#/* (which is to say someone should bring them up at some point) */

[venomwrites]

Something about the dictator cape because her striding around in it like that is so fucking hot?

Vi’s world comes back in blues. 

Powder’s cyan splatters across buildings. It stains people’s hair and hands and billows into the sky through vents. It’s bright and loud and so hard to look at sometime. When Vi sees it all she hears is a scream. Like if Powder can just scream loud enough it will bring back their dad, Isha and Milo and all the others. Somewhere in that scream is Silco’s black-gold eye winks back. Nowhere in it is Caitlyn’s mom. 

Ekko’s turquoise cuts in the gaps. The tree is wilting and he’s nowhere to be found, but the Firelights flash out of her eyes sometimes. Still fighting, still holding onto what he was taught. It’s the closest echo of home Vi can find. When Powder vanishes again that’s where she shows up. They let her in with only a few questions asked. Vi pretends they don’t sting. Then she falls fast first into the softest cot she’s ever felt and sleeps for two days straight. 

Caitlyn wraps herself in midnight blue and blankets Vi’s world with it. Every time she goes outside she sees it hovering. Above the splatters and the dyed hair and all the chaos. For a moment Vi thought it was the blue of purpose, of belonging. But now things are right again. And it’s just the same blue that’s made her ache since she was a kid. Nothing good comes from that midnight shade. It’s just a bigger set of bars on a bigger cell that Vi calls home. 

Before when Caitlyn was pissed, Vi could content herself with ghosts. 

Now she won’t leave her the fuck alone. 

Every time she surfaces there’s someone there. An Enforcer who looks too long. A gutter rat whose dressed too well. She knows she’s been watched. They are running out of ways in and out. None of them come near the entrances and exits, but the speed with which they turn away is making people uncomfortable. 

“They cannot know about this place,” Chireen says.

“She’s already been here,” Vi points out. He gives her a hard look, “alright, alright. I’ll go talk to them.” 

She finds the nearest pretend gutter rat who immediately does the worst impression of a drunkard Vi has ever seen. Of course she’s something of an expert on the subject, but he’s particularly awful. Without any pretense she hauls him up and holds him against the wall. He is immediately in a defensive position.

“I need to see her,” she says. He nods and pulls out a pair of cuffs, “that’s a fucking joke right?”

“Protocol, I could—“

“Forget it,” she doesn’t have time for this Enforcer bullshit. She shoves her wrists out, “take me in.” 

There’s no color in Stillwater. 

Vi should have figured this would be how things play out. Naturally if there was a way to make Vi’s life suck more, Caitlyn was going to find it and make a protocol about it. Vi doesn’t even know why she’s surprised. At least this time she winds up in one of the interrogation cells that has a little sunlight and some stale but fresher than below air. There’s even a proper toilet and a chair and a cot. She expects to be there for a few hours since Caitlyn is so incredibly busy these days. But Vi’s barely made herself comfortable on the cot when commotion starts. 

She’s hopeful for a moment that it’s a riot. 

But it’s just Caitlyn. 

“You wanted to see me?” Caitlyn says and if Vi was wondering if she was still mad, she’s not anymore. 

When she first met Caitlyn in her blue uniform, Vi tagged her for a low level Enforcer. Sure the gun she was carrying spoke of wealth, but it wasn’t Enforcer wealth. That was family money. And even then given her willingness to break the law and run around the Undercity, Vi figured it couldn’t be that much. Not until she went to her house anyway. 

They’ve come a far cry from that. 

Caitlyn wears her wealth and influence now like she wears the cloak. She’s tall in a way that has nothing to do with her actual height. Her mouth is in a tight disapproving line and her blue eyes glare down at Vi. But it’s the cape that really sells it. It folds around her form like a barrier cutting her off from the rest of the world. She’s sure as shit the only Enforcer Vi sees wearing a cape. Even her hair is down which only serves to further make her look different. 

“You look like a statue I’d spit on,” Vi remarks. 

“What do you want?” Caitlyn repeats, her voice tighter this time. 

Yeah she’s really pissed. 

“Stop following me.” 

“I’m sorry I can’t do that,” Caitlyn says, “you’re a prime target.”

“I can take care of myself,” Vi retorts. Caitlyn just stares her down, “I’m going to lose my home.”

“Then you can come back to Piltover.”

“I’d rather stay here,” Vi shoots back. 

“As you wish,” Caitlyn says and turns on her heel. 

She’s dead serious, Vi realizes. Of course she is, Caitlyn always gets what she wants. And she gets pissed off when she doesn’t. Vi is learning that really quickly. 

“Wait!” She grinds out. Caitlyn stops, “how long are you going to punish me?” Vi demands, “I told you I was trying to save my dad.”

“With your sister!” Caitlyn spits, turning so fast the cape billows, “you forgot to mention that part.”

“Sorry I didn’t have time to go over every little detail with your goons about to invade!” 

“That is not a little detail!” Caitlyn counters. Vi knows she’s right. Caitlyn balls her fist, takes a breath and looks at her, “now you’re a target. The Noxians know how to navigate the Undercity. You cannot be left unguarded.” 

“So you just want me guarded but you don’t want to see me?” Vi demands.

“Exactly.” 

“Who the fuck put you in charge?” Vi demands. Caitlyn stiffens, “oh wait--“

“I suggest you do not finish that sentence,” Caitlyn says. 

“I suggest you stop putting guards around me. I’d rather take my chances with Ambessa. At least she looked me in the eye when she tried to gut me.” 

Caitlyn is suddenly too close and there’s a blue that Vi forgot.

She can never pin down the blue of Caitlyn’s eyes. It shifts from midnight to teal to cyan. Sometimes Vi thinks they are blue-grey, shades darker than her own. But they are always impossible to look away from. Sometimes its annoying. Right now it’s downright infuriating. But Vi’s already damned so she’s definitely not backing down from this one. Caitlyn stares at her long and hard, her eyes bearing down. Then she presses her lips tightly again and straightens up. 

“Guards or Piltover, your choice.”

“Neither!”

“Guards it is,” she says. 

“You and that stupid cape can’t ignore me forever!” Vi shouts after her.

But Caitlyn’s the General wrapped in the night sky, and as much as it pains her to admit it, Vi knows she probably can. 

&&&&

The guards start turning up drunk. 

They always stagger back, bottle in hand and eyes clouded with merriment. They sleep it off and wake with apologies and explanations. Neither interest Caitlyn. She knows this is Vi sending a message, even if they say sometimes it was a red head and sometimes her hair was black. Sometimes it’s blue. Those times infuriate Caitlyn the most. She’s knows Vi has been locked up for longer than she’s been free. She knows this is excessively reckless but also understandable. 

She also doesn’t care. 

At best Vi is going to get herself killed. Caitlyn doesn’t want to think about what the worst case scenario looks like. It’s so easy to picture Vi in that green tank. Caitlyn grinds her teeth. She will not let that happen. She’s a Kiramman for Gods sakes. Vi seems to be the only one who keeps her from getting her way. She’s not going to let Ambessa also have that distinction. 

“General? They’re back.”

“They?”

This time Vi and her guard come in arm in arm. Because this time Caitlyn sent Loris. Vi’s taken care to send her guards back very drunk but also safe. But she never goes inside. Loris though keeps his arm around her shoulders like they are old friends. Caitlyn straightens up as they come fully into the garrison. Vi glances around but Loris keeps a fist of her jacket as he steers them in. 

“Well look who it is, General sneers a lot and her stupid cape,” Vi slurs.

“Bring her—“

Loris heaves Vi forward and Caitlyn has no choice but to catch her. It’s almost automatic to sling one of Vi’s arms over her shoulder. Vi grips her ‘stupid’ cape and looks up at her, blowing a piece of red hair up in a way that would be almost difficult to ignore. If her breath didn’t smell like something that makes Caitlyn’s eyes water. She’s very, very drunk. 

“I gotta go back.”

“That is not an option tonight,” Caitlyn says. 

“You kidnapping me? Again?” Vi frowns, “lawbreaker.” 

Caitlyn ignores her and steers them up the steps and through the private entrance she rarely uses. Caitlyn’s a fool in many ways, but she’s not enough of a fool to trust all the Enforcers. There are definitely moles. Which is one of the reasons she implemented the protocols. If Vi comes up here she’s supposed to be in cuffs. The guards that watch her are ones Caitlyn actually trusts. And despite all of that Vi manages to saunter in without a second thought. 

“This is nice, this yours?” Vi says looking around the office. Some schematic draws her eye and she sets off, “what’s—“

“Would you sit down?” Caitlyn snaps, batting her hand away before she can pull the string pinned there. 

“Who are you tracking?” She asks and glances up at Jinx’s headshot. She snorts, “still?”

“Yes—“ there’s a sound of ripping, “Vi!” 

Vi fixes her with that hard grey stare and rips again. There are moments when longing for her overtakes Caitlyn’s senses. And then there are these moments when she never wants to lay eyes on her again. She has half a mind to throw Vi out and make her stagger back to the Undercity. But from the way Vi is looking at her, that’s what she wants. And Caitlyn would rather hang herself with her cape than give her that as she shreds months of work. 

“I’ll see myself out.”

“You will not!” Caitlyn storms over, “sit down.”

“Or what? You’ll make me?”

“Easily.” 

Caitlyn’s never been much of a brawler but Ambessa’s changed that. Vi gives her a hard, silent look. Then she drops the pages into the fire and walks over to the couch. Caitlyn watches the pages burn. The search for Jinx has been half hearted at best these past few months. There are other things to be concerned with. Ambessa, Jayce, the golden light Mel seems to conjure whenever she’s angry. Even though every flash of blue hair makes her want to redirect people, at the moment Jinx isn’t the priority for anyone else. 

“Do you know where she is?”

“Wouldn’t tell you if I did,” Vi says, her tone cutting deeper than Caitlyn wishes it did.

“After everything, you’re just going to walk away?” Caitlyn turns, “how?” 

It still hurts that Vi can just walk away. 

Caitlyn’s been here before. Torn between never letting Vi out of her sight and never setting eyes on her again. She’s not proud of how desperately she listened to the wind those first few nights. Just waiting for Vi to climb up her balcony and tell her off. Tell her she misunderstood something. Make it all make sense in that terrible, infuriating, brilliant way of hers. But Vi never came. One day Ambessa locked the window, posted a guard and that was the end of it. 

“You look like her,” Vi says. 

Caitlyn feels like she’s been slapped. 

“Sometimes she’s still that kid, too smart for her own good,” she throws an arm over her eyes, “still standing in that room with those things in her hand—.”

The comparison stings, the way only a truthful one can. Again. How many ways has she played it over in her head. All she had to do was pull the trigger. She had the shot. So many shots, the weight of that magazine was impossible. She could have emptied every one into Jinx’s chest. Jinx was evil back then, she deserved it back then. If she had taken the shot her mother would be alive. Piltover, the Undercity, they would all be different. Instead she hesitates and Jinx knocks her out and the next thing she knows her mother is dying a city away. 

“And yet you walk away,” she says.

“Leaders don’t get to be selfish,” she says.

Vi is drunkenly sprawled out on her couch, she doesn’t look like she’s leading much of anything. Caitlyn doubts those are her words. 

“You don’t know the first thing about leadership,” she says.

“No, but my dad did,” Vi says. 

Of course it would be her father’s words. The father Caitlyn led Ambessa right to. No-one knew they were down there, they had been manipulated into a trap. Or she had. Caitlyn doesn’t want to think too hard on it. If she does, she starts to consider that maybe Jinx didn’t know her mother was a Counselor. Didn’t know who she was aiming that rocket towards. And that makes it very hard to swallow anything, even her own spit. Behind her she hears Vi stretch out on the leather, perhaps she’s too drunk to reason this either. 

She pulls out a throw blanket she keeps for nights in the office and drags it over Vi. One of Vi’s hands catches her fingers. 

“Leave,” she says. Caitlyn frowns, “wherever you are, leave,” she drops he hand, “I hate it when you look like her.” 

&&&&

When Vi opens her eyes she realizes it wasn’t a dream. 

She’s in Caitlyn’s fancy office. She very clearly tore down some map she worked hard on. And she’s under a very fancy blanket that might be the warmest, softest thing she’s ever felt. Her mouth feels like sandpaper though and her head is definitely trying to crack open with every pulse of her heart. She shoves the heels of her hands into her eyes. Loris is the best and the worst drinking buddy a girl could ask for. 

“You’re awake,” Caitlyn says, stepping fully into the room carrying a tray with two steaming mugs and a plate of sandwiches.

“Yeah,” Vi says, pushing herself up.

Caitlyn presses her lips together and sets the tray down. She’s wearing her usual Enforcer gear, her hair is tucked into its usual bun. She’s still imposing but she doesn’t look comical anymore. It makes it easier and harder to sit next to her and take the mug she hands her. 

“It’s tea,” Caitlyn says, “I haven’t poisoned it.”

“I didn’t think you had,” Vi says quickly, “did I—“ she motions to the wall. Caitlyn glares, “sorry.”

“Was that your intention in coming here?” She asks. 

“Huh? No!” Vi is surprised that it kind of hurts to have Caitlyn look at her with such mistrust, “I wasn’t ‘intending’ to come here at all.” 

“Right,” Caitlyn says shortly pushes herself up, “you need to stop getting your guards drunk.”

“You need to stop sending them,” Vi retorts. 

“That’s not going to happen,” Caitlyn tells her, busying herself with some of the endless papers strewn about, “not until we defeat the threat.”

“Powder isn’t a threat,” she says automatically. Caitlyns’ eyes narrow. 

“I was talking about Ambessa,” she says, “Jinx isn’t a threat to you, she is a threat to Piltover.”

The name makes Vi think of that stupid party with those stupid chairs. When she told her she could have Powder back. When she chose to be Jinx after Caitlyn didn’t shoot her. She hates the thoughts of that room. But she refuses to linger in them. 

“She goes by Powder now.”

“Maybe to you!” Caitlyn says and the indignant anger is back, “to the rest of us she’s Jinx.”

“And what are you to them?” Vi demands before she can stop herself. Caitlyn stiffens and sucks in a breath. But if Vi’s going to stick her foot in her mouth, she’s going to get it all the way up there, “the people you swore to protect are afraid of you.”

“I know that!” Caitlyn argues, wrapping her arms around herself, “I hate it—“

“So change it!” 

“I don’t know how!”

Vi glares at her and walks over to the wardrobe, yanking it open and ripping down that stupid fucking cloak. Caitlyn watches her as she strides over to her and shoves the cloak in her face. 

“Start by burning this stupid thing and try being a fucking human being again!” she spits.

Caitlyn looks outraged but Vi doesn’t care. There’s so much shit going on but Caitlyn’s still hunting Powder. Still enacting martial law. Still traipsing around cloaked in Ambessa’s authority and her mother’s money. 

“I am,” Caitlyn says and Vi can’t help but roll her eyes. 

“Why am I wasting my breath? Of course you are,” she says, “General.” 

Caitlyn stares furiously at her in silence for a moment. 

“You don’t know me,” Caitlyn says. 

“And whose fault is that?” Vi throws up her hands,” you know what? Do what you want, I’m out.” 

She leaves before Caitlyn can say anything.

&&&&

 Martial law lifts the next day.

It’s three days before Vi wakes from her bender to find Loris back.

She lets him stay.

&&&&

She’s thumbing through her notecards for the morning speech, trying to find the right words.

“You’re sounding almost human again, Cupcake.”

Her fingertips tighten on the cards but she doesn’t dare turn around. It’s been a month since she saw her last. Vi eases herself into the room and approaches. Caitlyn finally lets herself appraise her. She’s wary but she’s here. The anger has a cautious edge. Her hair is long enough now to touch her shoulders on the side she grows out. The other side has been freshly shaved. She smells less like a bottle and more like a person. 

“That almost sounds like a compliment.”

Vi shrugs and walks over to the wall. Caitlyn feels the start of her own panic and shoves it aside. She doesn’t want Vi to see, she wants her stay. But she’ll see eventually and Caitlyn knows she’ll be more upset about the betrayal than the new map trying to track her sister. She lets out a deep breath. Caitlyn looks down at her notes. If they start to fight she’ll never have time to properly prepare. 

“What are you going to do with her?” 

The genuineness of the question makes Caitlyn pause. She would love to see Jinx dead. She deserves to see it properly. Finally. She’s seen Jinx almost dead. Seen her sprawled out completely still. And every time she does she sees Vi curled over her. She feels Vi shove her away to grab Jinx. The part of her that screams for blood is not one that cares about justice. That part of her screams in a child’s voice that she is a Kiramman. What she wants is the only thing that matters. She wishes it wasn’t so loud. She wishes she didn’t give in every time she sees the order to shoot her on sight.  

“I don’t know,” Caitlyn says, “why?”

Vi leans forward and presses her forehead to the wall. 

“She’s getting bad again.” 

Caitlyn tries not to think about the room, the rocket, her mother. She forces herself to be grounded in the present. Vi still has her forehead against the wall. One of her hands curls into a fist. There are so many scars on her hands. She presses her knuckles into the wall. Caitlyn expects her to put her fist through it. Something sets in Vi’s shoulders and she turns around. Caitlyn’s aware of a paper fluttering to the ground but she just focuses on Vi’s clear eyes. 

“I want the same protections on her,” she says, “taken alive, that nice cell, only I get to see her.”

“You’e giving her up?” Caitlyn can barely hear her. 

“I don’t know where she is,” Vi says, “she keeps appearing and doing stupid shit. She won’t let me near her,” her fists ball by her sides, “she keeps trying to get shot. Your guys, suck by the way, but she’s not thinking.”

