#Keyring for purse

[anuchart19]

Leather Flower Keyring - A Chic Accessory for Your Handbag

The leather flower keyring is not only a stylish accessory but also an eco-friendly choice. Genuine leather is a natural and biodegradable material, making it a great alternative to synthetic materials. With this keyring, you can look good and do good at the same time.

[sadiec0re]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ my cute gingham bag ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

[suescreationspalace]

[motorsportbarbie13]

Get Unready With Me - Drunk Edition

In which Lando takes care of you after a night out.

Pairing: Lando Norris x FeminineGirlfriend!Reader Warnings: Drunk reader. Tooth achingly sweet fluff tho. Word Count: 1.8k words

Master List

“Lando! I’ve lost my keys!” You cry, opening the flap on your vintage Chanel bag in an attempt to dump the contents out on the floor of your flat’s empty hallway. 

“No you haven’t, you muppet.” He scolds, tugging the purse out of your hands before anything beyond your Charlotte Tilbury lipstick can clatter to the floor. “You gave me your keys after your fifth vodka cran. ‘Lan baby, be my hero and hold my keys so I don’t lose them!’” He mocks, pulling out your keyring from his pocket. 

Your eyes light up, a drunken giggle slipping off your lips as you lean your whole weight onto your boyfriend as he attempts to open the apartment door for you. “My hero!” 

“Besides,” He tuts, slipping the key into the keyhole. “We live together, my keys are your keys.” 

Lando swings the door open, ushering you inside before closing the door behind him with a soft snick of the lock. You look back at him, a bit more unsteady on your feet than you’d like. The pair of you are just getting back from dinner and dancing with a few of the other drivers and their significant others to celebrate the end of the season and you may have gone a bit overboard with the drinks portion of the night.

Flinging your stilettos off your feet, you groan at the relief of feeling the cool tile on your toes, only stumbling a bit when you try to stand up straight. It’s quite the miracle you made it up from the garage to your tenth floor apartment in those heels under your own power really. “I think my feet might just fall off.” 

Lando follows behind you as you stumble towards the couch. “Baby, shouldn’t we just go to bed? It’s late.” 

“My feet don’t work anymore. Carry me?” You pout, reaching for him with grabby hands. You are quite needy when you get this drunk but honestly, Lando doesn’t mind one bit. You’re quite independent, refusing to allow him to pay for much despite his multi-million dollar contract and endorsement deals. In fact, for the first year of your relationship you had refused to move in with him because there had been no way you could afford to split the rent in his posh apartment in Monaco. So when you get needy like this, which isn’t as often as he’d like, Lando likes to take full advantage of it. He likes to feel needed, especially by the woman he is absolutely smitten with. 

“I think your feet work just fine, but I will carry you to bed anyway, pretty girl.” He coos, scooping you up in his arms. 

You wiggle a little against him, nestling your head in the crook of his neck before breathing in his scent deeply. “You smell so good.” 

“I smell like sweat.” He laughs, walking down the hall towards your shared bedroom. 

“It must be the pheromones then. You’re so sexy when you’re sweaty.” You giggle. 

Lando chuckles, knocking the light switch with his elbow as he enters your room. The yellow glow from the lights overhead illuminate your face as you look up at him. In the alcohol induced haze, the thought of how lucky you are to have him flickers through your mind. You two had met a few years ago when you had been attended the British Grand Prix with your uncle Jenson Button. He had literally swept you off your feet when Fernando Alonso had nearly taken you out in the paddock with his scooter. You liked to joke that Lando had literally been your knight in shining armor that day, so of course you fell for him quick and hard. 

“Here you go, love.” Lando gently sets you down on the bed, your eyes already droopy with exhaustion from the day. “Lets get you out of that dress and into something comfy.” 

“Are you trying to seduce me, Lando Norris?” You slur. 

“No, I’m trying to get you into bed because you’re about five seconds away from falling asleep and I don’t want to cuddle you all night with that scratchy dress on.” Lando rolls his eyes but can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. He helps you shimmy out of the tight dress, pulling it over your head so you were left in only the skimpy McLaren papaya colored lingerie set. 

“This is new.” He says, slipping a finger under the strap of the lacy bralette that has him biting his bottom lip. You looked so cute sitting there on the bed, dressed only in his team colors. 

“I wore it to surprise you but now I’m too drunk to fuck you.” 

Lando can’t help the laugh that tumbles out of him. Despite you being 3 sheets to the wind, you know his rules: No sex while one of you is drunk and the other is sober.  And Lando is very sober right now, wanting to maintain some control over you as you tend to get a little wild and adventurous (read: you like to wander off) when you’re partying. “We can have a rot in bed day tomorrow and you can wear it then, okay love?” 

Your bottom lip sticks out in a pout, “Fine.” 

“Now, lay down. I’ll go get you a t-shirt and we can go to sleep.” 

You follow his instructions and watch as Lando bustles around the room, first getting changed himself and then pulling a t-shirt out of his closet for you. 

A few moments later, Lando pulls his t-shirt onto your body and tucks you back into bed before going to get some aspirin and a glass of water for you, knowing you’re going to have a wicked hangover tomorrow. He hates to see you in pain, but a part of him is pleased that you’ll be unable to do much tomorrow so he’ll be able to wait on you hand and foot. Being needed is absolutely one of Lando’s love languages. 

As he goes to switch off the lights, finally ready to get into bed beside you, suddenly you sit up. “Lando!” You gasp, smacking him on the shoulder as he sits down on his side of the bed. 

“What is it, pretty girl?” 

“My makeup! If I don’t take it off and wash my face, I’m going to break out and I will not be your pretty girl anymore.” 

Lando rolls his eyes, “Seriously? Can’t you just skip it this one time? You will always be my pretty girl, breakout or not.” 

In addition to being extra needy when you’re drunk, you are also extra stubborn. “I need to do my skincare, Lando.” You whine. 

“Fine.” Lando is quite certain there is no way you’d be able to do it by yourself, judging by the state you’re in though. “Let’s go, I’ll help you.” 

You blink up at him as he rounds the bed to stand before you, offering you his hand. “Really?” 

He looks down at those big eyes and pouty lips of yours and really wants to break the whole ’no sex while only one of us is drunk’ rule. “Yes, really you muppet. Come on.” 

Despite the fact that just a few minutes before you had been insisting your feet were about to fall off, you suddenly find the ability to walk and pad behind him into the large en suite bathroom. It’s a luxurious place, with a large jetted tub and huge shower with two shower heads. You find yourself sharing a shower with Lando more often than not. On the other side of the white and black tiled bathroom are his and hers sinks, yours more cluttered than his with various skin and hair products. You may be independent when it comes to asking for help, but you are certainly not low maintenance when it comes to your hair or skin.  

Lando stands in front of your sink, eyeing the various jars and tubes with a bit of skepticism. “I hope you’re sober enough to tell me what goes first because there is no way I can do this on my own.” He mumbles.

“You watch me do this all the time, baby.” 

“Doesn’t mean I know what any of this is. Now, hop up on the counter and let me take care of you.” He says, kissing the tip of your nose. 

A fire burns in your belly at his order. Secretly, you do love when he takes care of you like this. You just hate to admit it. Being raised by a single mom who was never the biggest fan of the male species, you had always been wary of asking for help but being with Lando had healed some of that trauma and mistrust in you and the longer you were with him, the easier you found depending on him. 

“What’s first?” 

“The micellar water.” 

Panic flashes across Lando’s face. “The what?” 

Giggling, you kick your feet like a toddler and point to the large bottle with clear liquid in it. “That. Put some on a cotton ball and…” 

“Wipe off your makeup. I know, I’ve seen you do it, I just don’t know what goes when.”

Lando squirts some out on a cotton ball like he’s seen you do a thousand times and begins to wipe off the makeup in long, slow strokes. The alcohol makes your brain fuzzy but the way his face is so focused on his task, brows knit together in concentration, has you squeezing your legs together. He can’t quite believe how many cotton balls it takes to get everything off, but eventually most of your makeup is gone. 

“Now is when you use the soap, right?” 

He looks so eager to be right your heart squeezes a bit. “Yes, that bottle right there.” 

Lando continues on with your skincare routine, listening to your every step and following it exactly as described. It takes a little longer than usual, but neither of you mind. The way he so gently rinses the soap off your face and then applies your moisturizer is strangely one of the most romantic things you’ve ever done together. 

Finally, everything is done and you’re bare faced and freshly moisturized. Lando hands you your toothbrush, already prepped with your toothpaste, and the pair of you brush your teeth together. He gently helps you down off the counter and you follow him back into the bedroom, hand in hand. 

“Thank you, baby.” You coo as you slip under the covers, watching as Lando switches off the bedroom lights, plunging the bedroom into darkness. 

“I love taking care of you.” He murmurs when he joins you under the heavy duvet, your warmth radiating towards him in waves. 

“I love you, Lando Norris.” 

“I love you too, pretty girl.” 

