leonardo
Not much raises his hackles, this signore.
He comes across as blasé and easygoing towards most things.
His pregnant wife is not 'most things'.
So when she gets roped into a heated argument with a woman in town, he steps in quickly because the other woman pays no mind to her delicate state and seems ready to come to blows.
Even more worrying is that Y/N seems equally eager to throw hands, her anger winning out over her sense.
He puts a hand on her back, having no intention of letting this escalate further.
"Cara mia, don't stress yourself with this."
He doesn't really give the woman the benefit of his attention, the attention that belongs solely to his wife as he soothes her anger enough that he can get her away from the situation.
He will carry her away if he needs to.
He ends up doing so anyway, despite her compliance.
He speaks to her gently, his smile weary with half concealed worry for his beloved as he pets her head.
"Don't be so hot-blooded cara mia. I don't think the bambino is up for a fight."
Vincent
By nature, Vincent isn't violent. Everyone knows this.
Most believe he has no temper to speak of, let alone the capacity to be anything but peaceful.
When it comes to strong emotions, Y/N is the one who brings them out. Anger, jealousy, defensiveness. They were foreign to him until her.
Especially when she became pregnant. He never knew that he was capable of this kind of happiness. Or capable of the rage that hits him when a pair of rival artists pick a fight with him and she intervenes on his behalf.
He was perfectly fine not reacting to the sling of insults and harsh criticisms thrown his way, but his beloved, at 23 weeks and already in a volatile mood, was not so inclined to let it go.
She stands in front of him, lovely, angry and swollen with child, though shielding him from the crass words.
"Jealousy is an ugly look. No wonder your art is so subpar."
She throws back at them, inciting their fury as they impudently turn it on the pregnant woman.
A mistake they barely get to make as half a step towards her causes Vincent's hand to close over her shoulder and pulls her into his side. His blue eyes, usually clear as the summer sky, are tense and drawn over with clouds.
He doesn't raise his voice, of course he doesn't but he doesn't need to.
"Don't come near this woman...if you do, you'll face the consequences."
And he means it, his hand staying protectively over her as he guides her past the two, paying them no more mind. He is not interested in them.
When they're far away from that mess, he checks over her for any signs of distress, his scolding tender and concerned as he cradles her face with one hand, the other on her swelling belly where beautiful life grew within her.
"Please don't do that again scatje, it's not safe for you right now."
Charles
Charles is a man who has so little, who has had so little for most of his life, then gained everything when he wed his wife, then his wife became with child.
His heart is so full that the idea that something or someone could take that bliss away from him is enough to make him spiral.
Nothing made this clearer than when some drunk bumped into him while he was strolling with her and his belle, 4 months pregnant and already in a less than pleasant mood, gets angry on his behalf, especially as the unrepentant offender continually demands an apology from him.
Before he can respond, placate the man, she moves in front of him protectively, her cheeks red with indignant frustration.
"You're the one who bumped into my husband, you idiot. You apologize!"
She snaps at him, causing the drunkard to redden with anger and step threateningly, raising a meaty hand to push or to strike, Charles doesn't know, nor does he care.
It happens so fast. One moment the man is standing there, brace to harm his pregnant wife, next moment, he's sailing through the air and slamming into the wall so hard he loses consciousness on impact.
Y/N stares dumbfounded for only a moment at this uncharacteristic display of violence from her husband, before she is pulled away, far far away. Charles doesn't stop until she is somewhere safe and once he does, he is silent. She asks him if he is alright, touching his shoulder to find him trembling.
She is alarmed when he falls at her feet, coiling his arms around her to rest his head gently on her swelling abdomen, where the life he helped to create rested. His terror is palpable, but so is his desperate devotion and bottomless adoration.
"Please don't...don't scare me like that. Please, I can't lose you. Either of you."
His broken, barely whispered pleas pull at her heart as he looks up at her with glossy eyes, holding her as closely as physically possible, as if the world would take her and their child from him.
Pairing: Arthur Conan Doyle x OC (Alouette Lunavega)
Warnings and Tags: just fluff, comfort, and a thunder storm :3
lace dividers by @/yeritos
A/N: Did you know that there was a fanzine for Ikemen Series hosted by @ikemen-watch ?? Did you know that I wrote two fics for it?? :D
It’s already been a month since its release, but you can still download it for free here -> (🕰️)
Enjoy many amazing pieces from our talented writers and artists, and enjoy one of my entries below ✨
Shelter from the Storm
All was well in Le Comte’s mansion. Gentle warmth softened the halls, shielded its vampiric residents from the brewing storm outside. It was quite the perfect weather for a steaming cup of coffee and snuggling under covers with his beloved, the blue-haired mystery writer thought. What better way to motivate himself for his self-imposed deadline?