Caitlyn swallows against the tightness in her throat. Vi is asking her to protect Jinx. It’s a barbed compromise, one she never expected to be offered. Self loathing radiates off Vi. She’s desperate. Like she was back in that cell when she saw the drawing. Just like that she struggles for a mask of indifference. But it’s a poor one now. Caitlyn can see right through it. She commands Caitlyn’s attention and stares her down. 

“If you do it I’ll stay here with you.” 

The nausea steals her breath away. Something lights in Vi’s eyes and she steps forward. She’s offering what Caitlyn wants and all Caitlyn can think is if she vomits on her desk there’s going to be so much paperwork to redo. She clings to that thought as Vi takes another step forward. 

“I’ll say here and I’ll be an Enforcer again.”

“Stop!” Caitlyn tastes bile. Vi’s eyes widen and Caitlyn knows she’s thinking this is about Jinx. Maybe it is, maybe some part of it is. But all Caitlyn can think is that Vi would do anything she asked in that moment. And Vi believes it would work, “Just—“ Caitlyn scrambles for the order, for her seal. She can barely see as she scrawls out what Vi wants and seals it, “get out,” she says. 

“Huh?” Vi’s features twist.

“This is the order for her protection. Give it to the commander and just—“ her stomach rolls, “just get out.”

Vi’s lip curls but she takes the order. Caitlyn counts her breath until she hears the door close. Then she flies over to the bathroom and looses whatever she’s eaten that day. 

&&&&

Turns out, not everything’s blue. 

That’s all Vi thinks as she holds back Caitlyn’s hair while she vomits. She was fine five minutes ago and then she went pale and now she’s tossing her cookies. Vi keeps her hair back as she finishes, her shoulders shaking. She stiffens when she seems to realize she’s not alone. 

“Get it all out, Cupcake,” Vi says, trying for levity. 

“You thought I would take you for her,” Caitlyn says, finally looking up at her, “after everything—“

“Hey—“

“Do you really think so little of me?” 

Caitlyn appraises her as sharply as anyone can in that position and Vi doesn’t know what to say. Caitlyn interprets her silence as the complete answer, not the conflict. She moves away, straightening up and tugging her jacket back to perfection. Vi gets up but it’s not like it makes a ton of difference. Caitlyn rinses her mouth and pulls back her hair. She meets Vi’s eyes in the mirror, looking more collected than anyone whose been vomiting has a right to. 

“I don’t want you here,” she lies, her eyes narrowing at Vi’s scoff, “you don’t trust me to honor the order.”

“It’s not that simple,” Vi argues, unable to look away from Caitlyn’s gaze as her eyes harden, “Cait we gassed the Undercity. You were shipping people in trains off to Stillwater—“ she can see Caitlyn throwing up every wall until her eyes are flat, “yeah,” the truth tastes barbed, “you’re right, I don’t trust you to honor this.”

Caitlyn breaks their eye contact and leaves the bathroom without a word. So much blue covers her world, all of it is unyielding. Jinx think’s she’s fine and won’t let Vi within ten feet of her. Won’t let her touch her for anything. Caitlyn will watch her from someone else’s eyes and agree to shit she doesn’t want to, but she won’t let Vi be around. Vi knows the world kept spinning when she went away but she doesn’t get how she’s supposed to be around all these people who want her safe but don’t want her around. 

She forces herself out as Caitlyn sets down her pen and picks up her seal. She holds out the paper, though Vi is pretty sure she knows what it is. 

“Thanks,” she says, the words leaden in her mouth.

“I’ve kept my orders regarding you,” Caitlyn points out. 

Vi’s used to being short but she feels about ten inches tall. 

“Yeah,” she says finally. Caitlyn keeps staring her down. Like she’s waiting for something. Vi hopes it’s not an apology, she isn’t getting one, “still want me to—“

“Yes. Go.” 

&&&&

Caitlyn wears the cloak during her next speech. 

Vi is sober when she helps Loris back to the hideout.

&&&&

There is a lot of paperwork that comes with stripping someone of being an Enforcer. 

Caitlyn never got around to it. 

She couldn’t bring herself to put pen to paper and make things real. Then things got busy. It never seemed like it was ever going to be a problem, not considering how things occurred. At some point Maddie had filled out the forms and left them ‘just needs you seal’. She still didn’t. She just put them in the bottom of the pile and resolved to file them when she got around to it. 

It’s only when she comes back to Vi sitting in her office, rolling her badge across her knuckles, that she remembers where the papers even are. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says. 

“You know when I flashed this at the door, they just let me in,” Vi muses, “I was just going to take the win but then I scanned it,” her fingers close around the badge, “I’m still an Enforcer.”

“Yes,” Caitlyn says, there’s no point in lying about that, “I forgot to file the paperwork.”

Vi gives a purposeful look around her pristinely organized office. Caitlyn ignores it and walks over to the wardrobe, undoing the fastening and hanging up the cloak. Vi scoffs in the background. Caitlyn’s fingers tighten in the blue fabric. At the time she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Now she forgets why. It’s certainly not too late. 

“I will file it—“

“Remember when you said this doesn’t work if we don’t trust each other?” Vi says abruptly.

Back in the Undercity. Back with Vi bleeding out and throwing herself off of everything. Back when something made sense, even if Caitlyn was learning everything was a lie at the exact same time. But Vi was brilliant and brave and that made facing the impossible easier somehow. Now it’s just her and everything continues to be a lie, but there’s a coldness to it that makes her bones ache. 

“I think you were onto something,” she says. She walks over to the fire, pulls out the backup order and tosses it in. 

“I won’t rescind the order,” Caitlyn says. That should be the end of it. But Vi looks at her with her grey eyes and seems to cut through all her defenses, “but I don’t forgive her. I still want her to pay.” 

She expects Vi to explode but she just ducks her head and looks back at the fire. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you she was there,” Vi says, “I was just thinking about saving our dad.”

Caitlyn knows she has so much to apologize for. To so many people. Most of all to Vi. But she’s been trapped on the precipice while Vi just hurls herself off of it. Like it’s natural to apologize, dust yourself off and keep going. Caitlyn doesn’t know how Vi is so fearless. She always thought when she was able to see the real world, she would be as well. But she’s not. Her parents always showed her she could do anything, she deserved to do anything she wanted. Because she was a Kiramman. And yet it’s Vi whose brave and forgiving while she’s wondering how to be any of that. 

“I didn’t file the paperwork because I was hoping you would come back,” she says finally. 

“You can’t even look at me half the time,” Vi points out, something morose in her tone that guts Caitlyn. 

“It hurts,” Caitlyn admits finally, unable to complete the sentence. 

“Me too,” Vi says, her fingers curling against the mantle. 

She takes a deep breath and pushes herself away, moving towards the window. It’s hard for her to be there, it’s hard to watch her walk away. Caitlyn doesn’t know what possesses her to speak when they’ve only just managed to have something resembling a normal conversation. 

“I won’t wear the cape if you stay for morning drills.” 

Vi pauses and turns around. 

She doesn’t talk though so Caitlyn continues. 

“We fought well together.” 

“You mean when you saved my life and carried me off the battlefield?” Vi offers, but her hands are in her pockets and she steps forward. Away from the window, “Think you did most of the work there.”

“I usually do,” Caitlyn says. Vi scoffs, “it would be good to practice as—“

“A team?” Vi offers. Caitlyn nods. Vi considers her for a moment and then shrugs, “I could use a workout.”

Something in Caitlyn’s chest starts to flutter, even as she desperately tries to tamp it down. Vi walks over to the door. 

“Oh Loris is hungover, so go easy on him.” 

&&&&

General Kiramman and Enforcer Kiramman are blue. 

Caitlyn is red. 

Red like her sparring wraps, red like fire, red like a blush. Red like a memory. Red like blood. Red like the angry line that bisects her face from Ambessa’s blade. Vi finds her in front of the mirror, staring at her remaining eye. 

“I deserve this,” she says, like she’s trying to convince herself. 

“I’ve got those scars too,” Vi offers.

Caitlyn meets her eyes in the mirror, gasps and nearly topples over. Vi’s had her eye swollen shut enough to appreciate the loss of depth perception. Though she knows that’s not the only reason. She’s by her in a flash, steadying her quickly. Caitlyn tenses but doesn’t yank away. She just turns her head away. Caitlyn’s always looked pretty perfect, even running around the Undercity. Vi thinks the leg scar may have been her first one. This is a pretty spectacular second. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says quickly, “should you be out of bed?”

“I had to see,” Caitlyn says. Her eye scans across Vi’s face. Vi would look away but she doesn’t want to risk dropping her, “how long are your eyes going to glow?“

That makes her glance in the mirror. She doesn’t recognize the pink eyes that glow back at her. Not set in her own face anyway. The doctors said the glow should lessen as the drug works itself out of he system. Vi has no intention of becoming a shimmer addict. Even if the stuff saved her life. 

“A few days maybe,” she says, “docs say they might stay pink though. Is that—” Vi doesn’t know how to ask if that is something that’s going to rip them apart again. It’s not something she can change. 

Caitlyn motions vaguely at her missing eye. 

“I suppose both our eyes are different now,” she says, wincing when she tries to give a reassuring smile. 

“Let’s get you bandaged,” Vi tells her, “lean on me.” 

Caitlyn sits in front of her and lets Vi wind bandages over the cut. It will be a long road of healing but they are both alive. At the moment that’s the only fucking thing that matters. She tries to be gentle as she secures the bandage behind Caitlyn’s head. Caitlyn focuses on her with her remaining eye. The white threats through her hair but Vi can’t forget the red. 

“You’re pink,” Caitlyn muses. 

“Give it time, your scar will match,” Vi points out, “don’t try to smile,” she says when Caitlyn winces. There’s no shimmer Thank god, just those white tablets that take the edge off, “here.” 

Caitlyn takes them. Vi knows it’s darker in Cait’s canopy bed but it all seems the same as the shimmer heightens everything. She doesn’t know how any of this is going to play out. But some part of her and Caitlyn are painted with the same color for once. 

And somehow that’s all that matters.

[girlwithadragonheart]

Chapter 7 - Spite's Revenge (or lack thereof)

This story contains major spoilers for Dragon Age the Veilguard. Read at your own discretion!!

Kalais x Lucanis

Summary: It's finally time to get Lucanis and Spite's revenge against the Venatori witch that tortured them.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: Illario(yeah that should say how I feel pretty well about him), Kalais is pissed off, lots of venatori death, lucanis and kalais are so cute, sexual tension

A/N: Oooh Illario pisses me off so baddddd >:(

Chapter 6 DATV Masterlist Chapter 8(wip)

The morning light filtered through the cracks in the shuttered window, pale and hesitant, as if it didn’t quite belong in this room weighed down with unspoken words and regrets. My side still ached, a steady throb that tethered me to the moment, even though I was mostly recovered, like it was a phantom reminder of what happened. I lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of movement beyond the door. Life continued out there. Here, I felt stuck in some kind of limbo.

Eventually, I forced myself to sit up, wincing as the motion pulled at my tender skin. My gear sat neatly folded on the chair in the corner, my boots placed side by side. I wasn’t sure who had done it, but a nagging feeling told me it was Lucanis. Despite everything, he always made sure things were orderly---like if he could control the chaos of the little things, the bigger things might stop spinning out of control too.

The door creaked open, and I tensed, half-expecting to see him again. But instead, it was Varric, chest still bandaged up, and he walked with a limp while his leg was braced. His ever-present smirk was slightly softer than usual.

“Well, look who’s up,” he said, stepping inside. He pulled a stool over and dropped onto it with a sigh. “You look like hell, Rook.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “Good to see you too.”

Varric leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “So, you wanna talk about it? Or are we doing the whole ‘brooding in silence’ thing?”

I shot him a look that suggested exactly what I planned to do. “What’s there to talk about? We went up against a literal ancient nightmare, and I almost got myself killed. Again.”

“Yeah,” he said, his tone light but pointed. “And yet here you are. Still breathing. Which is more than most people can say after tangling with something like that.”

I leaned back against the headboard, my arms crossed. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”

“Enough for what?” Varric asked, his gaze sharp despite the casual set of his shoulders. “To save the world? To live up to whatever impossible standard you’ve set for yourself? Let me tell you something, Rook—being alive is enough. It’s a hell of a lot more than some people get.”

I looked away, my jaw tightening. “Tell that to the people we couldn’t save.”

“I have,” Varric said simpy. “And guess what? They’d say the same thing I’m saying now. You did what you could’ve. More than anyone else would’ve.”

Silence settled between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. I traced the edge of the blanket with my fingers, my thoughts tangling into knots. “Lucanis thinks he failed,” I said finally, the words tasting bitter in my mouth.

Varric nodded, like he’d been waiting for me to bring it up. “Of course he does. That guy’s got enough guilt to sink a ship.”

“Why?” I asked, my voice quieter now. “Why does he put so much of this on himself?”

Varric was silent for a moment, looking at me for long enough that I met his stare. The weight of it made me look away again. His voice was low when he asked, “Why do you?”

I looked down at my hands, flexing my fingers. “I don’t know how to help him,” I said instead.

“Start by helping yourself,” Varric said. “You can’t pull someone out of the fire if you’re already half-burned.” I frowned, about to argue, but he held up a hand to stop me. “I mean it, Rook. You’re both too damn stubborn for your own good. Maybe it’s time to stop trying to fix everything alone.”

His words hung in the air, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t have a sharp reply at the ready. Varric stood, patting my thigh affectionately before moving for the door. “Think about it,” he said, pulling the door open before looking over his shoulder at me. “And for Andraste’s sake, try not to get yourself killed again. I’m running out of sarcastic things to say at your bedside.”

I snorted despite myself, shaking my head. “I’ll try.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts. This time, they didn’t feel quite as heavy.

—-------------------------

I finally managed to drag myself out of the cot in the infirmary. My side was still tight, and the skin was stretched taut with a scar, but it was healed mostly over. Phantom pains still plagued me, but that could just have been the result of so much mental and emotional stress on a physical wound.

Lucanis and I hadn’t spoken, but I would wake to the smell of his cooking and a cioccolata calda steaming on a tray beside my bed. If that was his idea of a peace offering, I’d take it. Everything was hard enough without trying to lay our feelings out in a messy heap on the dining table. Best to keep them tucked away in organized folders, nice and neat to pull out when necessary and close up and put away in other cases.

And until the time arose for me to pull some of those folders out, they would stay right there in my chest where they belonged. Where I knew no one could see them or hurt them. 

Hurt me.

And yet, my feet carried me right to him anyway. As though they just couldn’t help themselves. As though I couldn’t help myself. Like a moth to a flame, always trailing after the danger and unable to resist the temptation of its warmth.

I knocked hesitantly before pushing open his door. Lucanis stopped mid-pace, seeing me. “Are you in here brooding?’ I asked with a slight smile.

“I’m fine,” He said, placing a hand on his hip.

“That’s not a ‘No.’”

“I had her. She should never have gotten away from me. This was our contract, Rook. I don’t fail my contracts,” he said, venom toward himself with every syllable that slipped from his tongue.

“Forget about Ghilan’nain,” I said.

“That’s why I’m here,” he argued.

“I know, but… I’m just happy you didn’t get killed out there.” I crossed my arms under my chest like I could pull that folder back in before it spilled all over the floor like loose coffee beans.

“You shouldn’t go easy on me,” Lucanis said. “Mistakes get people killed.”

“You’re an assassin,” I grinned. “So do successes.”

“I thought I still had this. Whatever else I am, I’m a professional,” he said. “After the Ossuary, I thought at least I could still take out a target. I need to work.”

“Ghilan’nain was a giant face in the clouds, Lucanis. I asked you to stab a cloud.”

“And I missed the damn cloud!”

“My point is: That was impossible, and you still almost did it. That’s not small,” I told him.

He sighed, looking at the ground. “I was distracted,” he said, looking back up at me. “That cannot happen again. I need to get my head on straight.”

“Whatever you need to do, okay?” I told him.

“Have you been to talk to the others?” He asked. “I think everyone might have… things to deal with now. I should check in with the Crows. Whatever the word is, I’ll let you know.”

“Tell Teia I said hi,” I told him before leaving. “And Lucanis,” I turned back toward him, and he looked up at me. “Stop beating yourself up before I beat you up,” I leveled him with the best glare I could manage.

His eyebrows shot up, “Is that a threat, mi estrella?”

I shrugged, smiling at him before shutting the door behind me. 

—---------------------

After a talk with Solas that night that provided no new information or feedback, I wandered back out to the dining hall to see if Lucanis had heard from the Crows. When I entered, he was standing at the corner of the table, several knives stuck into the wood.

“This is ominous…” I said as I approached.

“Viago found something,” Lucanis said.

“Something bad, I take it?” I asked, bracing myself for whatever news I was about to hear that had Lucanis sticking knives in the table.

“Venatori in Treviso. Like I thought. One of them might know where Zara is. Viago has Crows watching them. We find them, we find Zara,” he said.

“Everything she did to you… We’ll make her pay, Lucanis. Side by side,” I said earnestly.

“We just have to get this done. I’m not losing anyone else,” he said in a low voice. “We only get one shot at this. We’ll go when you’re ready.”

—----------------------

We met with Lucanis’s Crow contact. She told us that they found a group of Venatori hiding out in the market, not far from Cafe Pietra. They already took Minrathous from me. They couldn’t have Treviso too.

I would do anything to keep a home.

I didn’t like anything about this. I definitely didn’t like how willing Illario was to insist Zara had moved on and left. Especially now that Venatori were trying to occupy the city beside the Antaam.

We made our way through the city to where she said they were hiding. Of course the front door was locked. So we went up. There was always another route, this was Treviso, after all. Holes in the walls and climbing the lattice-works on the sides of buildings. Jumping between roofs and ziplining over canals. 