Tag List: @shelbyteller, @formulaal, @martygraciesversion381, @longhairkoo, @samantha-chicago, @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland, @chlmtfilms , @inarabee @aykxz98 @forensicheart @cheer-bear-go-vroom @charlesgirl16

Want to be included on the tag list? Send me a message/leave a comment! <3

[angelicgirlmj]

100+ angelic christmas gift ideas

𓂋

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

i adore christmas - its one of my favourite holidays! so beautiful and wintery, the lights and decorations, mugs of hot chocolate, childhood memories and so many traditions make it such a special time of year for me. i however, often struggle with knowing what to ask for or what i want for christmas, so i created a little inspo list to help me and anyone else! whether this is for a family member, friend, partner or even yourself im sure this will help you know exactly what you want (or at least give you some pointers in the right direction). these are all obviously just suggestions and vary in price so please put down in the comments what you are asking for this year! enjoy angel!!

uggs

victoria secret pjs

cozy fluffy socks

laneige lip balm

lush body lotions

rose quartz gua sha

glossier makeup

dior lip oil

sonny angels

yoga mat

silk pillowcases

litre water bottle

candles

jelly cats

cute claw clips

ear warmers

books

cute planner

posters or tapestries

camera

philosophy body washes

makeup bag

sylvanian baby blind bags

slippers

matcha

records or cds

five minute journal

desk or wall calendar

eye mask and bonnet

fluffy blankets

large candles

benetint lip tint

rare beauty products

cuticle oil and glass nail file

gold jewellery

silver jewellery

knee high boots

colourful/printed tights

pocket mirror

mugs

house plants

hair band or cute hair clips

gisou hair products

highlighters

charlotte tilbury makeup

pretty nail polishes

salt lamp or other lamp

tea bags (chai, green etc)

wallet or purse

bag charms

dyson hair wrap

your fave chocolates

makeup bag

quilt

vintage room decor

fluffy/patterned rug

new phonecase

slippers

headphones

rings

belt

portable speaker

crystals

fuzzy scarf and gloves

patterned tote bag

dried flowers

fairy lights

jewellery box or trinket dish

photo album

bath oils

incense

locket

bows or pretty scrunchies

sunglasses

mini crates or storage boxes

lululemon clothes

new bedsheets

laptop case

cute pillows

hair curlers

alarm clock

vintage/thrifted clothes

picture frames

snowglobes

miniature trinkets

personalised charm bracelet

makeup brushes

diffuser

face masks

lego

coffee table books

skims

tea infuser

reusable straw

warm jacket

sports bag

keyrings

jumpers

heels

charity donation

thank you so much for reading angels! this season is such a wonderful time of year because of the ideas and ethos surrounding it; one of giving. this winter should be about our loved ones and those in need. whether you do something as simple as donating old clothes to charity or making christmas cards for the homeless, i would encourage everyone (myself included) to make it their mission to give back in at least one way. remember - angels are kind and generous inside and out! as we plan our gifts or think about shopping and the fun things to come let’s all take a moment to reflect on how we can give back.

love, m.

p.s it’s never too early for christmas!

𓂋

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Devil Wears Armani 3

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: you’re the CEO’s new PA and you find the work too much to handle. (short!reader)

Characters: Tony Stark, this reader is known as Georgie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

—posting to the correct blog lol—

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

The appletini at girls' night does little to ease you through a restless night. You’re not a traveller. You’ve never flown before. The only reason you have a passport is it was required for the job. You didn’t expect to actually use it. 

You give into consciousness around 3am and double check your bag for everything you need. You forego your usual coffee as you fear an anxious bladder adding to your addled state. You still can’t figure out why Mr. Stark told you to come along. You don’t have anything blocked into his calendar. He’s had weekend meetings before but you usually pop into zoom to take notes and nothing else. 

You spare the fare for a cab as the streetcar isn’t in service yet and you don’t feel like venturing into the underground at this hour. The ride is swift in the dead streets of the city. You don’t think you’ve ever seen them so empty. 

You arrive at the airport and realise you’re missing a very important piece. A boarding pass? Terminal information? Any sort of direction to find where you need to be. Well, it never hurts to ask for help even if you don’t get it. 

You enter and go to the counter. The woman behind it looks tired as dark rings stain her sockets and she fixes her smile to greet you. You nervously clench your jaw and exhale through your nose. 

“Hi, I... I’m supposed to be flying, er, private? I work for Tony Stark?” You creak out through your dry throat. You need water. 

“Mr. Stark?” She lowers her brow, “do you have proof of employment?” 

“Erm, yeah,” you unhook your keyring from your purse and shove it towards her. Your company ID is hooked onto the cluster of novelty attachments and keys. 

“I need to make a call,” she says as she examines your identification. 

Great. 

You bob nervously on the other side of the counter as the attendant speaks quietly into the speaker. Your phone buzzes and you jingle the keys as you find it. Stark has sent you a simple message; ‘Terminal 1, tarmac. Now.’ 

As you peek up over the counter, the woman hangs up. “You need to head up to Terminal 1. Find an employee there, in a white shirt like mine, and show them this.” She kits a few keys and her printer grinds with great effort. She hands you a boarding pass but most of it is empty. There’s only a code at the bottom. 

You thank her and head off. You scramble through security, walking through the scanner as your bag rides the conveyor through and x-ray. You retrieve your things on the other side and run off to reach Mr. Stark before he gets too impatient. He’s probably already agitated. 

You check your watch. It’s only 5:01am. You’re on time, right? 

You follow the signs to terminal one and find a large man standing by a ramp entrance. You approach him and show him the pass. He points you to another employee at the far end as he talks over his walkie talkie to them. You cross the tiled floor to meet the man and he beckons you towards another ramp. 

You’re led down to the tarmac and left to shuffle across it on your own. You’re only told to approach big jet waiting by a tower set of stairs. There’s an attendant at the bottom who greets your brightly and you show the pass again.  

“Mr. Stark is expecting you. May I take your bag?” She offers. 

“No thank, I can handle it,” you nod and lift the bag off its wheels. 

You climb a stair at a time and pass another attendant at the top. She directs you to leave your bag in the front carriage and you roll it behind the wall of webbing there. You turn to the ivory curtain and peek through tentatively. The movement of fabric draws Mr. Stark’s gaze from his phone. 

“Get in here,” he demands, “about time, George. I was about to fall asleep.” 

You push through and near him, “sir, did you need coffee?” 

“They got the long-legged ones for that,” he waves away your offer with his lecherous allusion to the pretty, tall attendants. “Sit.” 

You look at the chair on the other side of the table, across from him, and you hesitate. You lower yourself into the cushy seat and cross one leg over the other, your foot bouncing anxiously. You clutch your hands together and stare at Mr. Stark. 

“You look tired as hell,” he cackles. 

“Sir, it’s early.” 

“Ah, don’t let that ruin an all-inclusive. Tell me, Georgie, a girl like you, are you jet-setting every weekend? You got billionaires flying you to the Caribbean on the reg? Didn’t think you were the popular type.” 

“No, sir, I--” you try not to wince at his insinuation. You are all too aware that you’re on the bottom rung of the ladder he sits atop of. “Thank you for this. It’s very nice of you to bring me along.” 

“You are very welcome,” he says smugly, “move.” 

He points to the seat next to him. 

“Oh, uh,” you pull your hands apart and push yourself up with the armrests, “sorry.” 

He grunts, irritated, and signals with two fingers. As an attendant approaches, you sidle around the table and in front of Stark to get to the other seat. You feel a brush on your thigh but ignore it. It’s a tight squeeze.  

He asks for an espresso as you lower yourself down. He reaches over and pinches the fabric of your pants, just at the top of your knee. He sniffs. 

“This isn’t very Caribbean-friendly. You’re gonna sweat your tits off,” he derides. 

You try not to show your embarrassment, ignoring the urge to cover your chest at his comment. Out of habit, you put on your usual attire. A cardigan, a tidy blouse, and slacks. He huffs again and tugs at the sleeve of your cardigan. 

“Get rid of this,” he demands. 

“Oh, uh...” You sit forward as you undo the single button and you shrug out of the wool. He swipes it away and tosses it on the floor.  

The attendant returns with his espresso and gathers up your cardigan as you send her an apologetic look. Stark takes his coffee and tastes it before setting it on the table. He turns to you and clucks again. You let out a squeak as he reaches to pop the top button of your blouse, then the next. You flatten yourself to the seat helplessly. 

“Better, gotta let those things breathe,” he winks and sits back with a smirk. 

[f1daydreamers]

𝐀 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨 [𝐋𝐒𝟏𝟖] 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

photo credits: Pinterest

Pairing: Lance Stroll x Fem!Reader

Summary: Asking the driver of the team you work for to attend a wedding with you as your fake date is possibly one of the dumbest ideas you’ve had ever.. but also one of the best.

Warnings: fluff, friends to lovers, one bed trope oop

A/N: Thank you all so much for the love on the first chapter, you guys are incredible :') Here's Part 1 if you haven't read it yet or want a recap!

Word Count: 2.1k (8 minutes reading time avg)

…

"Your Dad, your sister, your brother, they're great." You didn't add anything on to Lance's sentence, heading out of the venue your brother had extravangantly booked for a rehearsal dinner.

Being a lawyer marrying a real estate agent must have its perks.

"Your mum is.. certainly a character." You scoffed, knowing he probably had no intention of clearing up what he meant, assuming you'd understand what he was trying to say.

The sun had barely begun setting, the weather was cooler, and your home wasn't that much of a walk so somewhere between the few minutes it took for you both to leave the venue and reach the corner of the street, you decided walking would be the best option.

Lance just inattentively followed you, knowing you were his only navigation system.

He took a few brisk steps to catch up with your pace, the only comfort offered to you that you'd accept after a long day would be under the covers of your bed.

"In a rush?" You exhaled through your mouth, watching the puff of air escape from your lips.

"No, just want this day to end." You felt bitter about how your mother was acting, ignoring Lance then shooting you looks as if you were in the wrong was so typical of her.

Yet you were still surprised she'd go that low on such a celebratory occasion.

"You're.. chipper." The corner of your mouth twitched upwards and you mumbled a barely coherent word of confusion.

Lance laughed at your expression, "I heard one of your uncles say it, I like it."