Arthur dragged a hand through his hair, leaving it faintly tousled as he leaned back from his manuscript. His eyes lingered on the ink-stained pages longer than necessary. Words had begun to blur together until his attention drifted elsewhere. His nose led him, as it often did, toward the kitchen.
“Oh, Arthur!” Alouette’s voice greeted him just as he rounded the corner. “I was just about to bring your coffee.”
She held out the mug with both hands.
“You truly are a marvel,” he said, accepting it with care. The porcelain warmed his palms before he took a careful sip. His newfound girlfriend smiled at him, prominent fangs peeking through.
“Excellent timing,” he added. “Perfect for this storm we will be having tonight.”
“The storm?” she asked. Her posture straightened, sharp enough to catch his notice.
Arthur nodded. “The pressure’s been building for hours. It won’t be a mild one.”
Heavy clouds pressed low across France, leaving the once-twilight sky completely covered in gray. The cold had begun to sweep every ounce of warmth away. Concern crossed Alouette’s face as if the thought just reached her.
“I guess I’ve been too busy to notice…” She stepped away. “I think I’ll turn in early, then. You shouldn’t stay up too late either.” She leaned in, brushing a kiss against his lips before he could fully meet her eyes. “Goodnight.”
Her footsteps faded down the corridor faster than usual.
“Goodnight then,” Arthur called after her as the door shut.
The sky flashed a stark white, briefly illuminating the halls before plunging back into darkness. A faint rumble of thunder vibrated through the mansion's thick walls. Arthur had just returned to his room and set his mug down when a sharp yelp cut through the sounds of the incoming storm.
Immediately, Arthur hurried down the corridor, drawn by the sound of his beloved's distress.
“Love? Are you alright?” He knocked gently, but there was no answer.
He pushed Alouette's door, as it gave way with a slow creak.
“Love?” he repeated.
Darkness enveloped the room, broken only by distant flashes beyond the open curtains. The bed lay neatly arranged. Clothing from the day was scattered across the floor.
Uneven breathing reached him first, followed by the faint rustle of fabric. He approached the wardrobe and opened it cautiously. Inside the narrow space, sat Alouette, her knees drawn tight and her hands clamped over her ears as though the pressure might silence the world.
“There you are,” Arthur said softly.
Her shoulders shuddered at the sound of Arthur’s voice, echoing within the small wooden wardrobe.
Kneeling before her, he gently covered her frigid hands with his own.
“Shh,” he murmured, easing her grip away. “I’ve got you.”
Alouette shook her head, keeping her eyes shut. “I’m fine— I’m fine!” The words came too quickly to convince either of them.
Thunder cracked again, close enough to rattle glass, and her breath hitched into a quiet, broken sob.
Arthur drew her into his arms without hesitation, settling back against the floor as he gathered her into his lap. One arm around her back, the other pressed gently over her ear, shielding what little he could. Her face pressed into his chest, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt as though it were the only solid thing left.
“This doesn’t look ‘fine’ to me.” His voice remained low. His hand slid through her hair in slow, deliberate strokes.
Another flash lit the room. Her grip tightened, and Arthur adjusted his hold before reaching back to draw the curtain closed, plunging them back into darkness.
“Breathe with me,” he said. He slowed his breathing, exaggerating the rhythm so she could replicate it. “That’s it. In… and out.”
The storm raged on beyond the walls, but Arthur did not loosen his hold, not even as her uneven breathing began to follow his.
“Just listen to me breathe,” Arthur repeated. He kept the rhythm steady as a ticking clock. It took time, but her breath gradually began to hitch less.
“There, that’s it.”
Arthur pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head. Even so, small shivers ran through her frame. Her arms tightened, clinging as though she feared he might vanish at any moment.
“Do you need anything, dear?” he asked.
“I’m… cold,” she whispered.
Rising slowly, Arthur kept her close as he carried her to the bed. The way her nightgown sat half-slipped at her shoulders did not escape his notice; fabric wrinkled, tugged on in haste. She must have been changing when the storm broke.
Gently, he settled her onto the bed and drew the comforter up around her, draping it over her shoulders. Though the lamp cast a warm glow across the room, she couldn't take her eyes off her hands, still faintly trembling in her lap. When another sob slipped free, she turned away, hiding her face.