Still, I must’ve miscalculated a jump, my foot slipping. My heart plummeted to my stomach as I started falling. A hand gripping my wrist firmly stopped me, and a second later I was back on my feet, looking at Lucanis as his hand lingered on my wrist.

“Careful,” he said before turning to lead the way again.

I’d forgotten how fun it was to kill Venatori. They were worse than roaches. Like a rat in the last bag of rice. Lucanis watched with raised brows, almost in surprise as I slammed my dagger through a Venatori’s ribs all the way to the hilt before pulling it out and slitting his throat.

“You fight like a Crow,” he observed.

“Varric taught me to fight. I guess the rogue in him rubbed off on me,” I said in response. “Sometimes even a normal stabbing beats burning them to a crisp.”

“Remind me to stay on your good side,” he smirked.

“I think you’re safe,” I laughed.

There were lots of useless notes scattered around their hideout. Only one pointed to a possible lead. A powerful mage named Aquila. A mage? Two could play that game. Try a mage with a dagger, bitch.

It didn’t take long to get rid of him. His pockets were stuffed with jewelry from the Chantry. That was our next stop, then.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this? Facing Zara, I mean,” I asked him.

“I lost a year of my life to that Venatori witch. I owe her for that,” he said steadily.

We climbed up to the roof, and Illario was standing there. “There you are. What took you so long? Did you stop for coffee again?”

“Illario? What are you doing here?” Lucanis asked as we approached. I watched him, very much waiting to hear the answer to that myself.

“I’m coming with you, cousin. No arguments.”

“This is my job,” Lucanis argued.

“This is Crow business,” Illario countered.

“How did you even know we’d be here?” Lucanis asked.

Illario looked at me with a sly grin. “Rook! Always a pleasure. Touring the city with my cousin? You must allow me to show you the sights.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Lucanis told you not to come.” I saw a flash of anger and disappointment cross Illario’s face before it was gone, replaced by that stupid smug grin.

“This isn’t your type of job, cousin,” Lucanis said, shifting slightly closer to me. “There’s no one you can charm into dropping their guard. Only fanatics. All you can do is get yourself killed.”

“You think I’m not good enough?” Illario questioned.

“Are you?” Lucanis asked.

“Fine. Have it your way, cousin. You know best,” Illario replied with a hiss.

“Let’s go, Rook. Zara is waiting,” Lucanis told me.

“Go on, then. Don’t keep Zara waiting,” Illario crossed his arms, watching me like a predator. I sidestepped him, heading across the roof.

We didn’t find Zara, but we found about a dozen Venatori and a bone-reader in the Chantry hall. Apparently she was Zara’s favorite soothsayer, Porcia. Lucanis said if she’s here then Zara is too.

All of her lackeys were here, which meant she was here. We just hadn’t found her yet.

And of course, when we did find her, it was in a pool of blood in the basement of the holy sanctum.

And she was naked.

Great.

“Lucanis,” she purred. “It’s terribly uncivilized to drop in on a lady unannounced. Now the evening’s ruined.”

“You’ve got something on yourself,” I said.

“How very eloquent,” she said, standing from the water. She was covered in blood up to her collarbone, hair black and wavy, lips painted dark. Her eyes were bone white, a stark contrast to her hair and the blood bodysuit.

“Bitch,” I sneered, curling my lip and flipping her the bird. Lucanis glanced at me with a similar expression, and my hand clutched my dagger as she prepared to fight us.

All of my anger with the Venatori that had built in my veins now came charging out in a concentrated blast of fire and lightning. I watched as Lucanis leaped into the air, wings erupting from his back in a display of shadow and night and everything righteous and vengeful that had been building in him over the past year.

While she was busy focusing on not burning to a crisp and spending all her power regenerating herself, Lucanis grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her forcefully against the floor. Her once beautiful face was now old and wrinkled, her hair white as snow.

She cowered against the pillar she was thrown against, trying to drag herself up. “So serious, Lucanis! Why don’t we talk? I can tell you much about Venatori… and our pet Crows.”

“No. I want. Her heart. Quivering. On our knife,” I heard Spite hiss in Lucanis’s mind.

I watched Lucanis’s face twist, his neck straining as he fought against Spite for control. His eyes flashed purple before he closed them.

“You want to know who betrayed you, don’t you? Who sent you to the Ossuary?” Zara crooned.

“Talk,” Lucanis spat.

“I knew you were—”

She was cut off by someone dropping from the ceiling. I almost had them under my blade before I saw it was Lucanis’s cousin.

“Illario!”

“I told you. This is Crow business.”

“Amatu—” Zara was cut off by Illario’s hand around her throat, squeezing the life out of her. Literally. Her neck snapped. And she was gone.

“No! Mine!” Spite hissed through Lucanis’s teeth, wings flaring from his back. Spite screamed in anger, leaping into the air and pinning Illario, arm drawn back with his dagger. I watched in slow motion as he tried to plunge the knife into his cousin. His other hand caught his forearm.

“Get. Illario. Out!!” Lucanis yelled in my direction, fighting against Spite with everything in him.

“What? No—”

“Rook, I can’t—” He screamed in pain.

“Lucanis!” I moved in front of Illario.

“No!” Lucanis screamed.

The dagger pressed against my skin, drawing a nick of blood at my collar. “Rook. Move!” Spite hissed.

I stared right into those glowing purple eyes. “No. If you want him you have to kill me first.”

Spite growled. My face cracked as the dagger drew a scratch against my skin from Lucanis’s shaking hand trying to hold Spite back.

“Rook. Hurt!” Lucanis stumbled back, eyes back to their normal chocolate brown.

“Rook,” Lucanis took a step toward me, hand out. 

“Hey, I’m fine.” I swiped my thumb over the wound, letting my magic heal it with the pass. “See? Nothing’s there, it’s okay.”

“You need to get him out of here,” Illario said behind me. “Rook. Keep him away. From Treviso. From the Crows. He’s a danger to the family.”

I spun around to face him. Approaching with my finger in his face. “If you had bloody well stayed away like we bloody well told you to, this wouldn’t have happened! That wasn’t your fucking kill, Illario! Do you know he spent a year in that fucking prison getting tortured? That he never would’ve been possessed if not for her?” I spat, my hand fisted in his collar.

“Rook—” Lucanis said weakly.

“No!” I cried. “He does not get to call you a danger when he’s so reckless. And what was it Zara called you, hmm? Amatus? The Vint word for love, if I remember correctly from my time as a slave,” I spat in Illario’s face. “Forgive me, if I’m not ready to let you off the hook just because you happened to know where we would be, and happened to know where the Ossuary was, and happened to be called love by the person we came here to kill. So, no. You get out of here Illario before I get the mind to kill you myself. Your only grace is being Lucanis’s cousin. Get the fuck out of my sight.” I shoved him and he stumbled.

“Lucanis, you’re going to let your plaything speak to me like this?” He questioned.

“Kalais is not a plaything, and you would be the luckiest man in the world to have her as yours. Just go, Illario,” Lucanis said, all of the fight gone from him.

Illario looked between the two of us, scoffed, and walked away. He was smarter than I gave him credit for, then.

Lucanis watched him go and then fell to his knees. I rushed over to him, hands on his shoulders to keep him upright. “Come on, just gotta get back to the eluvian and you can rest,” I said, helping him to his feet. “I’m alright, okay, now I just need you to be.”

Lucanis complied as best he could, Spite helping him move with me as we traversed back to the Diamond and through the Eluvian to the lighthouse.

I managed to get him back to his room, sitting down against the wall as he passed out on his cot.

—--------------------

I didn’t sleep much, but I rested a bit while he did. He sat by me for who knows how long while I was injured, I couldn’t bear to leave now.

Hours later he stirred. “Rook?”

“You’re awake,” I said, looking up at him from my camp on the floor. I had brewed fresh coffee for when he awoke sitting on the table next to his bed, the small lamp the only light in the room.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been trying to figure out what to say to you,” he said quietly.

Ah.

So he’d been awake for awhile, then. I just didn’t know because he hadn’t stirred.

“And…” he continued. “There aren’t words enough to apologize.” I shifted to sit on my knees before his bedside, brows furrowed. “I never wanted you to see me like that. And to think I almost…”

I shook my head. “I’m still here,” I told him. “Nothing happened that I wasn’t expecting other than Illario falling from the sky,” I said with a slight grin. “And look…” I took his hand, pulling it to my collarbone where his dagger had nicked me. “There’s nothing there. Not even a scar.”

I let go, and his fingers trailed across my collarbone, eyes lingering on the skin there. A shiver went down my spine, goosebumps raising on my flesh. Lucanis inhaled sharply, looking away, putting his hands on his lap. “We need to talk about Illario.”

“He wants you to stay away from the Crows. He… thinks you’re a danger to your family,” I spat. I’d had plenty of time to think about it and let my anger cool down. And yet, every time I thought about it, that anger came rushing back. What better way to tell I was justified than that?

“He’s not wrong. If I cannot stay in control…” He said solemnly. “Something’s not right, though.”

I sighed. “I didn’t say anything because he’s your cousin, but… I’ve always had a bad feeling about Illario,” I said carefully. “And for your sake, I didn’t want it to be true.”

“For his sake, let’s hope you’re wrong,” Lucanis said. “Zara is dead. After everything she did to me…”

“To us!” Spite hissed.

“It should have been my knife that finished this. Illario denied me that.”

“Trust me, I won’t be soon forgetting that, either,” I scowled.

“Thank you, Rook,” he said softly. “Just… give me time.”

I took his hands, squeezing them lightly. “Of course. I’ll be around if you need to talk. Your coffee is on the end table. I made it, I hope it’s alright. I tried to copy how you do it,” I said sheepishly, looking away.

His eyes were wide, and he picked up the cup, bringing it to his lips. He hummed, eyes slipping shut as he tasted it. I squirmed with anticipation. His eyes slowly slid open to peer at me. “I think… this is better than my coffee, Kalais. I might be asking you to make it more often,” he smirked.

I felt my face flush, and I stood, hands on his knees as I leaned in. “No promises that I can make it again,” I said before standing and leaving the room.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: I hope you guys like the slight changes I made! (I needed to yell at that bitch (Illario) and Zara so badddd)

Let me know if you want to be added to the Lucanis tag list or the Kalais tag list!

[toytulini]

i made an oc thats at least nicknamed "Stupid" and im constantly thinking about what a power move that is tbh

[terrorbirb]

I think permanent corrective actions and root cause analysis exist solely to cause people with OCD and anxiety disorders to ruin their brains.

[paganinpurple]

AO3 Etiquette -UPDATED

Based on both decent and not so decent replies, I have made some changes to my original post below.

It would seem a whole new kind of AO3 reader/writer is emerging and it is becoming clear not everyone quite understands how the website community works. Here is some basic guidance on how most people expect you to go about using AO3 to keep this a fun community archive that funtions correctly:

As well as likes, kudos is for when the story was interesting enough to make you finish reading. If it sucked or was badly written, you probably left. If you finished it, you liked it - so kudos.

If you really liked it, you should try to comment. It can be long and detailed or a literal keysmash. Writers don't care, we just love comments.

No critisism unless the author has specifically asked or agreed to hear it (so use your notes to say if you want some constructive feedback). Even constructive critisism is a no-no unless an author note tells you it's okay. No, posting it online is not an open invitation for that. Many people write as a fun hobby or a way to cope with, among other things, insecurity and just want to share. Don't ruin that for them. I've seen so many authors just stop writing coz they can't handle the negative emotions the critism brings, and it's only meant to be a fun thing shared for free (pointing out tagging errors is not included in this).

Do not comment to ask the author to write/update something else. It's tacky and off-putting and will probably have the opposite effect than the one you want.

There is no algorithm, it's an archive. Use the search and filter function to add/remove the pairings/characters/tropes etc. you want to read about and it will find you the fics that fit the bill.

For this to work, writers must tag and rate stories. This avoids readers finding the wrong things and missing the stuff they want. I don't care how cringy that trope is in your eyes - it gets tagged.

The tag exception is if you don't want to tag a million things or spoil your story, you can rate it as "chose not to use warnings," and maybe tag the bare minimum.

Don't censor tags. How can someone exclude a tag if the word isn't typed out correctly? There are no content bans for terms so don't censor them.

If the tags are mostly content/trigger warnings, especially if they are things considered very fucked up or graphic, you might want to use "dead dove - do not eat" to ensure people know that you're not messing around with tags and what they get is exactly what you've warned them about.

Character A/Character B means a ROMANTIC or SEXUAL relationship of some kind. Character A&Character B is PLATONIC, like friendship or family.

Nothing is banned. This is an rule because banning one thing is a slipperly slope to banning another and another, until nothing is allowed anymore. Do not expect anyone to censor for you. Because of the tags system, you are responsible for your own reading experience.

People can create new chapters and sequels/fic series any time after they "complete" a story. So it's considered perfectly normal to subscribe, even to a finished story. You can even subscribe to the author instead just to cover your bases.

Do not repost stories or change the publishing date without an extremely good reason (like a complete top to bottom rewrite or an exchange youve written for going public). It's an archive, not social media. No one cares what's the most recent, only what fits their tag needs.

Instead of deleting a story you wrote if you hate it - consider making it anonymous or orphaning it so others can still enjoy it, without it being connected to your name anymore. If you still want to delete it, fair enough.

It's come to my attention that metaworks ARE allowed on AO3, which is something I wasn't aware of. So if you do post an essay or theory, please tag it as such so others can choose to search for it or exclude it. Art is also allowed.

The only reason this archive works is because NON ONE PROFITS. Do not link to your ko-fi or patreon or mention monetary gain in any way or you violate the terms and risk having your account removed. If anyone does link, it leaves the archive open to people claiming it's for profit and having the whole thing removed.

I KNOW there's plenty more I missed but I'm trying to cover most of the basics that people seem to be struggling with.

I invite anyone to add to this, but please explain, don't berate.

[iwieldthesword]

I need to talk about this because it's making me feel insane.

Last week, my white leftist goyisch friends sat me, a wholeass antizionist Jew, down for a "talk" because they "needed to check in about Palestine" and make sure "our values aligned before we hung out again". They apparently needed to "suss out" where I stood on Palestinian rights, despite having had several conversations about Palestine and them being some of my closest friends. They needed to check, to search for and uncover my true values, because I had said some "disturbing things" that had made them "suspicious".

Disturbing things included:

Supporting IfNotNow which is a "liberal zionist organization" because it normalizes Jewish heritage in the Levant

Not bringing Palestine up enough, despite them also not bringing it up (this was apparently a test)

Mentioning that the Houthi's flag talks about cursing all Jews

Saying Stalin was antisemitic because of the "all the paw-grihms"

...and apparently other things they wouldn't specify, but had been tracking for months.

To clarify, I am an antizionist Jew from three generations of antizionist Jews. I have been vocal in my support of Palestinian liberation and in my condemnation both of Israel's actions and its violent founding as a state, and of zionism in many of its forms. I am a regular donor to Palestinian and Jewish NGOs and advocate for Jewish antizionism in person, at temple, and online. I have been talking about Palestinian liberation before they could point to Gaza on a map. But they needed to make sure, they needed to "suss out", they needed to check. And it's notable that the majority of moments that made them suspicious of me were times where I talked about antisemitism: not about Palestinian liberation, not about Israeli decolonization, not about anything actually relevant to Palestine. It was talking about antisemitism that made them check to see if I was a cryptozionist.

One of the most pervasive and insidious forms of antisemitism is the idea that Jews are inherently untrustworthy and suspicious. You have to constantly be on guard, track what they say and do, "suss out" the real truth. You have to keep them in line and and watch them carefully because they're liars and sneaks, and if you're not looking closely they'll return to their real values (and drag you down with them). This is where the idea of "cryptozionist" comes from and what it's directly building off of: the inherent untrustworthiness of Jews and the need to check. Because no matter how close you become you can't actually trust them, and any upstanding gentile should make sure to avoid associating with Jews before "sussing out" their real allegiances and intentions. You have to make them turn out their pockets, just in case.

I'm the first and only Jew they actually were friends with; I know because they've told me (strangely proud of it in the way white Americans are proud of that kind of thing). They've asked me questions about Judaism and fawned over how beautiful and unique it was for me to be connected to my community and culture. Pre-October 7th, one of them had even mentioned being interested in coming to services at my temple. She still has my copy of our siddur. But now she needed to "check" before she could be seen with me in public. Which is what it was: it wasn't a "you're my friend and I need to give you some feedback because you're fucking up" kind of intervention (which is normal and important to have), it was a trial. It was a last chance for me to prove to them that I'm clean-enough that they could afford to risk being seen with me in public, just in case someone noticed them fraternizing with a hypothetical Enemy and their leftism was compromised. It was a test to make sure that I behave properly when required to, that I'd play along and do what I'm told and turn out my pockets if asked (because any refusal would validate the notion of having something to hide). And above all it was an opportunity for them to reaffirm their own cleanliness by putting my imagined immorality in its place.

I did what I needed to do: I smiled. I apologized. I "didn't know that". I "appreciated the feedback". I turned out my pockets because what else could I do? They'd decided who I was and what I believed, regardless of what I said or did, so there was no point in explaining that they were wrong about me. If I had told them they were being antisemitic, it would just have been proof that they were right. Caring about antisemitism is a dogwhistle in the spaces they've chosen: it's not a real form of oppression, it's a tactic for sneaky, lying Jews to weasel out of admitting their true alliances. There was nothing I could say.