You breathily laughed, shaking your head. "Trust me, no one says that anymore. My uncle uses slang he thinks would make him fit in. It doesn't."

He shrugs, stretching his arms outwards and only satisfied when he hears an expected 'pop' sound. "I think he's pretty cool."

Your lips curve into a smile, turning your head towards Lance who has a similar grin on his lips. "You should tell him that, he'll blush bright red."

You undo the latch to the front gate, pulling it wide open so the F1 driver can slide through, then you shut it behind him.

"Do you have a key?" Lance asks you, hopping up the final step of the patio. He extended your purse out to you in case it was in there but before you could answer his question, you paused.

"Why do you have my purse?" Trying to recall if you handed it to him but nothing sprung to mind.

"You left it on the table, I recognised it from this." He fiddled with the Aston Martin keyring Sebastian left the entire team as a parting gift in Abu Dhabi last year.

He brought it to your line of sight, proudly smiling.

You smiled back at him, "sharp eye Stroll."

"Thank you darling." That same look of confusion arose on your face again.

You looked away, your face warming slightly as you kicked the corner of the doormat to reveal a familiar key beneath it.

"Another one of my Uncle's terms of endearment?" He chuckled from behind you, the keyring making a faint clank sound as it hit the chain of your crossbody bag.

"Afraid so." You shook your head for the second time in this conversation, bending over to grasp the key between the pads of your index finger and thumb.

Slotting it into the hole, you pushed the door open and similarly to before, Lance easily maneuvered inside and past you.

He toed off his sneakers and picked them up with his two fingers hooked into the back.

You pulled open the drawer to the shoe rack, and he pushed them inside one of the empty spaces. You followed in his movements.

"Hungry? Thirsty?" He accompanied you to the kitchen. You flicked on the light switch and he went over to the kitchen island, leaning his elbows on the cold marble counter.

"Nah, I ate my weight in almonds already." He grinned, watching you pull out a jug from the fridge.

"Sucks having a rehearsal dinner with no dinner." You commented.

You poured yourself a glass of some freshly-squeezed apple juice. Your mum was always hellbent on having fresh everything when you were growing up, guess that habit still hadn't faded over time.

After a brief moment of chatter, you slung your bag around your neck, both you and Lance ascending the stairs to your bedroom.

As you pushed the door open and your hand searched for the light switch on the wall, you came to a sudden halt when the room was eventually illuminated.

Your heart sank to your stomach as you stared at the double bed in the center of your room.

He shut the door, wondering why you'd stopped moving all of a sudden before the realisation dawned on him and his words faltered halfway in his throat.

You glanced at him as his shoulder ghosted yours to stand besides you, his gaze met yours and both of you had a very similar look on your faces: the one that said 'this wasn't part of the deal'.

"Do you want me to open a window? It's a bit stuffy in here." He nonchalantly questioned.

You refrained from telling him that it wasn't stuffy because of the humidity, it was stuffy because there was an obvious elephant in the room that needed to be addressed.

You don't answer him, your mind in somewhat of a haze as you're trying to comprehend when the fuck two twin beds that you remember moving out from suddenly turned into one double bed.

"I'll open a window." Lance states, passing the inanimate bane of your existence to crack open one of the windows.

The idea of sharing a bed brought on a sudden discomfort, and without obvious reason. You'd shared beds with so many people before; friends, cousins, on sleepovers, girls' nights.

You dismiss the memories of physical contact earlier: Lance's hand resting on your thigh, fingers intertwined, and his touch on your back.

Consequently, you also disregarded the subsequent surge of butterflies in your stomach.

Those butterflies could have been easily set aside as mere surprise, and you also had no intention of experiencing them again. It took a considerable effort to convince the F1 driver to accompany you as your pretend date for a four-day weekend, so the thought of him ever entertaining any connection with you seemed entirely implausible.

Plus, you don't even like him like that.

Lance noticed you deeply lost in thought, biting the inside of his cheek.

"I can take the floor." Your eyes snap up to him stood on the other side of the room, leaned against the window pane.

Your eyes then flicker to the wooden flooring beneath your feet, shuddering while imagining how wildly uncomfortable that would be for a whole night, nevermind three nights.

"It's cold, and hard."

He shrugged, not caring much for his own discomfort. He reached over to grab his gym bag besides your suitcase, your parents had brought them in from your car this morning.

He unzipped the front pocket, fishing out his toothbrush.

"I dragged you out here so the least I can do is give you a bed to sleep in. I'll take the floor."

Lance hummed in disagreement, giving you a firm look. "Nope, not happening."

He pulled off his hoodie and dropped it on top of his gym bag, heading straight for the bathroom, already knowing where it was having had it shown to him before by your sister.

You took the time to change into your pajamas, digging through your open suitcase for your toiletry bag and simultaneously waiting for him to finish up in the bathroom.

After he had, he entered your bedroom once more and you found yourself staring at his bare arms, flexing with every little movement as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

The image of his muscles burned into your mind as you swiftly exited the room and set foot into the bathroom, locking it. You exhaled a shaky breath, taking out your toothbrush from your bag of skincare.

As you brushed your teeth then veered off into your skincare routine that followed, you only prayed that this weekend would go by quickly and smoothly. Something you'd been praying for since your brother had announced the dates of the ceremony.

After you finished up, you turned the light switch off and with a hesitant movement in your feet, you pushed open the bedroom door that hadn't been closed the entire way. Yet.

You saw Lance preparing to lie on the floor and told him to wait, hoping that if your parents hadn't been clearing out the remnants of your wardrobe as they had been with your bed, you'd find..

"Yes!" You exclaimed, tugging out the air mattress, keeping a hand on the tower of clothes you never took with you. Lance helped before laughing, you met his eyes as you lay the deflated cloud on your floor.

"Why do you have an air mattress in your room?" You blushed, "because of my sleepovers. I bought it spontaneously and look, now there's a purpose for it."

"Pump?" You whisked around again, now on your tiptoes as you tried to feel around the top of your wardrobe for a familiar cardboard box but ultimately failing because of your height, or lack thereof.

"Let me," Lance interrupted, extending his arm easily to the top. You looked down to the floor so your gaze wouldn't fixate on his bare bicep twice this evening, and eventually he lowered the box so it was within your grasp.

After pumping up the mattress, pulling on a fitted sheet and throwing him two of your pillows, you also threw him your thicker duvet.

Before he could complain, you stopped him. "I took the bed, you take the duvet. I've got a blanket." He gave in, sorting it out on his bed for the night, laying on his back after what felt like days.

You slipped into your blanket, resting your head on your pillow.

"Y/N?" You hum in return to his call of your name, turning your head to see him staring at the ceiling.

"The light's still on." You chuckled but before you could swing your legs over to the side, Lance was already up and going over to the far wall.

"Thanks." You add. He cautiously steps in darkness back over, careful as to not hit anything or hurt himself.

...

You wake up to find sunlight peaking through your windows, the cause of your slumber coming to its eventual end. But the man who fell asleep beneath the window isn't there, the blanket half falling off of the air mattress, the pillows tilted slightly.

Your eyebrows furrow when your eyes adjust to your room, but you also manage to half-remember that the blanket you were seeing on Lance's mattress was the one you'd fell asleep with a mere 8 hours ago.

The duvet you'd thrown at him now covering everything below your hips. You realised he must've swapped them at some point during the night when you were sound asleep.

After a few minutes, you sat up on your bed and left to brush your teeth, retying your hair into a low bun and splashing cold water over your face.

You skipped down the stairs, walking into the kitchen where most of the voices you were hearing were coming from, Lance's distinguishable accent being one of them.

"Morning sleepy," you smiled at him as he turned away from you and to the coffee machine, looking around to see only your sister and one of your cousins who'd stayed the night meeting your tired gaze.

"Where's mum 'n dad?" Daisy shrugged, "out."

She turned her attention back to your cousin so you headed for Lance, who, with a freshly brewed cup of coffee in his hand, swung around to see you.

You groaned happily at the sight of it, excitedly taking it into your hands. Coffee cheered you up. Lance chuckled, noticing the genuine twinkle in your eyes when he extended the mug out to you.

"Thank you." He nodded, and after a short moment's of silence, you looked at him.

"Did you.. swap the duvet 'round?" You questioned quietly, making sure the others in the kitchen couldn't overhear.

He smiled, taking a swig of his coffee before answering.

"You were shivering." He didn't add on anything else and from the gesture alone, that damned flurry of butterlifes erupted out of their cages again in your stomach.

"Well, I appreciate it. I guess my body did too." You joked, Lance nudging your arm with his elbow, a grin on his lips.

...

Part 3

Masterlist

Comment if you want to be tagged in the next part!

Taglist: @tororossoseb-blog @hiphopdancer101universe @hc-dutch @love4lando @chonkybonky @angstyeighteen @natasharomanoffisbaebby @little-angel-07 @voidskywxlker @flowerchild-96 @vildetry06 @sharllec @aundercover @taylor-will-be-the-death-of-me @spicyclover @mloyer @alesainz @e-lisa-bettan @hockey-racing-fubol @cinnamonroll2003

[indigosunsetao3]

Chapter 2

Waging war over the trash bins.

AO3 (Full list of tags/warnings. Please check them.) Masterlist 3.6k Words

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

“Damn it,” Celeste muttered as she came around the bend to her cottage. Standing on the road was her elderly neighbor, who had nothing better to do than to police the neighborhood. Street really, they weren’t in a community. There certainly was no governing body about how your house had to look. So this woman had decided it was her job to make sure everything looked prim and proper for the birds and deer.