Arthur caught her hands and brought them together, steadying them beneath his fingers.
“Look at me,” he said softly. “Do you feel me?”
A slight nod followed. Her fingers traced his face as though confirming he was real; his cheeks, the line of his jaw, the familiar curve of his lips. Only then did she lift her gaze to him.
His chest ached, seeing the tears slipping down her cheeks.
“I cannot leave you like this.”
“But your manuscript…” she managed weakly.
“It can wait,” Arthur replied at once, brushing her hair back from her face, “you cannot.”
He cupped her cheeks and wiped the tears away with his thumbs.
“You’re safe,” he whispered.
Beyond the window, the storm had eased into a steady patter of rain. Arthur let out a quiet breath, seeking a distraction.
“The sheets smell rather pleasant,” he said mildly. “You helped Mitsuki with the laundry again, didn’t you?”
She nodded. “I did…”
The faintest smile touched his mouth as he noted how her breathing had steadied. If the storm returned, at least this time she would not face it alone.
“Would you like some Rouge?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, “but don’t go yet. Please.”
Her fingers curled into his sleeve, holding him there. Another low rumble passed through the mansion. She drew the comforter closer and turned away again, hoping to escape his gaze.
“I’ve noticed,” he said, “that you haven’t been looking at me.”
After a pause, she brushed her eyes with her sleeve. That nervous little laugh followed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You must think I look like a frightened little girl now. It’s embarrassing… acting like this in front of you.”
Her head shook as if to dismiss the thought, but it lingered more; that bitter confession only stung.
Arthur slipped his hand beneath the covers and found hers again.
“Don’t say that,” he chided. “You’re not a child. Everyone has moments of fear.”
His thumb traced slow circles against the back of her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he spoke again.
“But… would you hate me if I admitted that sometimes I feel the urge to protect you as though you were one?”
Silence stretched between them.
“Well…” she said at last. “You don’t find that embarrassing for yourself?”
The motion of his thumb never stilled as he watched her closely, unwilling to rush the moment.
“May I tell you something?” Arthur asked.
Alouette lifted her gaze to his, pulling the comforter even tighter around herself. Arthur leaned in, his voice lowering like he was ready to tell a secret.
“I have never seen you like this,” he admitted, “so I find it… very dear when you tremble and when you cry to me as though I were your only comfort in the world.”
His thumb traced slowly along her hand.
“And I treasure that,” he continued, “not as a weakness, but as trust.”
A distant rumble passed through the mansion. Before the sound could fully register, Arthur’s arms tightened instinctively, drawing her in.
“I see a woman,” he murmured, his voice barely audible in her ear, “who carries herself as though nothing could ever shake her, and yet still needs comfort when the world grows too loud.”
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. Something luminous rested there, the same quiet certainty she had always loved, like a familiar puzzle falling into place.
“And every time you cling to me like this,” he didn’t let the silence linger, “I find myself wishing I could comfort the little girl who remains hidden inside you.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She pressed closer to him, body tensing all at once but not with fear. Arthur could not know the memories for sure, but her stillness spoke volumes. Long nights of thunder and solitude and learning, far too young to endure fear without anyone to reach for. Someday, he wished to know for sure.
“Not anymore,” he whispered. His voice was comforting like sunlight against the window. “You don’t have to face the dark alone ever again.”
Arthur moved swiftly as the thunder cracked louder. One hand cradled the back of her head, the other tracing slow, grounding circles at her back, steadying her before panic could take hold.
“Oh, Arthur…” she breathed.
The tears that followed slipped free as grief finally loosened its grip. He answered them with a tender kiss on her temple.
“Listen to me,” he said. “If I could reach back through time and tear every one of those nights from your history, I would.”
His hands framed her face, thumbs brushing away the tears as they came.
“But since I can’t,” he said softly, “let me spend every storm left making up for them.”
Lightning flashed—bright and sudden—yet she didn’t flinch. She held on tightly. Arthur’s arms wrapped her as though shielding her from the world itself.
“You’re safe here,” he murmured. “Hold onto me, and you won’t run and hide, will you?”
“I won’t,” she whispered. “Not anymore, not unless it’s with you… and we can cry together.”
“Good,” he chuckled. “Good girl.”
His fingers traced slow, gentle patterns on her shoulder blade, as though sealing the promise there. He rested his chin atop her head.
Outside, the storm rolled on; it wouldn’t be a mild one. Arthur did not loosen his hold. And if his manuscript was forgotten by morning, he knew he would not regret it.