Nothing's really changed for me. I'm going to continue my activism for Palestinian liberation rooted in my culture and my faith. Antizionism is still not antisemitism. But I got a reminder that many white goyisch leftists fundamentally just don't trust Jews, and that the activist spaces they're in not only exacerbate their antisemitism in an increasingly insular echo chamber, but also allow them to finally vent their internalized bigotry in a socially-acceptable way. In my former friends' eyes, what they did was activism—disavowing a Jew (and making me feel humiliated, scared, and unclean in the process) as a cathartic stand-in for doing fucking anything for actual Palestinian liberation—but for me it was a grief that I'll be feeling for a long time: not only over losing friends I loved and trusted, but also over my sense of belonging and security in leftist spaces.

[celtrist]

Next thing you'll say is he doesn't have a tail

ref to this pic

EDIT: Just to keep things clear I didn't really think about bringing it up but not everyone's gonna click to see the first picture and might be confused. Alastor was stated to know only a little bit of broken French, the reasoning due to being from New Orleans. Speaking standard French is very much not a thing in New Orleans, so he would logically only know French-Creole. This is very different from the standard French language and a large misconception that people from New Orleans speak regular French. So yes, he does speak some French, just not as well as people make him nor would it, in theory, be the regular French that everyone makes him speak [but I wouldn't put it past the writers to not do that research but maybe I have too little faith in them]. I'm not from New Orleans, I visited it once so it's not like I'm an expert. But I HAVE looked into it and just bothering with one Google search will tell you it's not common and you'll even have a special term called "Louisiana French" pop up. With that all said, these were statements made on years past streams and could've been changed in the official series. However, as of right now, the official statement is that he speaks only a little broken French that should technically be French-Creole if they're going by and that he's from New Orleans to know that language. And again, I don't have a lot of faith in writers to do the research into it being Louisiana French rather than regular French, but now I'm rambling lol This is just a bit of context for this comic so people who were curious can understand it a bit more. And it's totally possible I got something wrong, so feel free to point it out when I do. I just like to dig into the nooks and crannies of information for things :3 2nd EDIT: Just for any future reblogs, I did get somethings incorrect in the above (not surprising), so here's some of the corrections I got:

@mangotangerine: "A tiny nitpick - it would likely be Louisiana Creole, which is one of the French-based Creole languages (Haitian Creole is prob the most well known as it has about 10-12 million speakers vs Louisiana Creole which has around 10,000 due to multiple factors but especially legislation in early 1920s outlawing it). Louisiana French is an umbrella term for the various French dialects/etc in the region (e.g., the dialect Cajun French)." (We actually had a whole conversation in the comments of this post and highly suggest looking down there in case you're interested in learning more!)

@alyssumflowers: "I am from New Orleans and a little bit of a language nerd. You're confusing some things here. Cajun French is a dialect of French. My great grandmother spoke it fluently, my grandfather in pieces.

Louisiana Creole is another language entirely. The word "creole" means mixed and a creole language is basically a mixture of two or more languages. Sort of, it's a linguistics thing. Anyways. Louisiana Creole has next to no speakers left and I've had a hard time trying to find somewhere or someone to learn it from because I really want to." (Always great to hear from someone who has more insider knowledge on the subject! So I wanted to give this it's share due as well, hope you can fine somewhere to learn it! /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡ )

Thank you for the comments! My previous statement still stands about Al probably not speaking normal French, but I wanted these corrections still known and pointed out :3

[moonstruckme]

could i request poly!wolfstar or poly!jily where they’re pursuing reader and reader accidentally matches with them (like matching costumes) at a halloween party?

i think the teasing and flirting would be so cute!! 🥰

Thanks for requesting!

cw: mention of alcohol, smoking, Sirius makes lame and humorously objectifying jokes

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.5k words

You arrive to the party late, the Gryffindor common room already bustling by the time you and your friends have finished doing your last-minute costume alterations. There are glowing pumpkins floating on the ceiling, someone has charmed the room so that a thick layer of fog drifts along the floor, and the air already smells slightly of booze and cigarette smoke. 

You lose Lily’s attention immediately, but that’s to be expected. You’re more than accustomed by now to her searching for her boyfriend whenever you enter a room. What’s unexpected, however, is her reaction when she finds him.

“Uh oh.” 

“Uh oh?” You look at her, following her gaze to the couch across the room. “Oh. Oh, no.” 

Lily laughs. “It sort of seems like fate, doesn’t it? I think it’s sweet.” 

Sitting on their usual couch are the marauders. James, predictably, is wearing a costume matching Lily’s; they’ve both come as cowboys. Unfortunately, Sirius and Remus are sitting next to him dressed as pirates. 

You’re also dressed as a pirate. 

“It’s not sweet,” you moan. “If I go back up, do you think Marlene will make me some of her fake blood? I can change and be a vampire instead.” 

Lily hums. “Think it’s too late for that, babe.” 

She’s looking back towards the couch, where the boys have already caught sight of the pair of you. Sirius is beaming something atrocious, and even Remus looks amused while his boyfriend waves you over exuberantly. 

Lily takes your hand in hers, tugging you with her as she goes to them. 

“Howdy, darlin’.” James puts on an exaggerated southern drawl as you approach, opening his arms to his girlfriend. 

“My, my,” says Sirius as you sit between him and Lily, “don’t you look nice.” 

You ignore the warmth that brings to your face. “The point wasn’t really to look nice.” 

Your costume is thrown together from things you already had, the only thing that really distinguishes you as a pirate being the bandana you’ve tied around your head. Remus appears to have gone a similar route, although the white shirt he’s tucked into his pants looks a bit more on-theme than yours and he’s clearly been forced to wear an eye patch which is currently flipped up so that it’s not covering anything. Sirius, of course, does nothing halfway. He’s wearing a billowy black top that’s been unbuttoned nearly to his navel, more belts and buckles than you knew one person could have, and a captain’s hat he surely bought just for the occasion. Altogether, you make a fairly fearsome group. 

“Not sure you can help it, gorgeous.” Sirius winks at you. “You always look nice. Did you plant a spy to find out what you needed to wear to match us, then?” 

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “I should probably be asking you that.” 

“Must’ve just been fate,” Sirius says. It’s so close to what Lily said that your cheeks blaze, but you also don’t know if you quite believe him. Remus, too, turns to give his boyfriend a questioning look. 

Sirius catches it and scoffs, holding up his hands. “I didn’t! Honestly.” 

Remus nods, appeased. In a less booming voice than his boyfriend’s, he tells you, “You do look very nice.” 

“Thanks.” You catch yourself fingering the ends of your hair like a nervous schoolgirl and tuck your hands underneath your thighs. “So do both of you.” 

Sirius grins knowingly, and you have to fight the urge to shove your face into Lily’s shoulder for refuge. He knows as well as you do that for all of his brazen flirting, it’s Remus’ quiet sincerity that flusters you the most. You’re not sure when it started, exactly, but it’s been clear for some time now that both boys are interested in you. You’re not sure in what capacity—they could want to take you to bed for one night, integrate you into their relationship, or anything in between—but as of yet you’ve neither encouraged nor discouraged their advances. 

“Thanks, dollface.” Sirius gives a winsome crack of a smile. “You know, I’ve already acquired some booty, but I wouldn’t mind winning some more.” 

“Sirius…” Remus groans.

You feel your eyebrows pinch. “Some what?” 

“You know, like pirate’s loot? My booty.” Sirius sidles closer to Remus, giving his thigh a solid pat. 

Remus’ eyes narrow. “I will leave you here and go back upstairs right now.” It sounds as though this is not the first time this has been threatened. 

“I worked hard for it!” Sirius defends himself. 

You cover your mouth against an appalled giggle. “It?” 

“I toiled, and I fought, and I had to battle many other fearsome ships! It’s mine.” 

“Remus,” you stage whisper, “blink twice if you need help.” 

Remus’ smile blooms, but when he starts to blink Sirius objects, “Oi!” 

“No,” you correct him, “you’re supposed to say ‘arr.’”

Sirius is grinning again, too, clearly chuffed that you’re joking around with them even if it is at his expense. “If I say ‘arr,’ you’ll agree to be my second booty for the rest of the night?” 

“I won’t make any promises. But it would be persuasive.” 

He growls enthusiastically, “Arrrrgh!” and slams his fist down on the table. The sound it makes is enough to tear James and Lily’s attention away from each other. 

“Merlin,” says James. “Did’ya hurt yourself there, Pads?” 

“No,” Sirius replies, but he gives his hand a little shake. 

Remus, rolling his eyes, takes it and kisses the side. He brings it into his lap for safekeeping. Your heart gives a painful little throb. 

You must have some stupid lovestruck look on your face, because Lily peers around James to see you better, a smile playing on her lips. She knows about your crushes on the two boys, just as well as she knows that you haven’t decided what to do about them yet. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t like to help you along. 

“Come on,” she says to James, standing and taking him with her. “Let’s dance, and I’ll let you pretend to lasso me.” 

James beams. “Yes!” 

You watch them go while Sirius seizes the opportunity to move to your other side, the three of you taking up the entirety of the couch. 

“Phew,” he sighs, swinging his feet over the armrest. 

“You may want to take your legs out of the fog,” Remus suggests, also using the new space to bring his feet onto the couch. “It gets sticky after a while.” 

You frown but do as he says, pulling your feet from your shoes so that only your socks are on the couch. And sure enough, when you touch a finger to your ankle it feels like there’s an odd sort of coating over it. 

“I thought it was just fog,” you say. 

“It was supposed to be,” agrees Sirius, “but James entrusted the task of making it to Marlene, and there are some who think she might’ve laced it with some sort of drink.” 

“I’m some,” Remus owns. 

You smile. “So is the point that you should be able to…drink the fog?”

“No clue.” Sirius leans over the edge of the couch. “Let’s find out.” 

“Sirius, no,” Remus says weakly, trailing off when it’s clear the other boy won’t be deterred. You both watch as he sucks in what fog he can, closing his mouth around it. “That’s disgusting, everyone’s been walking around in it.” 

“I think it might be brandy,” Sirius muses. “It’s faint, though.” 

Remus frowns. “I’m not kissing you until you brush your teeth.” 

Sirius grins. “Yes, you are.” 

“We’ll see, won’t we?” 

“Wouldn’t you rather just get your own drink?” you ask Sirius. “Rather than sampling the faint traces of brandy that have been touched by other people’s shoes, I mean.” 

“Oh, rest assured, gorgeous, I’m all covered.” Sirius picks a cup up from the table. He seems to notice at the same moment that you don’t have a cup of your own. “Would you like one, though?” 

You glance to the table cluttered with alcohol and mixers, a throng of students clustered around it. “I’ll get one in a bit.” 

“Let me.” Sirius stands. He edges around the table, stopping to pinch your chin affectionately and give his boyfriend a kiss. “Rem, my love, keep her company, would you?” 

“You don’t have to,” you object. “I can get it.” 

“No, don’t be ridiculous. A pirate has to take care of his booty, hasn’t he?” 

“I never agreed to that!” you call after him. In a quieter voice, you add, “And I don’t think that’s how the relationship between a pirate and their booty works.” 

“Let him go,” Remus advises you. You startle a bit when his hand finds your knee, resting there in fond commiseration. “If he’s going to degrade us like this, he can at least bring us drinks.” 

You feel your lips tilt. “Are you really going to let him call you his booty all night?” 

“Probably.” Remus shrugs, his eyes finding his boyfriend across the room. “Anyway, it’s nice not to be alone in it. As far as he’s concerned, you’re already his as well.”

[benegesseritofficial]

The effects of face paint on Harrowhark's psyche

I've now cosplayed Gideon Nav 3 times, with my wife along as Harrow every time. Naturally, this has included full face paint for both of us each time and I have some thoughts.

Let me start by asserting that everything Muir writes in TLT about the face paint is accurate. Rubbing off your lips first, smearing into gray where the black and white meet, the way sweat makes it ooze but not run. I can't say if Muir (a known Homestuck) ever cosplayed as a troll, but I'm positive she tested out the practicality of the skull face paint or otherwise has first hand experience with extensive use of grease paint. Also, the way she describes normal people flinching when they see you is spot on.

I've noticed while putting on the make up that once most of my skin is covered, any flesh tones sticking out start to become unsettling. Specifically, the red/pink of the inner mouth and around the eyes jump out upsettingly. Every time I've done skull paint I find myself meticulously trying to patch over these edges of skin, despite knowing that it's inside skin that Shouldn't Have Make Up On It. Once my face is monochrome, I don't want to be able to see a scrap of real human under there. Smiling, or otherwise opening your mouth wide enough to see the pink, looks UNSETTLING. My own skin causes the uncanny valley effect. You see where this is going. In NtN we learn Harrowhark disassociates often enough that Crux isn't surprised or concerned to see "Harrow" insisting she's someone else. Obviously this is due to her schizophrenia, and perhaps trauma besides. But it doesn't account for every aspect of why Harrow's "like that." On her most lucid days Harrow ignores her body to the point of sweating blood and passing out. She goes entire days without eating. She thinks of herself as a skeleton unfortunately covered in flesh. She sleeps in her paint.

All of which is heinous, but that last one has stuck with me. From age 13-18 I barely glanced down while I showered and whatever I saw I basically blocked out. I wore underwear and a bra under my pajamas to sleep every night. I was going through the wrong puberty, "my body was in open rebellion" as I liked to say at the time, and the only way to cope was to bind it down and pretend it wasn't happening. By Gideon's narration in HtN one gets the impression most nuns of the Ninth are putting their paint on after breakfast and taking it off when they get home. It's not even expected the average person wears it every time they leave the house. But Harrow regularly only takes her paint off in order to redo it. I suspect a combination of being the most brainwashed person in her own cult, knowing how she was conceived, and the regular disassociation make it very difficult for Harrow to conceptualize that she actually lives in a body. If she faced that fact head on she'd have to ask why it so often feels someone else is using her body. She'd have to cope with owning this body, being a part of this body, that was bought with the blood of 200 children who should have been her peers and friends. Instead she pretends it's an object on loan from them. And she does it with 10 layers of black petticoats and so much paint she never has to see her own skin.

Which brings me to the final thing I've noticed wearing full face paint. It dehumanizes you to yourself and everyone around you. I couldn't read my own expressions in a mirror. Even people who understood and were delighted with my cosplay were visibly nervous talking to me. You don't look like a person. Studies have shown that faces wearing heavy make up are ranked as harder to read and perceived as less empathetic. It's a particularly insidious trap of patriarchy that many women find self esteem in wearing make up, while that very act makes everyone around them treat them more callously. And, worst of all, if you stop wearing it once you're used to it, your naked face is shocking. You look sick due to your colors being less bold and the normal small flaws of your face appear unbearably ugly. With all this in mind, Harrow has trapped herself in a feedback loop of not being able to witness her own face and becoming more and more disgusted with the flesh and person underneath whenever she has to glance at it.

[inkskinned]

there are a lot of posts out there that are positive and healthy coping mechanisms for handling the holidays. this is not one of them :)

i think there's like. going to be times in your life you will be stuck in a social situation that you cannot escape from gracefully. i do not know why the internet doesn't believe these times exist. it's not always just that your physical safety is at risk - sometimes it's legit like "i just don't currently have the energy or time to put in the effort of responding to this." sometimes it's a coworker you hate so much. sometimes it's just like, fine, you know? like you know you can handle your aunt when she's cheerily horrible, but if you actually set a boundary around her, it's going to be weeks of fallout with your father.

i don't know why people think the answer is always just "cut them out!" or "don't let them get away with that!" because ... the real world is tricky and complicated. i think kind of a lot of us have an internal "radiation poisoning" meter for certain people. like - i'm talking about the ones who are absolutely giving you gradual ick damage. like, you can handle them, but you'll be exhausted.

and yes. you absolutely should listen to your therapist and the good posts about handling others and set good boundaries and take care of yourself. prioritize peace.

HOWEVER :) ...... since im often in a situation with a Gradual Sense of Ick person i cannot just "cut out" of my life (without losing someone else precious to me) - i have sort of developed the most. maladaptive form of mischief possible. because like, if i'm going to have to listen to this shit again, i like to have a little bit of private fun with it.

now! again, i am physically safe, just mentally drained by this man. you should only do this with people you are not in danger with. which leads me to my suggestions for when your Unfortunate Acquaintance shows up and says oh everyone pay attention to me.

my favorite word is "maybe!" said as brightly and happily as possible. whenever the Horrible Person starts in on a topic you do not want to go further with, particularly if they make a claim that you know to be inaccurate, do not respond to it. you and i have both tried to actually argue with this person, and it hasn't gone well, because this person just wants the drama of an argument. however, "maybe!" gives them literally nothing to go on. it is incredibly disarming. they are used to people having some response. they know they can't prove what they're saying, and maybe! treats them like the child they are. it dismisses them in the politest way possible.

i like to say maybe! and then, in their stunned silence, immediately change the subject. this is because i have adhd and i will have something unrelated to talk about, but if you can't think of topics fast enough, i recommend just pointing to something and saying, "isn't that lovely?" because fuck you let's bring in some positivity.

by the way. that second trick - of pointing to something and stating an opinion about it? - that just works on its own, like, 70% of the time. i picked it up from teaching preschoolers. it's an intentional "redirect". it stops children crying and it also stops grown adults from finishing their explanation on why women belong in kitchens. dual wielding!

keep it silly for yourself. i absolutely do not care if people think i'm fucking stupid (it's more fun if they do) and as a result i will purposefully misunderstand things just to see how long it takes them to realize i've completely removed them from the subject at hand. when they say "women aren't funny" i get to be like. "which women." "all women." "all women in america?" "no in the world." "like the mole people? the people in the world?" "what? no. like, alive." "oh are we not counting the mole people?" "what the fuck are you talking about." "you don't believe in the mole people?"

similarly, i play a personal game called "one up me." my Evil Acquaintance literally knows this game exists (my family & friends caught onto it and now also play it) and it always fucking gets him. i don't know why. you have to be willing to be a little free-spirited on this one, though. the trick is that when they make one of those horrible little bigoted or annoying comments they are always making, you need to go one unit weirder. not more intense, mind you - just more weird. "you don't look good in that dress." "yeah, actually, my other dress was covered in squid ink due to a mishap at the soup store." "you shouldn't wear such revealing clothes." "wait, what? oh shit. sorry, your son tears off strips when no one is looking and eats them. i swear it was longer before we left the building."

the point of "one up me" is to completely upend this person's narrative. we both know this person likes setting up situations where you cannot "win" and then they really like telling other people how badly you handled it. in a usual situation, if you respond "please don't say something that rude", you're a bitch. but if you let it happen, you're letting yourself be debased. they are not usually expecting door number three: unflappably odd. because what are they going to say when they're telling everyone how badly you behaved? "she said my son eats her dresses" ".... okay?"

if you can, form an allyship with someone whomst you can tagteam with. where they can pick up on your weird "soup store" story and run with it.

the following phrase is amazing and can be deployed for any situation: "oh, be nice :) it's the holidays!" i do not know why this works as often as it does. i'll say it for the most random shit. i think this is bc most of the time these people know they're being impolite, they just like to fight.

godbless. when in doubt, remember that you could always start stealing their pens.

the whole point of this is - if you can't escape. maybe see how long you can just be. like. a horrible little menace.