Plastering a fake smile on her face, Celeste turned slowly into her driveway and watched as the woman hobbled down the gravel a bit. She wasn’t going to risk Celeste just running into the house to avoid her, which she was contemplating as she undid her seatbelt. The woman was waving at her with an equally forced smile, reaching out to rest her hand on the trunk to block Celeste from getting far unless she bowled her over. Still an option.

With a groan, Celeste let her seatbelt whack against the door before opening it and stepping out. She knew exactly what this was about, her eyes snapping up to where the bins should have been at the edge of her drive. She hadn’t brought them back in once again. By the time she remembered, trash day was only two days away. Why risk missing the pickup when she was so close?

But they weren’t there. Had the woman gone through with her empty threats finally?

“Good evening, Mrs. Nettles,” Celeste said as she bent back down and grabbed her purse and phone out of her car.  “Something I can help you with?”

“Oh, dear, I know you are terribly busy,” the woman started as she gave Celeste a once over. Her black apron was covered in powdered sugar, she had spilled coffee down her front, and errant receipts were sticking out of the front pockets. “But you are aware it’s Wednesday, right?”

“Is it?” Celeste asked, playing into the woman’s obvious dig at her. “Working all these hours, I just…lose track of the days.” A lie. Celeste was well aware of what day it was. Especially now that she was coming up on a year, the days ticking away so quickly as if they were mocking her.

“I’m sure. I hear you come and go at all hours,” the woman started. “Even in my old age, the slightest noise wakes me from a dead sleep. I guess my hearing is still intact,” she laughed. It wasn’t a joke; it was another dig at Celeste. She apparently slammed her doors shut too loudly or played her music a little too loud for the woman’s liking.

“Is there something you need?” Celeste asked as she shut her car door and made a show of finding her house key on her car keys. She had so many things on the keyring: old broken chains, keys to things she didn’t own anymore, a frayed lanyard, and a long empty bottle of hand sanitizer. All the while, she looked around casually for her stupid bins to see if they had fallen in a ditch or were across the street in the bushes. 

“Well, it is Wednesday, and rubbish pickup is on Fridays,” the woman said as she gestured behind her vaguely. “Your bins had been at the road since last week.”

“Ah, yeah,” Celeste answered with a small shrug, catching on the word had. This miserable woman did have them taken. “It’s been a rainy week, and I forgot about them. Coming and going all the time, working doubles,” she trailed off as movement caught her eye. A man was walking around the corner of her house, and she stiffened, turning her heel to glare at him. Who the hell was he, and why was he on her property?

“Can I help you?” Celeste snapped as she eyed him up and down. “You do know this private property.”

“Celeste,” Mrs. Nettles interfered, sounding scandalized at Celeste’s tone. “This is John, your new neighbor,” she introduced as John walked up to stand near them.

This man was different from the man she had seen last week in the sling. Maybe this was the person that would be renovating the place. He seemed rugged enough for the role: well-worn jeans, beat-up work boots, and solidly built. Aside from seeing lights on inside the cottage every night, and even in the early mornings when she was leaving at four in the morning, she had not physically seen anyone in days. They kept to themselves, and she did the same thing. Something Mrs. Nettles could learn.

“I stopped by his place to remind him about trash day. I didn’t realize his poor roommate just had surgery and couldn’t manage it,” Mrs. Nettles continued with a simpering tone that she never gave Celeste. “But he graciously offered to grab your bins for you while he was at it.”

Probably because Mrs. Nettles was bitching about her bins to him to garner sympathy, Celeste thought. And to manipulate him into helping her.

“I can handle my bins just fine,” Celeste answered as she looked over at John, eyes scanning up at the sizeable height difference between him and the older woman who looked like she was itching to take his elbow.

“But dear, you don’t. They are always at the road; when it’s windy, they blow all over. One was already knocked over when John grabbed them for you.” Mrs. Nettles praised as if he had just saved a child from a burning building. Celeste felt her eyes roll before she could stop them. The woman noticed.

“If you don’t start keeping up with them, I will have to call the town.” Mrs. Nettles said with a cold finality as she did, in fact, grab John’s elbow. Acting as if he were going to protect her from Celeste, whose eyes had widened with disbelief.

John shifted his feet a bit and glanced back toward his cottage. He clearly regretted letting this older woman rope him in to help. When Mrs. Nettles grabbed his elbow, he closed his eyes a beat too long for a blink and inhaled. Celeste could tell he was too polite to shake the woman off, but he wanted to be anywhere but here.

“I’ll bring my bins in when I remember to bring them in,” Celeste snapped at the woman. If this old bitty wanted to have a fight, they were going to fight.  “There isn’t a rule for how long they sit at the road,” she gestured angrily at the road so her keys jingled in her hands. “I can leave them out there all year round if I want. I can get three more and leave them all out there. Just for you to stare at them.” She was seething and was being obnoxious on purpose, but God, it felt good to just let some of the pent-up emotion out.

Mrs. Nettles mouthed at her like a fish out of water, eyes darting to John to back her up, but Celeste turned around and headed to her cottage. She stamped angrily to the door and shoved it open hard, not bothering to lift it as it scraped the stone entryway. Samson was waiting at the door, and she scooped him up before kicking it shut hard behind her.

“Nosey old bat,” Celeste groused, perhaps an octave too loud, as she flung her purse onto the bench in the entryway.

She wished she had the time and energy to worry about what her neighbors were doing, patrol the road, note everything out of place, and harass people for not following her made-up rules. Did it look better when bins weren’t on the road? Sure. Were the cottages prettier when the landscaping was kept up? Definitely. Did Celeste have the energy to do all that or care about it? Not in the least.

Celeste paced the living room for a bit, glancing out the big picture window to see John walk Mrs. Nettles back to her house. She narrowed her eyes, watching them go. The lead glass was too warped for them to see her glaring, but she could see them slowly walking down the road.

Mrs. Nettles had lived in her cottage with her late husband, Al, their whole married lives. Celeste’s husband grew up with them every summer and winter holiday. He said they had been just as fussy then as she was now, always worried about what everything looked like. He used to joke that they were concerned the royals would parade through town and condemn them for a flower out of place. Or would be disappointed that they weren’t following all the ‘royal rules’ about rubbish bins.  

It used to be a joke between Celeste and him, the royal curb police, but now it was just an annoyance. There was no one to roll her eyes with and laugh about it over dinner or to leave to fend for themselves as the other listened with a grin as they hid around the back of the house. Instead, she was stuck with the meddling woman who took it upon herself to pester everyone on the street.

Mrs. Nettles wasn’t friendly, she wasn’t pleasant. She was mean in her own backhanded way and was on a personal crusade against Celeste. All the neighbors knew how she was and did their best to avoid her. Many would go back inside the house when they saw her coming or just make their lawns magazine-worthy so she’d leave them alone. John was fresh meat and didn’t know just how petty the woman was. He’d learn soon enough; they all eventually saw the nasty, manipulative side of her and grew tired of it.

When Samson wriggled hard enough to ask to be let down, Celeste set him on the floor and followed him to the kitchen. He sat at the back door and looked pointedly back at her, asking to go outside. He had behaved that day and hadn’t tried to get out; it was the least she could. With a sigh, she opened the back door for him to scamper out, and she spotted the bins. They were propped up against the side of her detached garage, and a vicious flare of anger went through her.

Fuck Mrs. Nettles and her stupid rules.

Walking outside, Celeste grabbed the two bins, tilted them onto the wheels, then began walking back to the end of the driveway. They bumped into one another and caught the back of her heels, making her curse; she usually brought them up one at a time. But she had come this far, and she was pissed enough that she was going to be stubborn about it. So she dragged them jerkily over the gravel, muttering under her breath until she got to the edge of the drive.

She set them out prominently around the overgrown bush and stepped back to look at her work. The bright blue recycling bin stood out perfectly against the still half-dead landscaping. Celeste stepped forward and dragged the black bin a little more prominently when she snapped her head up. John was making his way back from Mrs. Nettles' house, and he eyed her as he walked, a smirk on his face.

“Antagonizing her isn’t going to get her to let up,” John said as he got a bit closer, stopping a few feet away.

“I hope it festers,” Celeste answered smugly as she wiped her hands absently on her apron. “I hope it drives her absolutely mad when she sees them out here again. And when she calls the town, and they tell her there is nothing they can do about it, I know she’ll have a little tantrum. I only wish I could see it.”

“I take it you two don’t exchange Christmas cards,” John answered. He glanced up the road toward the woman’s house before back to Celeste.

“Hardly. She’s been a thorn in everyone’s side for years,” Celeste answered before twisting to look at John’s cottage. “She’s just playing nice with you right now, hoping you’ll clean the place up. She’s been whining about the state of that cottage to anyone that will listen for a long while.”

“She’s going to be waiting,” John answered as he spotted Kyle walk out the front door, looking to see what was taking him so long. “I leave for work tomorrow, and Kyle isn’t exactly fit to be doing anything.”

“Tell him to just ignore her,” Celeste started, “avoid her, actually. Better for everyone.”

“He’s too nice for all that,” John answered as Kyle walked out to the car and leaned against the hood, watching them talk. “But I’ll give him a warning.”

“Being nice isn’t always the answer,” Celeste answered.

Before John could respond, she headed back to her cottage, abruptly ending the conversation. She had enough for the afternoon and was honestly afraid that the woman would pop out from behind the tree line to start up another fight. For acting so frail, she was spritely. And while Celeste wanted to antagonize her, she wasn’t ready to start arguing just yet.  

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

“Making friends?” Kyle asked as John walked back over, cutting through the thin tree line that dotted the property between their cottage and neighbor. He had watched the old woman corner John and didn’t do a damn thing to help him. He just smirked and gave him a snarky little wave as John glared at him when the woman practically dragged him along.

