Laughter rose from his chest, like a balloon being released into the sky.

His eyes flashed dangerously, despondent laughter bubbling from the back of his throat.

it should be unfamiliar but still, a feeling of similarity is enough for them to feel rather reminiscent. of what? they wouldn’t know, but something. something lingers there and if only the thin clouds could draw it out of them.

So not only did she get the memo, but she also stuck it right onto her brain's corkboard with an extra large thumbtack.
[...]
As a former rambunctious child who was now a rambunctious adult, she understood the pain of being grounded...

his voice settled at a near whisper, not of it’s usual stern tone but still that iconic raspiness that is explictly labeled vergilius in their mind. it’s the voice they can’t get enough of. the voice that calls forth a longing they’ve not realized would exist. …wait. turn back that thought, it was a violation that blatantly went against the whole “separate your work life from your personal” saying that’s been imbeded in society for however long. and of course, dante, no matter how much they’d insist it wasn’t the case; they wanted to do the very thing that could wind them in so, so much trouble (at least━━ that’s what they thought).

“Some humans who are none the wiser try to use that power to help the weak and the downtrodden… Humbug!” He roared in abject fury, his deep voice echoing throughout every nook and cranny of the Dark Area. “Power should only be used to benefit oneself!”

"... Extermination?"

He echoed the word, tasting it in his own voice. To him, this term carried a scholarly air, yet conveyed the essence of absolute destruction. It represented an end—the demise of a being and all of its kind. Such a conclusion appeared too momentous for even a Dragon to shoulder, and Godric wasn't well-acquainted with endings.

He wished to remain so.

But self-preservation seemed such a paltry thing, for a woman twice-damned.

If METENO had taught her a harsh lesson in grief and loss, then that violent turf war in the boundary between lucid dreamland and postdormitum had taught her a lesson in futility.

Stunning, he is always so unbelievably stunning. Darkened hues locked across the room with an admiring flint evident beneath the deep navy colour. Enthralled entirely, focus stolen from the window to the man across the common room. The fixation on the man’s face behind locks of blond hair and beneath the rims of his glasses. Ever so obedient, the blond’s gaze was entranced by the book he provided him. Always, his navy eyes strayed from the fixation of his face, following down the muscles of the man’s body. Semi-rigid, not from a tense circumstance, but an intense focus on the book caught between his hands. God, he could look at him for hours. The set of his body, the glory of his countenance and the benevolence in his action. Rather than use suggestion on him, he had requested he was through the book before coming to a conclusion, but how long would that take?

The rhythmic tap tap tapping above him was what snapped him from his slumber. For the longest time, he had tried to dig his way out of his tomb, but there was very little in which he could actually do being bound by magic as he was. For nearly two centuries he had been trapped in this wretched box, the ebb and flow of the sickly swamp water in and out of his lungs. Falling into a deep slumber was one of the only way that he could figure to cope. At least until that crunch of dirt, the slop of mud, the panting breath of whomever had the audacity to dig him up.

The thunk of the shovel hitting the top of his coffin was what made him really start to pay attention. Who would go against the Voodoo Queens? Who would even dare?