[curseofaphrodite]

prisons & prophets

Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!prophet!reader

Oracles were only admired if they were royalty. For a merchant's daughter like you, prophetic claims came with marks of a heretic and "burn at the stake" threats.

You coughed up dust when you were pushed onto the stone floor. There was silence around you, one that seemed more curious than haughty.

You carefully looked up to see Queen Rhaenyra, who looked as if you were a dead lion that just fell from the sky.

"What is the meaning of this?" There was fury and familiarity behind those words, and you groaned as you registered Jacaerys Velaryon in the room. He had his eyes trained on the guards and was intentionally ignoring yours.

Great.

"She's a witch!" The first guard yelled, sounding like he had a personal vendetta against you. It might had something to do with how you kicked his balls earlier to try to be freed from him, but you weren't sure.

Daemon Targaryen laughed. The sound made you look around the room properly. Daemon and Rhaenys were seated opposite each other, both looking more intimidating than the other. There were at least five guards around the room. But perhaps the most intimidating of them all was Rhaenyra herself, who looked fierce and gentle all at once. She gave off a godlike aura, which had you half tongue-tied. Jace stood a few paces in front of her.

"A witch?" She asked, almost exhausted. "How is she a witch?"

"She's from Driftmark—" a second guard said, sounding more civil than the last.

"That explains it," Darmon interrupted, smirking at Rhaenys. The latter rolled her eyes.

"Daughter of a merchant who migrated from Westeros three years ago. Her stepmother wrote to us saying there is a witch in her family, and presented us with enough information that we had no choice but to act."

"I'm not a witch," you sneered. The first guard kicked you down to the floor.

"Silence!" He yelled; and you felt rage and humiliation rising tenfold.

When you could look up again, everyone was staring at Jace. He had his sword out, pointed directly at the chin of the guard. Everyone was appalled. Everyone except Daemon, who looked proud.

"You will not treat a lady with disrespect in Queen's court ever again, or you'll be dismissed," he said plainly.

The guard seemed to calm down considerably. "Yes, my prince."

The prince in question did not look satisfied, but he put away his sword. It went without saying that he still hasn't spared a glance towards you.

"What's this information that convinced you she was a witch?" Rhaenyra asked, skeptical.

As the third guard brought your scrolls forward, you knew you were doomed.

"My stepmother just wanted to ask the palace for money in my exchange!" You cried out. "I'm not a witch!"

No one seemed to have heard your protests. The guard gave the scrolls to Rhaenyra, who took some and gave the rest to her husband. Daemon opened them, his interest evident.

"These are just drawings," Rhaenyra turned the paper upside down, as if they'd make more sense that way. Jace looked as if he wanted to spare a glance, but he hesitated and stood his ground.

"They're her predictions," the first guard answered, almost hissing. "It speaks of many things... including Lucerys Velaryon's death." Rhaenyra paled at the words. You knew the wound about her son was still fresh, and you instantly felt sorry for her. "If she had a hand in his death—"

"I didn't."

"Then it was a concern to not chain her," he finished, triumphant. "Should I bring her to the dungeons, Your Highness?"

Rhaenyra thought for a while before answering. "This seems like not enough proof to force upon a conviction on someone. These scrolls could mean anything—"

"Apologies, Your Grace, this needs immediate attention." Maester Gerardys burst through the doors with a message in his hands. He ignored you, the guards, the scrolls — as if none of it was remotely comparable to what he was going to say.

"Jaehaeyrs Targaryen is dead."

Silence filled the room once again. You felt like you were invading a moment you shouldn't be in. But if Maester saw you, he didn't think you enough of importance so he went on.

"Decapitated... They think you ordered them to do it! That's the news spreading through the streets anyway."

"Me?" Rhaenyra looked surprised at the implication.

"Two," Daemon spoke up, his face buried in the scrolls. Your scrolls. Everyone stared at him.

"What?"

"There are two sketches of funeral pyres. Both look small enough to be children's." Daemon met your eyes. "One has the Velaryon crest, and one has the Targaryen crest."

You closed your eyes, sighing.

--

Even though the dungeon was dark and uncomfortable, you fell asleep the moment dusk arrived.

You weren't even surprised when you dreamt of him; A vegetable stall, and a boy.

A teen with dark hair and brown eyes, seemingly dressed down from the rest of the royals. Even then, his fabric was finer than anything you've ever seen. If disguise was what he was going for, he hadn't done it right.

"Would you like some apples?" you asked on behalf of your father, who was sleeping in for the day. Who could blame him? You were tired in the scorching heat, and it hadn't even been three hours since you started.

"Uhm, yes please. How much for them?"

You named your price and he frowned.

"Am I supposed to bargain?" He asked, blinking.

This earned a laugh. "Don't your servants usually do the shopping?"

There was a pause and he paled under your daring gaze. "How did you-"

"You're wearing a Targaryen ring."

"Who's to say it's not a stolen relic? Or fake?"

"If it was stolen, you wouldn't parade it around in daylight."

"I would if it meant pretty girls mistaking me for the Prince."

"—and if it's fake," you continued, ignoring his comment. Men flirting was as common as fruits rotting. It often had nothing to do with who they were talking with, and more about getting abed. "The guards confiscate any fake things made in the name of the Crown."

"Fine, you caught me," he sighed, taking the ring off and dropping it inside his clothes. "There. I'm off Prince duty now."

"Jacaerys!" A guard with long, dark hair and a matching beard seemed relieved at the sight of the Prince. The latter groaned. You were curious about why he wasn't addressed with formalities. You hadn't guessed there would be friendships between the royals and those who served them. "What have I told you about running off?"

"I thought my younger brother could use a one-on-one with you. I've already mastered my swordsmanship."

"Hardly!" The guard scoffed, then noticed you. "Forgive us miss, we've a long way off the castle so you'll excuse us now."

You were reeling from how polite they both sounded. You nodded curtly. The guard might as well have dragged the Prince by his arms.

"I'll come for the apples another time!" Jacerys yelled behind his shoulders.

And he did.

Again and again.

He soon confided in you that the guard gave him and his brother private lessons in an abandoned ground outside the town, and that it was the reason for his frequent visits. The guard soon warmed up to you too, and he was positively in love with the grapes you sold. He told you his name was Ser Harwin Strong. Jace said others called him Breakbones. You didn't know why because the man had the gentlest eyes.

Then one day, both of them just stopped coming.

No explanation, nothing. It was like they never existed.

---------------------------------------

"Wake up, the Queen wants to see you." The keepsman said, nudging your shoulders. You scrambled to your feet, eyes blinded by the fire lamps lit all around.

Before you could so much as adjust your hair, Rhaenyra briskly walked in. She nodded her head and the guards left the room, closing the wooden door behind them.

"Good wishes, Your Grace." You wanted to look down to the floor, but you couldn't keep your eyes off her. She was wearing black robes with red stones that carved into an intricate design, which looked suspiciously like a dragon tail. She sat down on the makeshift bed, her fingers intertwined.

"You can be honest with me."

You blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I wouldn't hang you or — burn you in a stake," she said firmly. "You can tell me the truth, any and all of it."

"You believe in magic?" you were bewildered.

"In a kingdom ruled by dragons, magic isn't far off the table."

"I'm not a witch," you said, almost stumbling over your words. She raised her eyebrows. "I'm not — I don't know what I am. Someone... something is talking through me. It does the sketches, not me. I'm a spectator to whatever I'm drawing."

Rhaenyra looked like she wanted to interrupt when you started sounding more panicked. But you paid her no heed.

"I say it's nonsense all the time. True, I predicted the storm two summers ago but how was I to know a vision of a tree in the middle of the ocean had any impact on what went above it? Isn't that just pure idiotic?"

"Y/N—"

"A vision once told me I would get married to a red boar, for fuck's sake!"

"Red boar?"

"Another time I saw a goose looking in a mirror and then killing itself. Don't know what that means either, do I?!"

The Queen reached for your hand, bringing you back from the evergrowing spiral inside your head. You realized you were gasping for air.

"You don't have to have all the answers," she said consolingly. "It wasn't fair of me to ask that much."

You nodded, calming down. "Thank you."

She stood up. "I'll make sure you're given dinner after your next visitor."

"Next?"

"How do you know him, I wonder?" she met your eyes questioningly. "My son?"

"I don't," you replied, just as fast. She didn't look one bit convinced but nodded anyway. Then she left without another word.

Jacaerys came in right as she left. He was wearing a different set of robes, but the vest looked the same. His hair had gotten even messier, which you didn't think was possible. Suddenly, you were aware of what you wore. All you had was your white nightgown, which you were still wearing when you had been forced out of bed.

"I want you to be one of the council advisors," he stated, all business-like.

"Uhm, what?"

"You're a prophet," he sat down where Rhaenyra did, though he looked more uncomfortable about it. "You're an asset."

You snorted. It was very much like a royal family to say something like that. "I'd disagree, Your Grace."

"You don't have to do the titles." Then he noted how you looked mad. He sighed. "I'm sor-"

"I'm sorry about your brother," you interjected, and sadness filled his face. But he ignored your comment and looked at his hands instead. He still had the Targaryen ring, along with a few other new ones. You frowned at one of them in particular, but he spoke before you look longer at it.

"Ser Harwin Strong was my father."

So much about the sentence had you in surprise, but only one mattered above all others.

"Was?"

"He died two days after the last time I visited you," he nodded. "Which is also why I never came again. Foul play was suspected in his death, but never confirmed. They found a new guard for me, one who trained me inside the palace walls."

"I'm sorry." You didn't know what else to say.

"I missed you everyday, if that counts."

You smiled. "It does."

"And that skill of yours? Seeing future? Do not push it down." His voice was firm. "Control it. No matter what you think, it's a power. And whoever gave you that power wouldn't have given it to you if they thought you couldn't handle it."

Now you really didn't know what to say.

"I'll have you transferred to a room. A nice one with a view out to the sea." He promised, standing up. "That is, if you agree to my offer to be an advisor."

"And my stepmother?"

"She's banished from the castle, of course. Not a coin given, even though what she gave us is invaluable. She just didn't know it."

"Oh, please." You laughed.

"I hope I'll see you soon, Y/N," Jace said wholeheartedly, noting how his visit was coming to an end. As he stepped out of the dungeon, you were still thinking about his words.

And also his ring, specifically the one that had a tusked animal carved on it, entirely out of pure ruby.

In other words, a red boar.

THE END

-----------

some notes

Ser Harwin dies wayyy earlier but I tweaked the timeline to be aligned here.

the goose killing its reflection prophecy was reference to Halaena's drawings.

which speaks about Erryk and Arwyn's deaths. Goose is their crest.

I'm not sure if I should continue this story 'cause it holds up good on its own as a oneshot! But if you'd like, you can drop ideas for the continuance of this fic or other new jace fics @ my asks!

ty for reading and here's my coffee page if you want to support me :)

[artytaeh]

a honorary thought about how theodore nott would be with you, mrs. nott, his wife— during those blessed first vacations as a married couple; your honeymoon.

warnings: includes smut, so obviously it's advised for +18 readers; read at your own risk. use of italian provided by google translator, if i have readers who speak italian fluently, please don't murder me! </3

honeymoon!theo who seems extremely relaxed, calm and unprepared for this first vacation with you as his wife, to italy— his home country. what you don't know is that theodore had been thinking and planning these weeks for months, maybe even years, during those mornings at hogwarts that he woke up before he needed to leave his bed and prepare for classes. unbeknownst to you, theodore is prepared to suggest names for your future children: that's how well theo has thought (and planned) for a future with you.

honeymoon!theo who doesn't give you much context or details over what you'll be doing during those weeks; you know that it'll be in italy, and got some advice over which clothes would be a good idea to bring in your luggage. if you expected one week of vacation— yeah, dolcezza, not happening. italy is a beautiful country; given the opportunity to show you around, theodore will make sure that his family's money is put to good use, and ensure at least three weeks of walking around.

honeymoon!theo who has most of the days planned; he made sure that three weeks was enough time to see part of italy's best spots, yet never giving you one day that makes you feel exhausted. at most, you'll see or visit three different places during the same day, yet not far enough that'll get your feet hurting from walking too much.

honeymoon!theo who had a hard time selecting where to take you during these three weeks— at the same time that he wants you to see how lively, colorful and amazing his homeland is, theodore doesn't want to have you exhausted in a matter of days. in the end, theo decided that he'd give you the best of two worlds: the beautiful cities, and the breathtaking countryside.

honeymoon!theo who makes sure that you'll have a taste of most of italy's native dishes. desserts, treats, appetizers, dinner and even drinks; theodore makes it a point to show you why he slandered hogwarts' food on a daily basis. however, if you're a picky eater or have a few food limitations, theo makes sure to only encourage you to eat what he knows that you'll like. never forces you to taste anything that you might not like, should it have any ingredient that you don't eat / don't like.

honeymoon!theo who will buy a slice of pizza, a cup of pasta or other treats as you stroll around the streets, making sure that you taste some of them and are never the slightest bit hungry.

honeymoon!theo who teached you a few sentences and phrases in italian, helping you with the pronounciation just right. simple things, really, like petnames, simple phrases (how to say thank you, how to say hello and good morning, even a few curse words should someone be a jerk to you and because you cursing on his native language turns him on).

honeymoon!theo who refers to you as mrs. nott. if you're at a restaurant— theodore will be a gentleman and make the order for the two of you, saying what he'd like to have, and what mrs. nott chose instead for today's meal. will teasingly refer to you as mrs. nott, if you ever engage playful banter or have a silly argument. if you're angry, well, being called mrs. nott dissolves any annoyance that you might have towards your husband.

honeymoon!theo who takes the chance of being in italy again, to buy his favorite brands of cigarettes; he promises to smoke a little less, though. one in the morning, as he waits for you to finish dressing up for the day— then one at night, leaving the windows open after you two were intimate, as you are comfortably laying on his chest. one hand holds the cigarette, while the other runs its fingers through your hair; here, theodore has each hand holding two of his biggest addictions. surely, if possible, theodore might sneak one cigarette during afternoon or after lunch; if you don't like the smell, theo will make sure to do it away from you. is there a shop you'd like to check? while you explore it, theo might smoke his second cigarette of the day.

honeymoon!theo who never gets his hands out of you. waist, lower back, holding hands or intertwined fingers; now that you're his, he has even less reasons to let go of you. italy is a crowded, famous country for vacations; between locals and tourists you walk together, as theodore guides you along, making sure that he never loses sight or hold of his wife.

honeymoon!theo that has a morning routine; lazying around in bed for a little longer, forearms feeling the softness of the pillow as he rests his head there— prompted up enough to see you. his gaze never wavers; theodore watches as you walk around the bedroom, each step being a soft pad on the floor, as you rummage through the wardrobe and seek for what you'll wear today; making your way then to the bathroom. if he's too sleepy, theo will take a light nap as he waits for you, lulled by the muffled sound of the water running for your shower; should he feel a bit more energetic, or more of a morning person, theo will follow you like a puppy, hugging your waist from behind as he kisses his way to shower with you.

honeymoon!theo who decides that his vocation is to help mrs. nott, his stunning, gorgeous wife getting ready for anything. oh, so you're preparing yourself to sleep? theodore will be more than happy to brush your hair, or to have you teaching him what products to apply, and how, to your hair— are you too lazy to take off your make-up? don't worry, theo does it for you; and even throws a dirty joke about removing your make-up in another, more elaborate and definitely much more pleasant, way. specially after a long day strolling around the streets, theodore will be more than happy to just let you relax, while he takes care of you.

honeymoon!theo who also loves to help you getting ready to leave, too. do you need this thing from the wardrobe or from your luggage? don't worry, he'll get it for you. are these the shoes you're wearing tonight? sit on the bed, bella, i'll tie them for you. do you need him to hold something or even help you with your hair? theodore nott is a very competent husband (or does his best to learn how to be very helpful for you). if you don't need help, well, theodore will sit on the edge of the bed, with those icy blue eyes gaining a new loving shade, as he looks at his bellissima getting ready to leave the room with him.

honeymoon!theo who took you to some window shopping with you, at venice and milan. two beautiful cities, where people proudly dress to impress; the shops didn't disappoint you at all. each dress or mannequin that you stared for more than two seconds got theodore to hold you by the hand, and gently dragging you to enter the shop; theo was more than happy to hold bags for you, one arm wrapped around your waist, while the other proudly holds his wife's bags from all the stuff you bought (correction: what theodore persuaded you to bring along, strictly using his family's money).

honeymoon!theo who perfected the art of convincing mrs. nott to agree with allowing him to spoil her; why shouldn't you be pampered by your own husband? in fact, theodore argues that doing so is a significant other's duty (and privilege). should you argue that everything's too expensive, well, theodore has two valid arguments for that: one, the nott family is ridiculously wealthy— one dress won't make his wallet lighter; and two, it's your money too, now. so why shouldn't you use it?