“Don’t start,” Price replied as he patted his pants down for the car keys. They weren’t there.

“Here,” Kyle answered as he held out the keys with his good hand, the keyring looped around a finger. He grinned a bit as John took them from him, his hand brushing over his and lingering a fraction too long to be completely casual. “What’s the neighbor's name?” He tacked on as he walked to the passenger's side and opened the door.

“Celeste,” John answered as he watched Kyle and waited patiently for him to buckle himself in. He knew helping him would be easier, but Kyle felt infantile enough as it was. “She’s looking to start a war with the self-imposed street police,” his voice was exasperated, but the slight twitch of his lips gave away the amusement.

“I thought we were coming here to avoid war,” Kyle stated as he finally got the seatbelt in place and twisted back with a huff.

“I highly doubt either of them are going to be lobbing tear gas over their fence,” John replied, his gaze lingering on where Celeste’s backdoor had opened again. He hesitated as he twiddled the wheel and watched her walk out across her lawn, her little orange cat on her heels, headed toward her dock.

“If we have to pick sides, I’m taking the old lady,” Kyle answered as he peered at John, then followed his eyeline toward Celeste. She was headed back out to that dock for the third night in a row. Kyle had spotted her the evening before, sitting in the light rain before she finally gave up as a downpour chased her inside. “Probably has some tricks up her sleeve from the Second World War,” he smirked.

“Don’t count Celeste out just yet,” John answered as he watched her a moment longer. She sat in the left chair as she always did and set a bottle of wine on the small table. The right chair remained empty; not even her cat jumped into it.

“Are you going to pick up another stray?” Kyle asked teasingly as John finally pulled out of the driveway, hand deftly shifting gears. “Johnny and Simon were territorial enough when you brought me home.”

“Should have left all three if you out in the rain,” John answered as Kyle laughed and settled back further into his leather seat.

They spent a good while in town. Kyle had found a small home goods store to pick up new sheets for the bed he had ordered, which was set to arrive in a few days. After spending one night on the twin bed and waking up with a spring lodged in his back, he had deemed it uninhabitable. Next, they made a quick stop at the liquor store to stock up on the "good stuff," as John put it. John only drank beer if there were no other options, dismissing it as ‘piss water’ until someone found him a decent Scotch.

Their final stop was the grocer, where they stocked up on more than just beer and prepackaged food to fill the fridge. John had groused over Kyle’s lack of proper food while he was supposed to be recovering, masking his concern for Kyle’s well-being with worry about the team being down a man. Kyle grinned to himself for the rest of the trip, glancing occasionally at John, who seemed to avoid eye contact at all costs. The dance they had been performing for a while was picking up tempo.

“Who knew the whole town would shut down at nine,” Kyle muttered as he shifted the styrofoam containers on his lap. They had planned on eating a proper meal in a restaurant, but everything was closing down for the evening. The waitress had given them a withering look when they asked for a table at eight-thirty and offered them takeaway instead.

“I’m sure it will change in the summer,” John answered as he flicked the high beams off. The mist on the road was thick, and the light was just reflecting back at him as he tried to navigate the winding roads.

Kyle didn’t answer as he popped open the lid of his box and reached in for a chip, but John cut his eyes over to him. They were supposed to sit and eat together, none of this rush shit that they did out in the field. Kyle quickly shut the lid and held his hand up in a surrender gesture, letting the boxes continue to warm his legs.

“She’s still out there,” John said a moment later as the car lights swung over Celeste’s property when they pulled in. He wasn’t exactly looking for her, but his eyes wandered in that direction nonetheless.

“She’s out there late most nights,” Kyle answered as he looked as well.

Neither of them grabbed their seatbelts, and John let the car run as they watched. Celeste didn’t react to the lights or the sound of the car, not even peering over her shoulder. John contemplated getting out to check on her when he saw her shift. It was subtle, but he saw her hand reach to the side before curling back in again. Grabbing her bottle of wine.

“Does she sleep out there?” John asked when he finally cut the engine and climbed out. He went for the groceries in the trunk while Kyle juggled the food, hipping his door shut.

“No, I keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t fall in the lake,” Kyle answered. He caught the look John gave him. It was a curious one, perhaps a little too knowing, before he returned to gathering the bags.  “She wanders inside, eventually.”

“Now who’s looking for strays,” John taunted as he followed Kyle into the cottage.

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

Celeste rose from her chair, groaning as she stretched her stiff back and legs, her butt having gone numb some time ago. She stumbled slightly as she grabbed her blanket and the empty bottle of wine, catching herself on the back of the chair she had just left. The water had been calm that evening, with a mist dancing across the surface, shifting gently with the breeze. A few boats had drifted by, moving lazily, and Celeste had watched them come and go with a slightly vacant expression.

The lake was her sanctuary, a place where she could escape and let nature envelop her, becoming just another blip on the shore. On particularly tough evenings, when her thoughts refused to quiet, she brought wine along. Lately, she found she needed wine most nights. The approaching anniversary was making it increasingly difficult to silence her mind. That evening had been especially hard; she’d downed a whole bottle in one sitting without even getting up to eat.

Throwing her blanket over her shoulder, she carefully made her way down the dock, Samson trotting beside her and mewling for his dinner. She twirled the empty wine bottle between her fingers as she walked when a sound drew her attention. Glancing to the side, she spotted two figures on their back porch, small embers glowing in the dark as they smoked. Shit, she thought. Had they seen her stumble? She hoped they would dismiss it as the dock rocking with the movement of the lake.

She watched the figures for a few more seconds as she walked, concentrating on placing one foot carefully in front of the other to avoid tripping again. Her head was swimming, and she fumbled with the door handle twice before finally getting it open and slipping inside. The bright kitchen light made her flinch, so she quickly turned it off, relying on the dim light above the stove to feed Samson. She wasn’t hungry and didn’t think she could stomach anything anyway; just the thought of food made her feel ill.

The idea of climbing the steep stairs to bed was daunting. So, instead, she wandered to the couch and collapsed into it. Five am was going to come quickly, and as she drifted to sleep in her stupor, Celeste knew she was going to be pissed at herself when she woke up. A full bottle of wine on an empty stomach, paired with a poor night’s sleep, would result in a miserable hangover; her second one that week.

[ddejavvu]

I'm a huge fan of big man tiny dog so mvm could you do husband!Hotch meeting readers teeny little dachshund puppy?

i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i made this boyfriend!hotch instead!!! the vibes just hit me i apologize for changing your request :( but big man tiny dog is so special to me!!!!!

--

Aaron has a key to your apartment on his own keyring now. You'd trusted him with one pretty quickly in your relationship, because he'd taken you up on your offer to bring Jack home from school a few times, and had given you one of his own. And it was wonderful to have someone with access to your space on their day off, because if you ever forgot your sweater at home, he could bring it to you on your lunch break.

He's so used to walking in that he does it without telling you now, sliding the key into the lock and turning it. It scrapes metal against metal, but he hears the tv on inside, so he hopes the sound doesn't freak you out before you realize it's Aaron.

He pushes the door open, briefcase in hand. His eyes land on you immediately, and they light up at the sight of you, but what he doesn't notice is the tiny puppy at his feet, not until he nearly kicks the poor thing over.

"Hi, sweetheart, oh-!"

He looks at his feet when he feels pressure on one, and there's a puppy on his shoe. You're lounged over the couch, arms outstretched to beckon him in for a hug, but his attention now rests on the floppy-eared dog staring curiously up at him while its front paws perch on the toe of his shoe.

"Hello," He hums at the puppy, glancing up at you, "You got a dog?"

"I found a dog," You grin, pursing your lips to kiss at the animal, "C'mere!"

The dog stays put. Aaron chuckles, gently moving his foot so that he can step into the apartment without crushing the puppy. It's intent on following him, it seems, as he perches on the edge of the couch to take his shoes off. When the left one is set aside the puppy crawls right in, back paws firm against the sole as its front legs rest up against Aaron's leg.

"Hi," He croons again, eyes crinkling with a smile. He stops wrestling with his other shoelace, reaching out to pet the dog's tiny head. His hand is comically large comparatively, and the puppy nearly drowns in the pets it's receiving.

"Oh, puppy likes you," You gush, one socked foot protruding from the blanket you're laying under, "Come lay down, Aaron! We can bring the puppy too."

"Alright, alright," He reaches out to squeeze your foot, laughing as you yelp, "I'm working on it."

He has to stop petting the puppy to take off his other shoe. Evidently, this isn't a very wise choice, as the sweet creature decides it would like to be closer to Aaron than ever before, hopping up onto his thigh and sitting, waiting patiently.

"So small," Aaron marvels, trying not to melt at the tiny face trained on him. It's incredibly hard to ignore the little thing.

"I know," You coo, reaching out to ruffle the puppy's ears. You're rewarded with a brush of its nose against your fingers, and you giggle at the sensation.

Aaron finally gets his shoe off, patting the puppy gently on the bum, "Okay, go! Go get Y/N."

The poor puppy doesn't understand much, but he lets Aaron nudge him off of his thigh and along the couch. You scoop the animal up into your arms, giving Aaron ample room to stretch out without worrying about crushing a puppy.

Only when Aaron's situated properly do you let the puppy go, biting your tongue to stop from crooning at its waddle. It hops eagerly from your hip to Aaron's, trotting up to his shoulder and curling up beneath his face. It means that the puppy's butt is far closer to your own face than you'd prefer, but the way that Aaron's eyes light up makes it all worth it.

"Hell-o," Aaron chuckles, reaching up to scratch at the puppy's ears, "You're pretty little. I'm worried I'll roll over and crush you."

The puppy doesn't seem as concerned about death-by-flattening, snout bumping into Aaron's cheek as it licks at his nose.

Aaron's face scrunches, nose wrinkling as he lets out a fond laugh that's combined with only a mild grunt of distaste.

"Puppy doesn't care," Your voice is adjusted for proper dog-speak as you reach out to play with its tail, watching as it wags more the harder Aaron scratches behind its ears, "Puppy just wants to snuggle."

"Mm, me too." Aaron sighs, eyes drifting comfortably shut as you shift your focus to Aaron's hair. There's product in it, but your fingers break up crunchy strands, leaving them soft and malleable, albeit a bit sticky. While he pets the puppy, you pet him, and by the slowing of a tail and the even rise-and-fall of a chest, you know they're snoozing now, so you tuck your face against them both to do the same.

[the-lisechen]

~6.7k. gen. copia/f!oc. the cardinal has a cigarette with a fan. from there, it gets a little weird. (or: copia gets into a fist fight at 3am in a denny's parking lot over theology. metaphorically speaking.)

header by the divine @enjoy-my-swearing

(the fic that started it all and has eaten my brain ever since. don't mind me, i just wanted to reformat this one and also have it on my tumblr for posterity)

some kind of cosmic rearrangement - ao3

(full series here)

religious discussion, catholic character that isn't an asshole, unresolved sexual tension. tw: catholicism

Copia stepped out into the night, face paint mostly cleaned off, save for the black around his eyes. He couldn't even remember the name of the town they were in. Somewhere in the American South, the air warm and heavy with humidity that felt like silk against his skin. He settled his shoulders against the brick of the alleyway, and sighed, his blood still fizzing from the ritual. The comedown from the adrenaline dump always left him a little hollowed out and shaky.

As he passed a hand over his face, the car in front of him trilled out like a bird and flashed its lights. He turned to the sound of boots up the wet pavement. A small figure, female, dishwater blonde hair, head down, hands stuffed into black skinny jeans. Humming something he could recognize as one of his songs, and that never got old.

He watched her approach, curious. When she at last stepped into the light, she looked up at him, and startled like a deer. Her hands flew up to her mouth, and she squeaked out a breathless “Oh shit!” It took her a moment to recover, and my, wasn't that an interesting shade of pink. He’d seen people blush, of course, but this was remarkable, that red, that quickly.

He had to smile, even bowing a little. “Bunoasera, signora."

"Um! Hi! You are very good at your job!"

Her purse plopped next to her feet, and she knelt down to recollect it, the blush deepening to the color of late spring roses. "Sorry, I'm sorry--" she said, hands shaking as she scooped spilled detritus back into her purse, pens and lip balm spilling from her fingers.

He bent over to help her, smiling. "It is no trouble, signora. Not the worst I've seen." He paused, sitting back on his heels, and picked up a battered paperback the color of burnt orange. "'The Liberation of Theology.'" He looked up at her, mismatched eyes sharp, assessing. "This is what you read? At my show?"

The girl-- woman, really-- went still. She got to her feet and took half a step back, widening her stance, her shoulders squared. "Yeah." She tilted her chin up. "Is it really that strange?"

He flipped it to read the back cover, and her spine relaxed a fraction, with his focus off of her. "Perhaps... somewhat unexpected." An understatement. He stood, slow, putting himself further into her personal space, eyes still on the text in his hand. He read the subtitle. "'An instrument in human liberation.' Has it been?" He looked down at her, not exactly trying to loom, but not exactly going out of his way not to. "In your experience."

The woman folded her arms, leaning back against her car. Keeping her distance. "It can be. It should be." She flipped her keyring, once. "And in my experience? Yes, actually. But I am fully aware my experience may be-- atypical."

"In what way?"

"Well." She looked up, exposing the long pale line of her throat, and her Southern accent became gradually more apparent as she spoke. "I converted to Catholicism. Not really from anything, you understand, unless you count the vaguely agnostic Protestant background noise in America. And I did my catechism classes with a Capuchin Franciscan. A lot of mysticism. And a lot of social action to offset the navel-gazing that comes with that. The culture was-- it's different. I mean, how much do you know about liberation theology?"

"For the purposes of this conversation?" He idly tapped her book against his thigh. "Let us say... not much."

"In simple terms: feed the hungry, clothe the naked. Like the guy said in the book, right? It's both defending the poor and taking aim at the structural issues that are actively oppressing people. Real basic."

"You need a God to tell you this?"

He saw her warming to the subject, eyes alight and not quite on his. "Of course not, but it's a useful framework. And some people do! Whatever provides incentive. Besides that, it works on a practical level, if the Church is your primary social apparatus, that's a structure in place to distribute resources if the state is failing. I mean, the Jesuit approach in South America is not quite the same as the Black church in the Civil Rights movement in the USA in the Sixties, but it's not too far off, either. It's like--" and she cut herself off, the blush coming back, eyes cast downward. "It's just what's supposed to happen. What it says on the tin."

He ruffled the pages with a gloved hand a few times, watching her. "Incentive." He gestured at her with the book, halfway to accusatory. "If someone is doing something in expectation of divine reward, then they are, I'm afraid, an asshole."

"Man, I truly do not care about the motive. I care about the effect it has on the world. But faith without works is dead."

"You believe this."

"Yeah."

"You are this passionate about it, and yet you came to see me. My songs are nothing but blasphemy. Why?"

"Look, as blasphemy goes-- and I'm not trying to denigrate anything you're doing here-- this is just not that big a deal."

He stared at her. "I am literally praising the devil. Literal songs about, literally, devil worship."

"Yeah, and it slaps. Can I have my book back?"

He held it out carefully, as if it was a chunk of meat and she was a strange animal. One that might bite. "What is it, then, that qualifies as blasphemy? In your opinion."

She took it, opened the backseat door to her car, and tossed it in, careful not to turn her back on him. "I dunno. Start with that 'prosperity gospel' bullshit. 'If you're rich, it's because Jesus wants you to be rich!' Joel Osteen can bite the fucking curb. It's lazy exegesis, is what it is." Again, he saw her restrain herself, and she ran a hand through her hair, embarrassed. "I can go on. Obviously. But I think if you're getting bent out of shape about this kind of thing, you need to reassess your priorities."

"No, this is-- at least amusing. You haven't chased us out with torches and pitchforks yet, so I will continue to assume good faith." He smiled. "So to speak."

"Trust me, I am leaving a lot of stuff out." She fished around in her purse, picked out a brilliantly blue pack of cigarettes, and tapped them rhythmically on the heel of her hand. "So what's your deal? I don't know a lot about theistic Satanism. Pop the hood on it, man, tell me how it works."

"In simple terms?"

"Sure." She cracked a smile, thumbing a cigarette out of the pack.

"We honor the serpent that brought knowledge to Eve, as a liberator from the oppression of the corrupted demiurge that you call God."

"The snake, this was one of those gnostic things, right? That was, what, the Ophites? I thought they found it at Nag Hammadi."

"Fragments. References. But we have had the Syntagma for centuries. This was Hippolytus, yes? We borrowed a few things from Marcion of Sinope, as well. From those texts, and other pieces of what you would call apocrypha, we solidified a doctrine. Eventually. These things take time, no? Remind me, when did your people decide on the canon?"

"Council of Rome. I wanna say three..." she tapped the unlit cigarette, "...eighty seven? Somewhere in there. Fourth century, anyway."

"Just so. As a, you'd say-- distinct movement, yes? I would say sometime around the twelfth century that we came together."

"Hold on, twelfth century, evil demiurge-- what was this, like a splinter of the Cathars?"

"Not unrelated. When it came to that kind of dualism, we merely decided to side with the physical world."

"By running straight to the devil."

"Eh. No half measures."

"I'm just kinda surprised it got traction in that environment."

"Mostly on the-- margins, you would say? We had solidified the clerical structure some time before, modeled on the Catholic church. Camouflage, yes? But it was with the obvious corruption of the fourteenth century that we started to gain momentum. Acolytes. A whisper network of proselytization."

"That is neat. Like, what, a Dark Reformation kind of thing?"

"...That is, perhaps, somewhat reductive. But not inaccurate."

"Oh that is so cool. It's like finding a whole new life form in the Marianas Trench. No, I can see a kind of sense to it. Get far enough away from Rome, look as close as you can to the actual Church, you might get away with it."

"They did burn us. Your people did do that."

"I am sure that they did," she said, with a certain blithe amicability. "Burnt a lot of Cathars, too, makes sense. Sir-- Father-- I'm sorry. What is the title?"

"Cardinal."

A blink, barely perceptible. "Cardinal, then. Your Eminence, if you want me to stand here and apologize for every atrocity the Church committed, we're gonna be here all night, and it'll get boring quick. And, forgive me, at what point have I attached a moral judgment over your faith?"

He spread his hands, smiling a little. "Very well, I concede the point. You can understand if I am somewhat-- defensive."

"Yeah, of course." She grinned, mostly to herself. "And here I am, a good Catholic girl. Everything you rail against."

"Eh. It could be worse. You could be a Baptist."

She let out a laugh at that, an entirely inelegant sound, and Copia felt as if he'd won something.

"Oh. No. No, I couldn't. Too diffuse. A million different opinions going every which way. I'm also not into sola fide--"

"'By faith alone.'"

"Yeah. Not my bag. If it doesn't inspire you to help your fellow human beings and not just focus on your own salvation, it's probably bullshit." Finally she put the cigarette she'd been fidgeting with into her mouth. "Man. Cathars and gnostics." The woman brought out a burnished zippo and flipped the lid, a faintly musical sound. She didn't light her cigarette, but shot him a sidelong look, eyes alight. "Sounds more like heresy than outright blasphemy."