🗯️ : but teddy, darling— this is too much. i won't have enough space in my luggage to take all of these extra clothes with me.

t : don't worry about that, carina. if anything, we'll buy an extra luggage for you. fanculo, you know what? let's buy you a bigger one so you'll have to buy more things to fill it up. here, cara mia, look at this shop.

honeymoon!theo who takes a few nights to take you to dance around with him, strolling around some streets with good bars— a fancier version of those slytherin parties that you went together, except the lack of excessive green, besides lorenzo and mattheo's tendencies to start a brawl over flirting with an already taken girl. theodore dances with you, the two of you swaying with the rhythm, having the most fun, as you try to talk to each other sometimes or exchange a few comments here and there. if a younger guy has the audacity to look at you, theodore will glare at them in such an intimidating way, that the bloke doesn't even have to know about how theodore nott was a feared rival at hogwarts; should he be older, theodore will yell a clear threat in italian.

t : guarda ancora mia ragazza e ti garantisco che nessuno incontrerà i tuoi occhi dopo che li avrò cavati davanti a tutta la tua famiglia, stronzo del cazzo.

🗯️ : theo, what was that? what did you say? i didn't understand...

t : nothing, dolcezza; would you like a drink? here, let's go buy one together.

honeymoon!theo who translates anything and everything to you, specially if you ask him. if you're at a museum and would like to know what the description of some painting is, then theodore will explain or straight-out translate for you. don't worry, he's more than happy to do that— theo does it so patiently, that you would notice that he actually enjoys it. maybe he's returning the favor, for those few times that you've helped him pronounce a few words before class starts; maybe because theodore finds it heartwarming how you show such interest for his culture, and how endearing it is to see you trying to understand a few words here and there.

honeymoon!theo who separated these few days strolling around the city, walking around the streets and seeing a few attractions that he knew that you'd like (a few museums, for example); and got you to another city, one where he planned to have a more lighthearted routine. summer in italy is hot; to have you not enjoying the heat with one day or two to tan, to enjoy a pool or simply lazying around would be wrong; a waste, even. during those days, theodore made sure to let you rest on your chair, while massaging the sunscreen into your skin. those few days spent like that were fun; you didn't do much, but sometimes, doing nothing is the best.

honeymoon!theo who got to drink a few cocktails with you during those few days, sunglasses shielding your sights from the blazing sun, and swimsuits ready to have at least a swim together. conversation flows as easily between you as ever; taking a sip of your cocktail while the other talks, taking turns to share opinions or to continue the conversation. perhaps theodore took the chance to lightheartedly discuss what you'd do after these weeks— would you like to live with him to nott's estate, and leaving your shared cozy apartment for the time being?

honeymoon!theo who would only not shower with you if you two really had to get ready as fast as possible. otherwise, he's joining you; kissing your shoulders while you wash yourself, hugging your waist as he hums to whatever you're telling him. unless you'd rather wash your own hair or have a specific way of doing it, then theodore is more than happy to do it for you; as soon as he's done, he'll poke your nose with your shampoo's foam, signaling his concluded work. surely, theodore marvels at having you hugging him and washing his back at the same time— hey, where are you going? no, hug him for a little bit more; his back should be properly washed, you know?

honeymoon!theo who finds these weeks blissful. no quickies, no hurries; contrary to hogwarts, that even your own dorms weren't the most private places; or your daily life, where some of his friends are comfortable enough to visit without invitations— here at the hotel or alugada house you're at, there's privacy, time, and no restrictions for noise.

honeymoon!theo who takes his time with you. taking each piece of clothing with a calm movement, kissing every inch of skin in display; making sure that tomorrow morning, you'll have to complain or pout at him, due to those new bruises his lips will leave on your skin. neck and thighs are two favorites of his; however, there's something sinfully attractive and arousing about marking up your chest. a little dirty secret of his, one that only his eyes are allowed to see— besides yours, of course.

honeymoon!theo who gets a little insane in the head each. single. time that you have the audacity to speak italian to him, specially during these intimate moments. it doesn't matter if your pronounciation isn't perfect— even a single amore does things to him. whisper fanculo a me to his ear, and you might have to choose a more lighthearted agenda tomorrow, for the sake of your sore legs.

honeymoon!theo who becomes impossibly possessive. having been an overprotective boyfriend at times, making sure that each single student and their mothers knew that you're taken for life, these few weeks are feral. it becomes calmer as the days pass by, though; theodore takes some time to normalize the overwhelming reality that finally, finally you are his wife— mrs. nott.

so, honeymoon!theo who doesn't shut up. theodore needs to tell you how long he's waited for this, to have that ring on your finger; that same hand that he holds as he thrusts into you, or pleasures you in anyway— thumb tracing over the piece of jewelry exchanged on that day that you two got married. his fingers intertwine with yours, blue eyes bewitched by the sight of you under him, and even more intensely if you go on top. theodore nott is a shameless man; he'll only encourage you to moan louder for him, to tell him how good he makes you feel. theodore nott is so, so shameless, that he won't hold back any moan, any groan, anything he wants to say; this man will continue his rambling over how long he's dreamt about putting a ring on your finger, about being wed to you, about showing you his homeland— he'd say all of his in italian, though. if you're lucky, you'll catch up a few words; if not, well, theodore's voice sounds even better when he speaks his native language so fluently.

honeymoon!theo who doesn't have to hold back his baby fever anymore. will get you that final orgasm, with you sitting on his lap, his cock deep inside you, your back flushed against his warm chest; your hips feel those calloused, warm hands holding your hips down, making sure that the two of you can see the reflection of that mirror in front of the bed— one that theodore, shamelessly, requested to have it placed there. blue eyes lock their gaze there, where he disappears inside you, as you take him so well.

honeymoon!theo who doesn't shut up as he keeps you like this for a long moment, as praises leave his lips; 'you're stunning, cara mia, davvero bellissima— you'll look even prettier with our babies inside you.' as he speaks, theo presses kisses to your neck, one hand moving to rub circles on your clit; as if he wasn't already buried so deep inside you, pressing against that spot that has your legs shaking. theo doesn't let you stray much farther from his aching erection: 'brava ragazza, you'll take it all, won't you? we can't have a single drop leave your pretty little cunt.'

honeymoon!theo who secretly hopes that you'll come back to england with a baby in your womb; as much as he absolutely adores this life with you, on getting your full attention, falling into a domestic routine— theodore can't wait to see how your child would look like. theo can only pray that they inherite your lovely smile and beautiful hair, but keep his eyes. blue eyes, identical to the ones his mother, phoena nott, had. besides, if you do end up pregnant and keep the baby— next time that you go to italy, there would be a tiny human keeping you two company. theodore daydreams about that day.

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪸 ’

౨ৎ calling out my name ♡ ͡

in the summer rain, ciao amore . . .

🪻 ; . . . fandom : harry potter.

— spreading the 'theodore nott being a loving husband and slightly obsessed with the love of his life' agenda; this boy had the first draft of how your honeymoon would be after your fifth date with him.

the headers + gifs + icons aren't mine. credits to the respective creators ! 🌷

[cheapshrimpysheep]

Meaningful Kiss

SUMMARY: Would they make Public Displays of Affection? If not, are they protective instead? And how do they show you how much they truly love you through their kisses?

CHARACTERS: OB students (Riddle, Leona, Azul, Jamil, Vil, Idia & Malleus)

TAGS: Bullet Points; Fluff; GN Reader; Established Relationship, Kissing, Flirting, Slightly Suggestive(?)

WORD COUNT: An average of 300 words per character.

COMMENTS: This has been a WIP for so long that I don't even remember how I got the idea to write it. And in my case, being a WIP for a long time means that I wrote one part and then went on to write something else and ended up forgetting about this one for a long time. 😅 But now I've finished it.

I hope you enjoy 💋

Meaningful Kiss 2 (Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, Sebek)

Meaningful Kiss 3 (Ruggie, Jade, Kalim, Silver, Lilia)

Meaningful Kiss 4 (Cater, Trey, Floyd, Rook)

CONTEXT: You two are in an established relationship already.

Riddle is not really the PDA type. The most he would do with you in public could be walk arm in arm like you were royalty. In terms of kisses, a kiss on the back of your hand or, at the most, on your cheek.

When the two of you are alone on a normal day, he will probably be working on his student and Housewarden duties. But whenever you tell him he should take a break, he'll get up, sit next to you and hug you, like you're a charger.

If you're relaxing together, he’ll be reading a book with one arm around you. Either around your shoulders or around your waist, which you told him you like the most. He’ll also laying his head on your shoulder.

The most meaningful kisses are, of course, the kisses on your lips. He's not the type to kiss you on the lips just like a "good morning" thing. These kisses are always sweet and lovely. His hands would be on your cheeks to caress them.

He needs you, but his kisses aren't needy. They are the caring type. You are his precious rose. In contrast to his strict self, the way he shows you that he loves you is through soft affection and care.

A relationship with Leona Kingscholar comes with your rights and duties. Some of your rights: He will buy you things; you’re allowed to pet his ears; he will be your protector and you can sleep with him in his comfy bed and have breakfast in bed (he ordered someone to bring it to you two)

Some of your duties: let him use you as a pillow (be it your thighs in the greenhouse or your chest in bed.); don't be too annoying to him; dealing with his “smugness” on a daily basis and being his and his alone, the same way he's yours.

He's kinda into PDA, but more in the sense of telling anyone who might look at you with interest that you're his. Or anyone who looks down on you that if they do the slightest thing against you they will have to suffer at his claws. If the other person is a friend of yours, he'll let it go.

He has at least two types of kisses. The first is the “make out” kisses. When you're alone and he wants you (if you want him at the time too of course), he would give you deep kisses, kiss your neck and run his hands over you. Either he would make you sit on his lap our make you lie down with him.

His real meaningful kisses are the second ones. The "lazy" kisses. The first ones are linked to his pride. These second ones are much more affectionate. Usually happen when he's still sleepy, like when he just woke up from a good nap. He may lazily put his arms around you and kiss your cheek, neck, or shoulder gently. This is perhaps the most vulnerable state he will let you see. And so it will only happen in private.

Azul is also not very adept at PDA, but he is still capable of putting an arm around you and kissing your cheek to show how well he takes care of you.

He's already quite charming and pleasant with his potential clients, so with you it's not much different in public. The only difference is that with you it's genuine.

Do I need to say that dating him is like dating a Mafia Boss? AKA: Nobody disrespects my loved ones, unless they want a certain head in their beds when they wake up. (reference to The Godfather)

Being alone with him on a normal day would probably be being with him in his VIP room at Mostro Lounge. You're sitting on one of the couches while he's dealing with his paperwork. He’s probably the type that likes to be teased a little. So, when you see that he is no longer that attentive to the papers, go up to him, play with his hair, kiss his cheek, that will put him in the mood for you.

He’s the opposite of Leona. The kisses he usually gives you are sweet and charming like him. Because that's the side of him he want to show you the most. He'll kiss your cheek and lips affectionately. Let you sit on his lap. The side he most wants to show you is the confident and caring side. The one who shows you that you can trust him and that he will take care of you.

His most meaningful kiss is the opposite. The one related to his needy side. He shows you his most vulnerable side when he is the one who needs you. And that's what everything he does shows you. His kisses, his hugs, his begging look, all screaming “I need you! Please don’t leave me.”

Jamil is completely against PDA! He doesn't like to stand out or draw attention and PDA always do that to the people involved. He won't hold your hand or kiss you. To the point where no one knows if you're even dating or not.

The only way he would show his affection for you in public is if that is a way to protect you. If someone looks down on you and he feels that that persons can be a threat to you, he will show that he is an even greater threat to them. In these moments, his protective side is stronger. He is Kalim's protector by obligation, but yours by free will.

It's when you're alone that he'll make up for his lack of affection of the day. On a normal day, you would be alone in the kitchen. He would probably be cooking for Kalim, but making something for you two as well. He’ll let you taste things as he cooks. He feels more relaxed when he's with you and even more so when you hug him.

When you're relaxing together, he would spoil you. Give you soft and sweet kisses. Pet your head and play with your hair. Give you massages and feed you things like grapes or small snacks. Or even taking the first mouthful of food he made for you to your mouth and seeing your delighted face.

The most meaningful gestures of affection he shows you are related to his most lustful side (lust for power) when you are the one spoiling him. The one moment in his life where he is no longer the servant, but the master. This time, he kisses your lips, your neck and everything he's entitled to. He tends not to show his feelings but with you he will show how much he loves you and how much he wants you.

In reality, Vil neither likes nor dislikes PDA. He's kind of indifferent to it. The only reason he doesn't do it with you is because it would have bad consequences for both of you for his work as an actor and model. The most he can do is walk hand in hand with you.

Even though he doesn't show it much in public, everyone will know that you two are dating. He'll make sure of it, even if it's just information on the internet or him straight out saying it. On the one hand to protect you, because only an idiot would try to mess with Vil Schoenheit's partner. On the other hand to discourage anyone who has the slightest interest in you. “Honey, they’re with me. Do you really think you can even get to my heels? So, don't bother them.”

The only possible problem for you is that he's going to be more strict now that you're dating. From the outside it looks like he can be mean and demanding with you. But the truth is, he wants you to look your best so people know why he fell in love with you. He wants others to see on the outside how beautiful you are on the inside.

But of course, sometimes it's too much and you'll challenge him. Be stubborn and carefree. The best part? He's so into it! Your way of teasing each other.

He kisses you every now and then when you're alone. But when you put him on this mood, all his affection mix with boldness intensifies. Oh, of course, you wanted him to remind you what the reward is for listening to him. The answer is: appreciating you with the rest of his senses, sensual kisses on your lips, jaw, neck and shoulders; his hands running over your body, him delighting in your wearing the perfume he made for you. He'll show you how beautiful you are to him.

PDA is not even an option! There is no way! Na-a! Listen, Idia loves you, really, he promises BUT going with you to places where couples usually go is already a lot and holding hands is the absolute most he can do. IF that even happens.

He wouldn’t be the jealous type. If someone shows an interest in you, at least they have good taste. But if someone looks down on you or goes so far as to disrespect you, then he goes from 0 to 100. Do these worms know he can hack them? exposing things that can completely ruin their lives until the day they pass through the gates of the underworld? Ortho can help protect you in the meantime.

Since he is a 0 to 100 guy, his kisses are the same. His "0" kisses are lazy. Mainly light, on your shoulder and neck, because you would be sitting on his lap, chest to chest, while he plays on his PC and you on your phone on his back. He also gives you casual "hi" and "bye" kisses on the lips.

Then there is his "100" kisses. Those are the real meaningful kisses, the "I love you" kisses. They are passionate but kind. Because loving you is different for loving a game, it's like he found his balance. they are not needy, but appreciative, the real embodiment of "OMG, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!" He also becomes bolder as he feels comfortable with you. He loves to tease you until he makes you shut him up with a kiss. The stronger your relationship is, the more daring and smug he will be.

Malleus is quite indifferent to PDA. However, he is not the type to initiate the exchange of affection, but he is the type to reciprocate it. He won't kiss or hug you out of nowhere. But if you kiss or hug him, he will definitely reciprocate.

And he's going to be extremely casual about it. I mean, it's two lovers interacting with each other. As young humans would say: What's the big deal? However, he still distinguishes between the affection he gives you in public and the affection he gives you in private.

In public, his hugs are polite, and his kisses are light but loving.

In private, what he wants most is simply to be with you. He loves it when you sit on his lap and he cuddles you, and he likes it even more when you cuddle him back. He maintains his composure quite well, but you know that just your kisses on his checks already melt him inside.

His regular kisses in privet are sweet, loving, showing you that you are the most precious thing in his life. And very recurrent. He may not be the type to initiate the exchange of affection in public, but he certainly is in private.

All his kisses are meaningful, but the most meaningful of all are the one he gives you on your lips while smiling. The kind of kiss he can't stop himself from giving you. You may not even notice when they happen, because you are simply being yourself.

He feels the need to kiss you passionately when you do something that reminds him of why he fell in love with you. The moments when you do something that may seem simple, but for him it is something extraordinary. And if you don't realize at first how incredible that small gesture can be for him, it only makes you more charming.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

[luveline]

coworker James being protective of reader like she’s just a sweet and kind thing and he’s FINALLY accepting his feelings and reader gets like happy that he cares?

“No, no, it’s okay. Yeah, don’t worry about me, I’m just gonna watch movies all weekend. I might make popcorn. Yeah! Don’t worry about it, just have fun, okay?” 

You’re talking quietly but not without pep, hushed to avoid disturbing him. By the sounds of it, your plans for the weekend have bombed. You’re taking it remarkably well. 

“Okie dokie. Well, I’ll see you soon, yeah? Love you. Bye.” You don’t lift your head where you’re laying against the desk, but you put your phone gently by your keyboard. 

“That blows,” James says. 

“Maybe.” You turn your face to see him, before you lift yourself up and return to the pack of biscuits you’ve opened. “Do you want some?” you ask, bringing a malted milk to your mouth. 

“Please.” 

You gesture for him to take one. In relative quiet, you and James sit there chewing, the sunlight from the open window on your hands. 

“You’re not upset about your plans?” he asks. 

“A bit, but… I don’t want her to feel bad for me. She should have a good time, she got last minute tickets to see a band and she loves them. We can just hang out next weekend.” You push the biscuits toward him. “I need to stop eating these all the time.” 

You stand up and do a big stretch, arm arched over your head before you laugh and point at him. He’s never had someone look at him like this. “Pretend you didn’t see that,” you say, raising your eyebrows just a touch. 

You’re being playful. James’ stomach flips. “I didn’t see a thing,” he says. 

You drop your pointing. “Really?” 

He covers his eyes. 

Your following laughter is even richer. 

“This office makes me tired. I’m going to make some coffee before lunch is over,” you say. 

You walk away like nothing happened. James is left to ruminate. 

He pushes a hand into the crop of his hair and ruffles it, stressed, though the scratch of his nails against his scalp relieves some tension. James is used to being annoyed at you, you were always so irked with him, but lately he struggles to find anger for you. He still loves to tease you and watch your eyes change; there’s no better moments than on the mornings he’s here first and he’s found a new hiding place for your mug, and you’re forced to ask him where it is he put it. Asked is kind, really. More aptly, you demand to know where it is, and promise professional retribution. 

You could always drink from a different mug, but James has a feeling you like asking. This morning, you found it by yourself, and you put it smugly on your desk with steam rising from the surface. “You’re getting worse,”

you’d said, and that smugness suddenly felt friendly. Your smile was ten different shades of sweet. 

You are… quite sweet. You’re kind. You don’t let much upset you that isn’t James, even when it should. And the James stuff is all superficial. When was the last time you guys argued over something that mattered?

Which isn’t to say he doesn’t love arguing with you. But he’s coming to appreciate another side of you, the side that comes back to your desk with a fresh coffee and little happy breath of air when you see he’s made his two figurines cuddle each other. 

“They’re in love,” you say dreamily. 

“You can be so lovely,” James says. It’s like something takes over his body. 

You put your coffee down. “What?” you ask, smiling as though it’s a joke you don’t get. 

He’s not sure he should say it again. “I don’t know. When you smile, you’re really pretty. Like, even more than usual.” 

“Ha-ha.” 

“No, I’m serious.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

James takes one of your biscuits. “Then don’t, it doesn’t bother me.” He wishes he hadn’t said it, what a weird thing to say, but he can’t pretend he was kidding, it would be crueller than saying nothing. So he wedges a biscuit in his mouth and laughs when you call him gross, your facade one he doesn’t believe. You wrinkle your nose, but you’re happy underneath it. 

Lovely, even. 

[devondespresso]

Let Me Raise The Bar

T | 3,602 words | Steddie | also on ao3! | Modern AU, Meet Cute, Fluff

This fic is for the @strangerthingswritersguild fic exchange, by @starryeyedjanai and @devondespresso. Thank you to @dreamwatch and @bubblesandink for betaing for me!! <3

dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

edit: oh my god i forgot the keep reading the first time im so sorry guys

This night is going terribly.

He keeps telling himself he’ll delete all his dating apps for good, but the prospect of being alone forever always has him re-downloading them.

Right now, he’s remembering why he hates them so much.

He hates Tinder, specifically—guys on Tinder only want to fuck. And if that was what he was looking for, that’d be fine, great even!

But he wants a relationship and guys on Tinder will say they want one too and then turn around and leave right after they get what they want.

At least guys on Grindr are upfront about it being just a hookup—no one’s getting their hopes up or feelings hurt when it turns out to be just that.

Tinder guys will take you on a date and pretend to be interested in you as a person and then won't fucking text back after they leave your apartment the next morning. It’s annoying and it’s frustrating and it’s a waste of Steve's fucking time at this point.

And this guy tonight isn't even trying to pretend. He tried to get Steve to blow him in his apartment building garage before they even left for the date and he really should have taken that for the red flag that it was.

But Steve looks good, and he did his hair routine that takes entirely too fucking long for no one to appreciate it.

His date drives him to this hole in the wall restaurant that Steve must have passed a million times on the bus ride to his job without ever noticing.

He thought he might be able to turn things around when they got there—it’s a small Italian place, a real family-owned type vibe to it. He knows before he even orders that the food is going to be some of the best he’s tasted since moving here.

He tries asking the typical first date questions to get to know him, but his date keeps giving him short answers. So he switches to talking about himself a little, but then he realizes his date’s been staring at his mouth the whole time he’s been talking and Steve finally snaps that he isn't getting into his pants.

Steve breathes out a deep sigh as his “date” gets up and goes to the bathroom. Some fucking date this is—they haven't even gotten their fucking food yet. What a disaster.

“Hey,” he hears their waiter—Eddie, his nametag reminds Steve when he looks up—say after a minute of his date being gone. “I hate to be the bearer of super bad news, but I just saw your date slip out the back door, and I don't know if he’s planning on coming back.”

There's a lilt of sympathy in his voice and Steve can't help but snort.

“Of course he did,” Steve says. “Why can't guys just be upfront about what they want? It would save everyone so much time.”

He’s not looking for an answer, but Eddie's mouth twists and he says, “Guys are stupid. I mean, they’d have to be to give up the chance to get to know someone as cute as you.”

Steve can't really muster up a smile at the pity, so he says, “Well, whatever the case, he was my ride home, so I think I need to call a Lyft now. Can you box the food up and bring me the check?” At least he’ll have lunch for tomorrow, which doesn't feel like an adequate consolation prize for how shitty he feels right now.

Eddie shakes his head and says, “There’s no way I’m letting you pay for such a shitty date.” Steve opens his mouth to protest, but Eddie continues, “Tell you what, my shift ends in ten minutes. Why don't I show you how I’d treat you if we went on a date.”

Steve's heart thuds in his chest, a flicker of hope in this incredibly dull evening. “Seriously?” he asks.

Eddie nods. “Think of it as a trial run. See if I rank good enough for a real one.” He winks and Steve finds himself nodding dumbly, still shocked at the rapid turn of events.

“Okay,” Steve says, kind of breathless.

Eddie heads back to finish cleaning up his other tables before he ends his shift, and Steve fills Robin in over text about what happened.

He’s still waiting for a response when Eddie shows back up with two plates of food, setting one in front of Steve and the other where his date sat before sliding into the chair across from him.

He’s wearing a different shirt, Steve realizes. It also looks like he attempted to wrangle his curly hair into something more manageable, maybe sprayed some water on it to smooth it down.

The thought that this guy, this random guy who happened to be his waiter on this horrific night, would put in more effort than his previous date makes Steve's cheeks get hot.

Maybe this night really can turn around.

“Alright, names. Hi, I'm Eddie.” Eddie says, sticking his hand out across the table cartoonishly for a handshake. Steve suppresses a laugh and takes Eddie’s hand with a smile.

“Steve.” He says, and Eddie’s eyes brighten before he takes his hand back.

“So, Steve, what do you do for fun?” Eddie says, leaning forward slightly with vibrant confidence, tone feeling more and more noticeably rehearsed as he goes. “Other than light up the room with that smile, of course.”

Steve huffs a laugh, blushing despite himself.

“You practice that one a lot?”

Eddie shrinks back a little, still smiling even as he messes with the hair on the back of his neck, already starting to ruffle what he’d tried to tame.

“Yeah, it’s uh…”

“It’s sweet.” Steve leans in a little closer himself, trying to match the effort Eddie keeps putting in. “Almost as sweet as the smile you're wearing.”

Eddie flushes pink and lets out a little “Thank you” to cover a nervous laugh—and christ, Steve is already hooked.

Steve hums and grabs his fork to start eating and Eddie mirrors him.

“Thank you for this by the way.” Steve continues, “Tonight's been… ugh, you know.”

“A special kind of shitty?”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, “So all this is… really nice.”

“I'm glad.” Eddie says, voice soft before he shrugs and continues casually “M’hoping I’ll at least do better than the last guy.”

“Yeah, of course, you haven’t even asked me to blow you yet or anything.”

Eddie turns red and busts out a nervous laugh, looking away immediately. God, he’s so fucking cute.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm not–” Eddie looks back at him, nervous still, but sincere anyway, “That's not exactly my style.”

“You a wine and dine kinda guy?”

Eddie shrugs lightly, then he seems to get an idea, leaning in again with a smile “Actually– ideally, I'm a dine and mine kinda guy.”

A smile takes over Steve’s face that he can’t fully tamp down, a little flustered and a lot amused.

Eddie preens, then continues with a shy smile.

“Though, uh, usually it's more dine and…” Eddie pauses, “Pine. Dine and pine. You know, like pining.”

Steve makes his face relax as he nods and leans back. “Oh, yeah, like the tree.”

Eddie stops and looks at Steve, and soon Steve’s smile breaks out again.

“No, I know what you mean.” He says with a little laugh that Eddie quickly mirrors.

Eddie visibly relaxes, slouching overdramatically to the side with a sigh.

“God, I swear I’m usually good at this sort of thing, words and stories and shit,” He groans, gesturing around almost like he’s talking to himself, “But apparently I meet one pretty boy and suddenly I’ve got screws loose. And they’re all falling out, all across the floor, ‘there they go!’, y’know?”

Steve bites back a snicker and hums a quiet agreement. Eddie notices, though, looks up and sees right to Steve’s amusement, so Steve decides to save them both the embarrassment and move on.

“So your job. You like it here?

“Oh yeah, absolutely,” Eddie says, perking up and gesturing as he starts talking, “The owners are really cool, they were our neighbors– Wayne’s—my uncle’s—neighbors when I first moved in with him, way way back, and they were so chill, loved having people over. Then one time in highschool I mentioned saving up ‘cause I’m trying to make it big with my band, and they offered to give me a job here while we get there.”

“That’s awesome. Your band any good?”

“Depends on who you ask.” Eddie laughs, playing with the food on his plate, “Wayne says we’re pretty good, which is probably the equivalent of moms showing up to their toddler’s dance recitals, but it’s something.”

“Where'd you guys play?”

“The Hideout, a couple blocks down…”

Steve nods.

“Yeah, it’s, uh, pretty fun if you ever wanted to stop by.“

“Sounds like a great second date.”

Eddie blushes, playing with his hair again as he smiles and looks away.

“I’ll probably have to wear earplugs– not because of your band or–”

“No, no, no, you’re good–” Eddie says, almost jumping up to reassure him, “It’s metal, that’s normal– good, even.”

“Oh– good.” Steve says, a bit awkwardly, and looks back down to his food.

Eddie leaves barely a moment of silence before he pulls the conversation back together.

“So what about you? You just a professional bad-Tinder-dater?”

Steve huffs and fiddles with his fork.

“Guidance counselor, actually.”

“Oh damn, really?”

“Yeah, Middle school.”

“Oh god,” Eddie groans playfully, “I can't imagine going back there willingly.”

“Yeah, I mean, it can get pretty rough,” Steve shrugs, “It's good though. Kids start thinking about who they are, I get to try and make that a little less shitty.”

“That’s a tall order.” Eddie laughed into his glass. “I respect it though. Hell, just having a queer adult exist around me would’ve made a lot of it easier.”

“God, yeah. I've got practice, at least, for when they need more than just some guy standing around in an office.” he laughed, pulling out sarcastic air quotes for the next part, “ I ‘babysat’ kids in middle school before I graduated. Bunch of little shits but they were good kids– still are good. They're like four years younger than me though, so they're more like siblings than kids.”

“Yeah, bet they don't take well to ‘kids’.”

“Oh, they hate it.” Steve laughed and Eddie followed with him, “Always hated it, but Dustin put his foot down after highschool. Rob and I call them my ‘twenty-somethings’ now.”

“God, wait, how old are you?” Eddie laughed

“Twenty-six.”

Eddie laughed a little louder, a lively and full laugh that looked enchanting on Eddie.

“You'd love them, they're all–

Steve’s phone buzzes.

Both of them look over to it on the table. Steve moves it to the seat next to him, looked up to Eddie with an apologetic smile.

His phone buzzes again.

And again, and soon Eddie’s eyes flick in that direction, eyebrow quirking with barely-restrained curiosity.

Then Steve’s phone starts ringing, the electric guitars of Hammer To Fall creeping up in volume way too fast for comfort.

“Sorry–” Steve cringes, grabbing his phone and answering the call in a furious whisper, “Robin, are you dying?”

“No, but thank you for confirming that you aren’t.”

“I texted you what happened.”

“Yeah and it was vague as hell! I reserve the right to be a worrywart with this shit.”

“Yeah, I know.” Steve sighs, but can’t really argue with her on it. “This was going well, though–”

“Is.” Eddie chimes in, not trying to be loud enough for the phone to pick it up, just for Steve to hear him clearly.

“Is going well.” Steve smiles.

“Oooo okayyy.” Robin hums and Steve can hear her cheeky smile through the phone.

“Goodbye, Robin.” Steve says, failing a half-assed attempt to cover his amusement.

“Oh wait no, tell him if he tries anything I’ll–”

“M’not doing that.”

“I will though, I’ll go after him–”

“Oh woah you’re breaking up, can’t hear you.” Steve deadpans.

“Steve, I know–”

“Love you, bye–”

“Steeeeve–”

“Don’t pull your hair out.” Steve says and hangs up, coming back to the present to Eddie watching him, thankfully looking amused instead of annoyed.

“Sorry about that.” Steve says.

“No, no, it’s fine.” Eddie leans forward again, propping his head up in one hand, “So… friend?”

“Best friend, has to be to get away with shit like that so easily.”

Eddie snorts.

“What was she calling about?”

“I wasn’t clear that this new date thing was gonna be a good thing.”

Eddie nods civilly.

“She worries,” Steve continues, “Fuckin’ tinder dates, y’know?”

“Uh, not really….” Eddie smiles.

“Good for you. They’re all the same asshole in a different haircut.” Steve says, and Eddie smiles, laughing a little with him before continuing with something calmer, a little more earnest.

“Then why keep going to them?”

Steve shrugs.

“Call me an optimist, I guess.”

Eddie hums noncommittally, like he’s thinking more than he’s sharing, and continues the conversation in a lighter direction.

_

The rest of the date is wonderful. A little less chaotic, especially once they start finally eating their food for real, but what it lacks in eventfulness it makes up for in comfort. They’re not exactly quiet, but Eddie’s energy always comes with a sincerity underneath, like he’s bold and fun because he just is, and not because he’s making himself be.

It’s refreshing. And as the night goes on, it becomes intoxicating.

So when Eddie offers to save him the Lyft fee and just drive Steve home, Steve agrees, just to get a little longer in Eddie’s bubble.

Eddie leads him through the restaurant and out the back into a small parking lot with a handful of cars and one big van, decorated with a clearly hand-painted dragon on the side. Which, of course, ends up being Eddie’s.

“Dustin would love this thing.” Steve says as he hops into the passenger’s seat, not really thinking twice about it as he looks at the interior, eyes lingering on the big fuzzy dice with too many sides hanging from the mirrors.

“So Dustin is…?”

“A Twenty-something.” Steve laughs as he spins the fuzzy dice to see all of its sides. “He’s like my little brother. Loves DnD and science and… all the nerd shit.”

“Nerd shit?”

“Yeah, I mean– it's not my thing but it’s cool. I’ve played with Dustin and them a couple times.”

“Oooo, a bit of a nerd, are we?” Eddie hums in a weird, almost witchy voice.

“Casually.”

“Mmm, but you’re already down the path~~”

“Just drive, dude.” Steve says with a fond eye roll.

“As you wish, your majesty.” Eddie hums in his normal voice, giving Steve a glowing glance before shoving the keys in.

“Alright, I'm about to push your nerd-tolerance to its limits.” Eddie says, pulling out his phone with a grin. He connects it to the car and quickly turns it down before drums and guitar erupt from the speakers, and Steve flinches at the volume.

“Sorry, sorry.” Eddie whispers and turns down the music again.

Steve nods, and after a second of the music playing much more quietly, he finds it much more comfortable. Nice, even. The energy is quick and alive like Eddie is, though the aggressive vocals fit his outward aesthetic more than his borderline goofy demeanor.

“It’s not the music, I promise.” Steve says, saying it casually but meaning it sincerely.

“You’re fine, I get it.” Eddie laughs, a little too cynically for Steve’s liking.

“No, I–” Steve reaches for Eddie’s hand between them, intertwining fingers and bringing both hands up between them, “I’m serious, I like it. My head’s a little sensitive, been hit a few too many times, but it’s nice. It’s bold and very energetic… stuff that I already like about you.”

Eddie blushes hard—a sweet cherry pink—as he slouches, bringing their joined hands closer to his face like he’s trying to hide behind them. Eddie rests his forehead against the back of Steve’s hand and huffs a quiet laugh.

“God, you’re quite the charmer, Stevie.” Eddie says, and Steve finds his face warming too.

“And I’m guessing it’s working?” Steve laughs.

Eddie looks up at him, smiling wide.

“Oh, it’s working very well.” Eddie says, and brings their hands closer to him again to plant a soft kiss onto Steve’s hand.

Steve’s face goes warm again, lights him on fire, and Eddie’s smile turns slightly smug before he looks away.

“Alright,” Eddie says, looking back to the front to drive but not letting go of Steve’s hand. He even reaches his left arm over to change the gears, leaning into how silly he looks to make Steve laugh.

It’s sweet, it's genuine, and it's everything to Steve.