"Oh, now I'm offended." He was not, in fact, offended. He was fascinated. He wanted to study her under a microscope. "Certainly, that's the first time I've heard that. Maybe I should send you to talk to the-- ehh, how is it? The protestors. What do you call, the evangelicals, yes?"

"They don't like Catholics, either. The veneration of Mary, y'know? Idolatry." Finally she sparked the lighter, her face turning to alabaster in the light of the flame. "We're both going to hell in their lights. Just different neighborhoods." She bent her head to the light. A long drag on the cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke upwards. "So no, I don't think going to a concert counts as a sin. There's just some songs I can't sing along to, is all."

Copia leaned back against the wall, arms folded, considering her. "You know that your Church would call this blasphemy. What is it, then, that you think I'm doing, if not spreading the word of Satan?"

A long drag of her cigarette. "Sick tunes, man," she said, around the smoke. Shrugged. "It's fun. And fun is underrated, as a concept."

"Signora, I don't think 'fun' is what brought you here." He leveled her with his mismatched stare, and she dropped her eyes.

"No," she said, studying the cherry on her cigarette. "No, fun would not be enough."

He took a step closer, not quite edging into her personal space. "What, then? What could possibly bring you to deny your programming, when you clearly believe with such conviction?"

The back of her shoulders hit the top of her car, but she tilted her head up at him in challenge. "Call it joy, then." A defiant kind of vulnerability. "That's what I hear in your songs. And that's a rarer thing."

"What a monstrous thing, to deny joy. To yourself, to others. That sounds to me like blasphemy. What abnegation of the self. We are not hurting anyone. I am not hurting anyone. Why not do as you like?"

"'An it harm none, do as thou wilt.'"

"Precisely."

"Isn't that, what, Louÿs by way of Crowley? Nineteenth century. I thought your stuff was older than that."

"That is beside the point and you know it. Answer me."

"Because that's where it falls apart for me! To begin and end with 'do no harm' does not work. You cannot always do exactly as you like, you have an obligation in society! Feed the hungry. 'Do what you want, whatever,' that's too passive. And being passive in the face of oppression is oppression! Come on, man, you must know this. You're too smart not to know this."

"I'm sorry, you want to talk about oppression? With the literal Catholic Church? With the colonialism and the forced conversion and the actual literal Inquisition? Even laying that aside, the harm it's doing now, how can you still stay with it?"

"Because that's not all it is! Not all it could be. Because it can be just, it can be equitable, and it can be used as a tool for liberation. I believe that, I do. And if if I'm in it-- and oh boy you would not believe how much I'm in it-- then I have a moral obligation to try to shape it towards those ends. Because those people--" she flung a hand out, gesturing towards what, he couldn't say, and he took a step back. "Those bullshit assholes that want to strip people of healthcare and gut the social safety net-- they're in my house! And they don't get to fucking win."

"You must see that this is about control. You are too smart not to know this."

The woman slumped back against her car, and took another long drag on her cigarette, before dropping it and crushing it under her boot, an oddly fussy swiveling motion. "I dunno, man. For me it's about service. You just don't fix something by walking away. And anyway I'm committed."

"I think you are tilting at windmills." He watched her, the last tendrils of cigarette smoke from her exhale the same blue-grey of her eyes, letting the silence linger until the smoke cleared entirely. "What is your name?"

She flicked her eyes back up at him, and then away, coming to a decision. "Sophia Turner." She bit her lip. "Sophie."

"Sophie. That's lovely."

"Thank you. And what do I call you? Feels a little weird, saying 'Your Eminence' to a guy whose faith you don't subscribe to."

He tilted his head in the faintest approximation of a bow, biting back a smile. "Copia."

"Well. I am delighted to make your acquaintance." Her accent more pronounced with the formality, a distinctly Southern drawl.

"You say you're committed. How? You don't have to stay anywhere forever."

"Oh. Oh boy. Um." She looked down at her hands, picked at the edge of a painted nail, and then turned to him, watching his mismatched eyes for a long moment. She smiled, a little rueful. "I am taking my vows in a few months." And to his blank look-- "The Maryknoll Sisters of St. Dominic." He blinked, recoiled a little, and she flinched, turning to look down the street, not seeing the rain on the asphalt, the streetlight shining on the fire escape. "I still don't think it's a sin. But it's-- maybe a little harder to square. After that. Wanted to see you while I could."

Her face composed. No-color hair hanging in grey eyes. He wanted to reach out, to brush it away, to see her clear, to make her look at him. A gulf between them, on the narrow sidewalk. Something twisted in his chest, at the waste of it, the thought of a fire like that locked in a cloister. And yet: "I could never fault someone for devotion to their faith. The discipline is admirable. Truly. But I would-- Are you allowed? To fraternize with the enemy?"

"Well. Maybe in the spirit of friendly ecumenical dialogue." She looked up at the streetlights, shoulders tensed. She chewed at her lip. "We are allowed to have friends, you know."

He had to drop his gaze, at that, a sharp inhalation. "Ah." And again: "Ah. Hm." He looked back up at her, at the tense muscle in her jaw, her face still resolutely turned away from him. "I wonder--?"

She darted a quick look at him, not quite daring to look at him full-on, yet, and made a motion for him to continue.

He had to smile, even if it was with a little trepidation. "Do you have another cigarette?"

That rough bark of a laugh again, and yes, it felt like a victory. "Yeah. Yeah, man, sure." She pulled out the cigarette pack and extracted one, holding it out with the slightest self-deprecating hint of ceremony. He took it between his gloved fingers, careful not to touch her. When he put it to his lips she leaned in to light it in a movement that seemed both courtly and instinctual, an ingrained habit. He couldn't quite look at her when she did it, shocked by the casual intimacy of the gesture. The warmth of the flame through his gloves, the first rough hit of smoke at the back of his throat and the head-swimming nicotine rush. An awful taste, and completely satisfying. He closed his eyes at it and drew in deep, amazed all over again at how much tension dissipated on the exhale.

When the initial wave of the nicotine high had passed, the fatigue settled in, and he tilted his head back against the bricks, eyes still closed, too tired to be on guard. "Where are we? I confess, I lost track."

"...Asheville, honey." A pause."D'jeet yet?"

Well, that certainly got him to look at her. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh, that was very pronounced, wasn't it? My apologies. Have you eaten?"

His brain felt like static. It was all the answer she needed. "What I figured. C'mon, I know a spot."

"I should--" He stopped, inexplicably stricken. "We're leaving in the morning. I don't remember where's next. Charleston, perhaps?"

"I'll have you home before bedtime, scout's honor." He hesitated. Gently: "I don't have designs on your virtue, Cardinal."

He was tired, and sore, and his head was starting to hurt somewhere behind his right eye. He could feel the dried sweat on himself, like a film, absolutely revolting.

"Alright," he said.

She led and he followed, falling into step at her left elbow, almost without thought. "This is the South, yes? We won't-- we might attract. Attention."

"Mm. I might would worry about it somewhere wasn't Asheville. Here'd probably be fine."

"That seems to be an awful lot of weight to put on 'probably.'"

"More worried about someone from your show running into us and losing their minds, be honest with you."

"As in, dropping their purse and squealing?" Was he enjoying this? He was.

"Oh you think you're funny. And I did not squeal."

"Heh. It was a little bit of a squeal."

"Ain't gonna argue the point with you."

The nicotine felt wonderful. He grinned up at the streetlight filtering through a magnolia tree, the orange light reflecting on the leaves, the faint citrus scent hanging in the thick air. He couldn't restrain himself. "You are not, I hope, leading me into temptation?"

"Oh, foul! Foul. Get thee behind me."

"Equally terrible, signora."

They lapsed into silence for a while. Copia came to the last quarter inch of his cigarette, pinching off one more drag before dropping it down a storm drain. The smell would linger, but it had been blissful in the moment. "So."

"So."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Barbecue joint, open all night. Just up here, actually. You had barbecue yet?"

"I have not."

"You in for a treat, then."

They rounded the corner, heading into the jaundiced sodium light of a patchy parking lot, under a flickering red neon sign. 'Little Pigs Genuine Pit BBQ.' It seemed somehow ominous, but the set of her shoulders reassured him. Somewhat. She pushed open the door with its small jangling bell to red vinyl booths, formica tabletops, wood paneling. Vinegar and roasting meat.

He could feel the eyes on them as she ordered for them both, in a dialect so thick it was almost incomprehensible to him. He stepped closer to murmur, "Coffee for me, please, signora," while he surveilled the crowd. Not outright hostile, had seen stranger things, maybe, but a collective flicker of curiosity before sliding off of them. That flat and unsympathetic gaze. Her accent helped. His obvious manners did as well. Still, he was on edge.

He stayed on edge until he slid into a booth opposite her with his back to the wall, and even then it only let up slightly, a background hum to go along with the labored air conditioning. The barbecue was very nearly worth it, salt and sweet and vinegar and umami, along with the blunt force animal pleasure at hot food after a long time without. He looked up at her, making an inarticulate noise of shocked delight through the sandwich, and she nodded in eager agreement with her mouth full. Swallowed. "I know, right?"

"You cannot convert me."

"Okay. Wasn't trying."

"If you could, this might do it."

"Welcome to the South. It's got problems, but there are compensations."

"So I see."

They lost themselves in the food for a little while, and Copia, a usually fastidious man, found that it was actually impossible to eat a barbecue sandwich neatly. After a while he gave up trying, grateful for the strange softness of American paper napkins. It made sense, if the food was like this. He eyed her iced tea, wondering about it, if that was also an American custom, or if it only applied to the region.