Eddie starts driving, hand still firmly holding onto Steve’s, neither of them willing to let go first. Steve looks at it as Eddie drives, splitting most of his attention between their hands, Eddie’s profile lit up by the colorful city lights, and the road ahead as he navigates Eddie to his apartment.

And if they miss a turn or two because Steve’s tired brain doesn’t want to watch the damn road? Eddie doesn’t mention it.

_

“Alright.” Eddie says, putting the car into park with his left hand again, though far less comically now.

He sits there for a second, quiet like something’s on his mind, so Steve waits.

“Okay, uh,” Eddie starts, looking vaguely down as he wanders through what he wants to say, “I had fun, I’m assuming by how the nights gone that you did, too…”

Steve squeezes Eddie's hand, and Eddie laughs.

“I had a really great time. And I want to do this again, if you want to.” Eddie glances up at Steve for a second before his eyes dart away again. “But I want to be sure you’re… you’re not being an optimist with me. That you want want this, y’know, because you're an amazing guy, Stevie. I don’t know how you keep having such shit luck but believe me when I tell you it's not because of you.”

Eddie looks back up at him again and keeps his gaze there, looking more relaxed now.

“So, uh, I would love to take you out again.” Eddie says, “If you want to.”

If he wants to, as if that's not the most romantic thing Steve’s heard in his life.

Steve almost says that. He also debates kissing him or pulling him into an awkward hug over the center console that he’s sure would be put up with no matter how uncomfortable it’d be. But Steve doesn’t, because Eddie continues before Steve can make a decision.

“What do you want?”

Steve resists the urge to say a cheesy ‘You’ and thinks about it, really thinks so he can put together words that make sense, so he can give Eddie a real answer.

“I want a long relationship. A real one, y’know?”

Eddie nods.

“And I want to get married, someday. I want someone who’ll stay that long, who will love and let me love them, all cheesy and clingy and shit.”

Eddie hums, searching Steve’s face.

“And?”

Steve looks down at the joined hands between them.

“And I’d love if it were you. You’re sweet, so sweet, but you’re also… alive. Everything you do, you’re…” Steve thinks hard for a moment, working out how to phrase it. “It’s like the world doesn’t weigh you down. And you’re so genuine and you’ll come and say what you mean like it’s nothing, and I think every one of the people in my life—my favorite people—would love being around you almost as much as I do.”

Steve looks back up to him, face hot with another intense flush, and tries to smile casually.

“Hate to break it to you, dude, but you’re kinda my perfect man.”

Eddie huffs a breathy laugh, face painted with disbelief and wonder.

“Okay, then. Case closed.”

“Yeah,” Steve hums, with as much fondness as possible. Steve leans in across the center console, bringing a hand up slowly, trying to signal that he’s leaning in for a kiss.

It takes Eddie a second, and Steve gets to watch him look down at Steve’s hand and look at Steve leaning in, gets to see the moment it clicked before Eddie lunges to meet him halfway and then some, making the hand that was supposed to cradle Eddie’s face hold onto the seat beneath him to keep their balance.

Eddie kisses him hard at first, bringing a hand up to card through Steve’s hair, excited and alive. Then Eddie seems to come back to his senses, moving back but taking Steve with him until they’re both leaning over the center again.

Their kiss softens, intensity melting out into fondness, gentle but passionate, warm and Steve wants to melt from it.

Still, Steve’s going home tonight, going to go upstairs to Robin and tell her all about it. He’ll get to have a good night's sleep in a bed that doesn’t need cleaning, and he’ll get to wake up to the idea of something new brewing fresh in his mind.

Steve pulls back gently and Eddie does the same, eyes flicking open one after the other, a smile on Steve’s face and another lighting up Eddie’s.

Steve catches his breath, feeling lighter now than he has in ages, and Eddie opens his mouth to say something again.

“Does this mean I can get your number?”

[blindmagdalena]

All of a Sudden, There You Are

3k. homelander x gn!reader. pining. pure fluff! an older fic that desperately needed cleaning up. rewritten for a consistent perspective and added 600-some words. gif credit. AO3 link.

As Homelander's stylist, it's your job to ensure he looks his best, whether he's saving the world or saving face in front of the cameras. After nearly a year servicing him, things between you change abruptly.

Familiarity and consistency feed a base need in all of us. So much of what is best in us is bound up in the permanence of those around us that it becomes the measure of our stability. For Homelander, there are precious few things in his life that offer him any such quality of solidarity. People come and go. It's the nature of the business that has always been his life.

He's stopped paying attention to the PA's, interns and other worker ants that rotate in and out. Their faces blend together in a bland sea of normality and mediocrity. They're little more than cogs in the machine of his contrastingly extraordinary life.

Funny, then, that you should catch his attention amidst the insectoid buzz of it all.

It happens quite abruptly. He's just sat down before a brightly lit vanity where it's your job to style his hair and makeup, as it has been for the last several months. You greet him good morning, as you do every time, but for whatever reason... He notices you today.

"Remind me, what's your name again?" Homelander asks, watching you draw a comb from your kit.

That visibly catches you off guard. You offer only a dumbfounded stare for a moment before snapping to attention, smiling sheepishly as you introduce yourself. The name doesn't sound familiar to him. Had he never actually asked? Probably not. There’s rarely a point in bothering.

He hums contemplatively. "You've been styling me for a while.”

"Yes, sir. About eight months now," you say, using the comb to begin working product through his hair. He’s fairly certain this is the most he's ever spoken to you in all that time.

That sounds like both a long while and yet no time at all. It's nothing in the grand scheme of his life, but in terms of the people he sees consistently, that puts you in a shockingly small pool of individuals. Inevitably they move on, whether by choice or because they’ve found a way to irritate him enough that he has them dismissed.

He can recall his last stylist not by their name or face, but by the way they’d always manage to spray product in his eyes. They hadn’t lasted two days. The one before that he can’t bring to mind a single detail of.

Typically humans only become exceptional to him for how they grate on his patience. You’ve somehow managed to avoid making yourself noteworthy in that regard. Before today you had served as little more than a properly functioning gear in the well-oiled machine of his life.

Now it's as though you suddenly exist to him. Blood, flesh, laughter and all.

"Gooood morning," he greets you the next day, once again triggering another flare of surprise in you. He’s aware of the strangeness of his initiation, but behaves as though he isn’t. He flashes you one of his trademark Hollywood grins.

"Good morning to you, sir," you say with an answering smile that catches his eye. You sound pleased, which tickles something pleasant in the back of his own mind. He likes how well you’re mirroring his shift in mannerism.

He waves his hand dismissively. "Please, Homelander is fine. You keep it awfully formal."

You're actually quite pretty, he notices. Not exceptionally so, not like the celebrities and figures of social influence that someone like him brushes shoulders with on a daily basis, but... pretty nonetheless. He doesn't remember you being this pretty before, and speculates while you work whether you've changed something about yourself. He cannot put his finger on what exactly that may be, though.

He’s perceptive when it comes to the things that matter. Until yesterday, you hadn’t.

You laugh sweetly, pushing your fingers through his hair. His eyes flutter shut as you do. You’re good with your hands, much better than the last stylist. He’s sure he made note of that at some point, but in the same way someone notices when a door stops squeaking. You take it for granted after the first time.

"I'm a creature of habit. Might take me a couple tries to adjust," you warn, covering his forehead with your palm as you spritz product into his hair. You never let any of that sticky crap get on his face, much less in his eyes. You take measures to ensure his comfort, even though he’s never scolded you. You seem to do it entirely out of reflex simply because you care enough to.

"Well, you've made it this far. You've got time to adjust," he says. Now that he's seen you, he finds that he doesn't care for the thought of you being gone. More than that, he starts actively looking forward to the time he spends in the chair with you. What used to be a monotonous aspect of the celebrity side of his life becomes a comforting ritual. 

The two of you chat with surprising ease, like old friends made new. He tells you about himself, vents to you about work and personal business alike. In turn he learns about you and the life you live beyond the time you share with him. It’s nothing extraordinary–not like his–but it's yours, and for some reason, that’s enough to make it interesting.

The more he grasps that you are an entire person outside of the service you provide him, the more he wants to know. He doesn’t give a fuck about your elderly cat, but he does like the way your voice changes when you talk about it. His mind drifts when you tell him these little anecdotes, and he wonders what you tell the people in your life about him. He wonders if your tone similarly changes when you do. Do you speak fondly of him? Days turn to weeks. Little by little, Homelander discerns small changes in himself. There’s a slight pep in his step these days. The sun feels a little warmer, the thrum of crowded events less irritating. His attitude towards interviews flips; even the ones he used to dread he begins to anticipate. He knows you’ll have him looking and feeling his finest. He knows that regardless of what awaits him, you’ll have something to say about it that will make it easier to smile for the cameras.

Thinking of you is sometimes all it takes.

When he has nothing on his schedule to be styled for, he sulks. On those days, he misses your laugh the most. 

He makes sure the products he keeps at home are the same as the ones you use. The smell of them reminds him of the smell of you, of your knock-off Dior perfume that fades too quickly after you apply it, which makes it just perfect for his keen sense of smell. The humble subtlety of you, your sincerity and gentleness, have become a boon against the unfeeling corporate reality of his life. On the days he does see you, he begins to miss you before he’s even left you. Now, as he walks to his next scheduled appointment with you, he’s painfully aware of the beat of his own heart. His stomach is twisting in on itself, though he isn’t hungry. If anything, he feels a little nauseous. The closer he gets to the door, the louder the cacophony inside of him becomes. Is he sick? That shouldn’t be possible, but he can’t understand what’s happening to him. Pausing just outside the door, he takes in a steadying breath.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Taking a moment to collect himself, he gives his face two quick pats on either side, shaking his head. Get it together, he tells himself, stepping into the dressing room. 

“Gooood morn–” Homelander cuts himself short, looking around the empty room. His brows pinch. He isn’t early. Pursing his lips, he takes a brief stroll about the room, clutching his hands behind his back. He peers down the hallway, cutting through the layers of wall with his vision. No sign of you on the grounds yet. He clicks his tongue. 

You’ve never been late. Unable to settle, he paces for a while. He has the thought to call you, but he realizes he doesn’t have your number. Why doesn’t he have your number? It seems such an obvious thing to have despite the fact he’s never needed it.

He’s just pulled out his cellphone to track it down from Ashley when the door suddenly opens and his head snaps up. The initial relief he feels is cut short, turning cold in his chest when the person who steps through the door is most definitely not you. “Good morning!” the woman greets him, her voice chirpy and grating in his ears. She’s not really happy to see him. She doesn’t know the first fucking thing about him. At most, she’s another sycophantic drone who’s only pleased to breathe his air. In his upset, she looks freakishly distorted, her smile overly wide and fake. His leather gloves creak as he curls his hands into fists. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks, voice as measured as he can manage it. His anger hits in an unreasonable surge, hot like lava from a volcano. This woman’s only crime is the fact she’s not you, and yet it’s enough to make him want to rip her head off her shoulders, spine and all. The woman hesitates in the doorway, her chipper demeanor flipping to a fearful one. “Uhm, my name is Lisa, I’m supposed to style you to–” “Where is my stylist?” he interrupts her, prowling towards her like a hungry predator. He says again, louder this time, voice full of anger and anxiety in equal measure, “Where the fuck is my stylist?!” “I– I don’t know!” Lisa yelps, stepping backwards from him. “I was called in as a last minute replacement! They said– they said there was an accident, or–” Homelander pushes her roughly out of the doorway, blowing past her with a frustrated growl. She hits the wall hard before crumpling to the floor like a lifeless sack of potatoes, but he doesn’t even register it. He calls Ashley, stalking down the hallway, his footfalls loud with fury. Why the fuck didn’t anyone think to tell him? “Ashley!” He snarls into his phone the second she answers. “Tell me where the fuck my goddamn stylist is.”

Homelander is at the hospital within minutes. The staff puts up a meager effort to enforce protocols, but he’s The Homelander, and after a lie or two, they eventually let him through. He hates the smell of hospitals. The sickly mix of bleach and illness, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. They never should have brought you here. You should be in Vought’s med ward.

You should be with him. When he finds you, you’re sitting with the hospital bed halfway reclined, wearing nothing but a hospital gown. The vibrant reds and blues of his suit paint a sharp contrast to the stark white walls of the hospital room when he steps inside. You have a pudding cup in your hand, though you nearly drop it when you see him in the doorway. His hair is woefully unstyled, splayed loose in every direction from his flight. “H-Homelander,” you sputter, choking on your bite of pudding. You swallow, clearing your throat. He’s walking towards you. The closer he gets, the faster your heart beats in his ears. “What are you doing here?” “Are you okay?” He asks, blowing off your question entirely. He blinks and his vision flickers through your clothes and skin alike. He scans your body for internal damage, for broken or fractured bones. You’re not wearing a cast or anything, but he needs to be sure. You nod, clutching at the blanket, wearing your confusion plainly on your face. “Yeah, I’m okay, it’s probably just mild whiplash, but I’m getting an x-ray to be–” “You’re fine,” he breathes more to himself than to you, his relief palpable. He can hear the flustered patter of your heart clearly. With the adrenaline wearing off, he’s beginning to feel that sickly familiar feeling that he had experienced in the hallway; butterflies rampant in his stomach, battering their wings frantically inside him. His jaw feels tight, his tongue too big for his mouth. Staring at you now, frail and precious as you are in this ugly hospital bed, he realizes what’s the matter–what has always been the matter–he is deeply and incurably in love with you. “Are you okay?” You ask, taking in his tortured expression, his wildly wind-swept hair. The obvious concern in your voice and in your eyes churns his already twisting gut. “No,” he says, the response knee-jerk. Even though the room is still, he feels as though the world is spinning around him. “No, I think I’m in love with you,” he says, expression twisted up, like he’s figuring out each word as he says them. Your heart skips a beat, your breath catches in your lungs. It’s as if the words have paralyzed you. Homelander laughs. It sounds a little hysterical. 

“I’m telling you all of a sudden, but it isn’t new with me,” he says, reaching out to cup either side of your face in his gloved hands. “I love you,” he says, voice firmer now, the realization setting in fully. He looks slightly delirious with it. He’s discovered a secret that he should have known all along, that seems so obvious in hindsight. Of course he loves you, because you love him. The gentleness in your hands as you touched his face, the care in your fingers stroking through his hair far longer than both of you knew you needed to. You dedicated yourself like no other to showing him reverence in service of him, and is that not love in its purest form? And yet, you don’t look to share his elation. You look like you’ve been struck by lightning, expression wide and bewildered. You still haven’t taken a breath. Homelander’s smile falters. “What’s the matter?” He asks, tone dropping a touch. “This is good news! Great, even.” For every second that you do not speak, the beat of his heart feels heavier in his chest. Why don’t you look happy? Finally, you suck in a shaky breath. He watches you with all the intensity of a viper poised to strike.

“I…” You hesitate. You lift your hands and grip his wrists, squeezing them through the thick fabric of his gloves as if to convince yourself that he’s really there. Maybe the accident was worse than he thought. Did you hit your head? 

Panic swells in his chest. It hadn’t occurred to him you might not reciprocate. The thought makes him ill.

“I never…” your eyes turn glassy, welling with tears. “Say it!” he wants to shout, his own heart hammering loudly enough to nearly drown out your words.  “I never would have thought–or even dreamed–in a million years that you might love me back.”

love me back.

Like a dying ember roaring back to life, Homelander’s demeanor reignites, his faded smile broadening once more. 

“I realized it when I was worried fucking sick because you didn't show up,” he says, leaning closer to you. He’s brought the scent of ozone from the sky he tore through on his way to you, but all he cares about is the faint smell of pudding lingering on your lips.

He huffs a laugh. “They sent in some idiot to fill in for you. Like they could replace you. I almost tore her head off,” he says, giddy with euphoria. Your expression shifts, brows furrowing. “Wait, what? You almost-” “I’m gonna kiss you now,” he interrupts, his voice a low rumble. He can already taste you in the breaths you’re close enough to share with him, and he’s never been hungrier for anything–or anyone–in his life. You fall silent with a shiver, nodding minutely, eyes falling shut. “Please do.” His lips meet yours in a gentle press. He deserves a medal for not crushing you with the sheer magnitude of his desire. You all but melt against him, settling into his grip as smoothly as you settled into his life, his mind, his heart. When the two of you break apart, you make a breathless noise that shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. He feels hyper aware of your every sound and move.

God, how he wants to feel every part of you. 

You move your hands to touch his face and he leans into the softness of your caress. You’ve been close enough to kiss more times than he can count. The fact it’s only now occurred to him to do so seems like lunacy. Your eyes dip to his lips, your thumb brushes the bottom one. He catches it with a quick kiss and you laugh your sweet bell-chime laughter.

Pushing your hand into his hair, the wondrous joy in your expression becomes tinged with amusement. “And people wonder why I use so much gel,” you murmur, smooth the wild splay of his hair down with both hands, cupping the back of his head. Homelander smiles wide and boyishly, which prompts you to kiss him again.

“I’m not having some kind of brain bleed hallucination right now, right?” You ask quietly, the tip of your nose lightly pressed to his. He brushes his lips against yours between words. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he purrs, stroking your cheek with his thumb. Despite the ugly fluorescent lights and the dreadful hospital stench all around, you look resplendent in your joy.

He had been right. It was love that you touched him with. It had been subtle, imbued in your every movement, and for months he had soaked it up until, unbeknownst to him, he fell into it as well.

“Trust me when I say you’ll be seeing a lot more of me from now on,” he says, brushing your nose with his.

Maybe instead of tearing them limb from limb, he’ll send flowers to whoever the sorry son of a bitch that rear-ended you this morning was. Who knows how much more time he would have wasted before he realized he was utterly smitten with you.