She caught him looking after half a second, and passed it over with barely an eyeblink of thought, the most natural thing in the world.

"Oh, and you've lost me. This is an obscene amount of sugar."

"They do call it 'sweet tea' for a reason."

"Are you sure that this isn't just colored sugar water?"

"Reasonably so. Might be accentual, brings out the depth of flavor, like. Least it isn't corn syrup."

"This is a nightmare dystopia you live in."

"Could be. Try one of them hush puppies, then you get back to me."

"Mm." Then, after following instructions, "I will concede on the food."

"Yeah. There's nowhere and nothing that's bad all the way through."

"Perhaps." He took another sip of her tea, pleased at her sputter of mock-indignation. "This brings me to where it falls apart for me. An omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, omnibenevolent God."

"That is the doctrine."

"Why, then, evil? Why suffering?"

"We going with theodicy, then?"

He motioned for her to continue, a little gleeful.

"Which answer would you like, from the, oh, four-five thousand years that this has been a question?" She tossed the rolled-up sleeve of her straw in his general direction, smiling. "Why you coming at me with this shit, man?"

"Ehh. I want to know what you think. You, not your Church."

She nodded, and poked at the ice in her tea with her straw while she gave the question the consideration it was due. Finally: "I like Simone Weil for this. You read any Simone Weil?"

"Let us say that I haven't."

"Okay." The vinyl booth squeaked as she leaned back. "This isn't necessarily unique to her, it's got a lot of similarities with-- a Jewish creation story, yeah? But creation is where God withdrew. If God is everything, for creation to exist, there has to be places where God is not. If there's places that God is not, then almost by definition they are not, inherently, holy. It's apophatic, unknowable, like John of the Cross or Kierkegaard or what have you-- I'm getting into the weeds here. Evil is the form which God's mercy takes in the world. Affliction-- she's got a specific term for this, she's talking about spiritual affliction more than physical affliction-- doesn't create human misery, so much as reveals it. And it drives us towards God."

"That sounds, if you will pardon me, fucking horrific. The act of a sadist."

"I don't know that I'm explaining this well. We are created matter, and with affliction we are consumed by God. In the Incarnation, God suffers affliction, is made matter, and consumed by us. It's reciprocal. And if you can go through affliction and still love, and recognize your fellow human being as someone else who has suffered like you, then your duty is to help."

"No, still terrible."

"How do your people explain it, then?"

"By not having an omnipotent deity, to start."

"...I walked right into that one. I surely did. Evil demiurge, again?"

"All about control," he replied, amiable.

"Fair enough. I'm not a Jesuit, I could maybe get at this better if I was. My whole thing with it is, there's a difference between affliction-- which is personal-- and, say, generalized oppression, right? The personal makes you more empathetic with the collective."

"I can see the logic there, yes. I do not know if I agree, but I can see it. But do you truly need to suffer to sympathize with another's suffering?"

She turned her glass around in her hands, focusing hard on the ridged plastic edges. "I'unno. Some things you don't understand till you've been through them. Difference between empathy and sympathy, I guess."

"This is, what. You say, 'the personal is political?'"

She cracked a grin at that. "Oh, you done a lot of reading on second-wave feminism, then?"

"Condescending and uncalled for," he said, wagging a finger at her, mock-stern.

She held up a hand. "Fair point, apologies."

"Te absolvo."

"Thank you." She turned her glass in her hands, trailing through the condensation with a chipped fingernail. "My point being. For me. Affliction leads to empathy, and empathy leads you to act. What's the quote. 'Misery as a collective fact expresses itself as an injustice that cries to the heavens.' That's Oscar Romero, I think? Yeah. Oscar Romero. Anyway the thing he gets at-- Saint Oscar Romero, excuse me, did a lot of stuff in El Salvador in the the seventies, but the idea being: turning people into commodities for economic oppression, that's sin. The idolatry of wealth, of 'national security systems,' that's sin. Divine love should be mediated through justice. Gloria dei vivens homo--"

"'The glory of God is the living person.'"

"Yeah, exactly. Romero was on some-- gloria dei vivens pauper, which I think is probably about right."

"'The glory of God is in the poor.' Hm. And how well did that work out for him?"

"Well. They shot the guy during Mass in nineteen eighty."

"A martyr's death. Isn't that what your people aspire to?"

"Not me, man. I wanna live. But yes, he did lean in hard after his friend was killed. That was an inciting incident. I won't deny it."

"So, what, it is acceptable for one death, if it spurs on 'the greater good?'" He made air quotes at her, and she frowned.

"Not gonna debate the very concept of martyrdom with you, but I'm gonna say no, of course not. But like. Me personally? Rather that than have it go to waste. Some right wing fascist chucklefuck takes me out, I'd sure hope my people'd leverage it for all it's worth."

He sat back and tipped his coffee at her. "Bleak."

"Maybe. We each owe a death. And I mean, despite the guy being beatified, he isn't even necessarily the main dude in Latin America. None of these are exactly new concepts, you understand. But as a modern movement, really, it starts in nineteen sixty-eight, with the Medellín conference in Colombia, kind of as a response to Vatican Two, and from there--" she stopped herself, and raised her glass of tea at him in mock-salute. "Minutiae. The point, and I think I'm cribbing from Ernesto Cardenal here, is that while God is love, love can only exist in accordance with equality and justice."

He tilted his head, raising his eyebrows in total skepticism. "I can only say that this has been-- the opposite of my experience. To put it in the most, eh, diplomatic terms possible."

"The Church has done horrible, fucked up things. Continues to do horrible fucked up things. In a space that big, though, there are always going to be practices that are inherently contradictory. This one is mine. And I have the benefit of being fucking right."

"You do see, don't you, how that-- attitude? Mentality, yes? Is dangerous. Even you! Even if I happen to think that you're right. Which I actually do. The benefit of Satanism, I find, is that we do have room for differences. It is, you would say, I think, built in? There is no wrong way to approach. You find your own way. Nobody will lead you, nobody will control you."

"And how far has that kind of rugged individualism progressed the reduction of human suffering?" she snapped.

"At least it doesn't perpetuate it!" he shot back.

They glared at each other over the formica, not quite snarling, equally frustrated.

The diner had gone quiet. Blank suntanned faces, the lone clink of a spoon in a coffee cup, the somehow awful bubbling of the deep fryer. A lot of people, for one in the morning, he thought. They looked at each other in mutual alarm for one tensed breath, and went for their wallets at the same time.

"No," he said, firm, fishing past Euros for American dollars. "You are taking a vow of poverty and I am an actual rockstar." He shot a stern glance at her opened mouth and felt a stab of immense satisfaction when she shut it, apparently- miraculously, even- chastised. He threw down enough to cover the bill and the tip and reached to drag her out, stopping short of actually touching her elbow at the last moment. "Come."

She went.

They escaped with the perversely jaunty ring of the bell over the door into the thick warmth of the night, and she brayed a laugh again, not quite on the edge of hysterics.

"Go, go, this could get ugly." But he was laughing, too. Madness. He'd seen these exact sort of people outside of a venue, enraged, faces red, carrying hateful picket signs. One small woman and one man frankly built like a noodle could be in real danger. Still, their laughter echoed down the gravel-lined drive they had ducked into, their boots crunching in a staccato rhythm in the stones. This was far too much adrenaline for one night, he thought.

While they slowed to a walk, he watched the fireflies darting upwards in the undergrowth, the ascending dashes of yellow-green light seeming fantastical to him, otherworldly. You heard of great masses of them, in America, but in such quantity it was like seeing a fairytale with your own eyes. They thinned out as the landscape started to shift, from residential suburbs to side streets.

"This was-- good. It was good, to get out. To talk. A lot of this, it is, ehh." He waved a hand in the general direction they were moving, to the venue, the concert, the tour. "Movement. Instinct. There is, by definition, no quiet. And that is fantastic, I enjoy it, I love what I do, I am fortunate in that. But it is not often that I get to speak about these things." The thud of their boots, and the high monotonous drone of a cicada somewhere off in the distance, blending with the faraway hiss of a car on the damp streets. "Thank you," he said, soft. "For this."

Her eyes forward, mouth closed tight. It took her a few steps before she spoke. "You are very welcome." She cleared her throat. "And I appreciate the outside perspective."

"Interesting thing, is it not? Having a vocation."

"Being called. Yes."

"What I do not understand-- and I do not wish to, as you said, litigate the very idea of martyrdom, of course--"

"Of course. That's above my pay grade anyhow."

"But the denial inherent in your practice. The self-denial. It seems to me a, hm. Turning away from joy. You say your God is love, very well. This is removed from my experience with Christians, but I do understand that it should be the intent. To claim that divinity is love and then to willingly cut yourself off from the experience of love seems to me contradictory. Not merely the physical, although that alone seems hideous. Some people of course are not interested, but this cannot be true of all your monsastics, your clergy, your unmarried."

"This is also an old question."

"You cannot tell me it is not vital. Few people are physically martyred, and I can see the value there, even if I think it grotesque. But this seems to me a martyrdom, and willing. And pointless. Everyone should be loved, yes? Is that not your very doctrine?"

"It is, but there's different kinds of love--"

"You are dissembling. Do me the courtesy, Miss Turner, of your honesty."

Copia heard her sharp intake of breath. He had stung her, and he very nearly regretted it.

"Discourtesy wasn't my aim, Cardinal. It's an old question, and people struggle. It's maybe the struggle, for most people, the stumbling block. How can I answer you? It's kind of a personal question, y'know?"

"I can see how it would be. I do not wish to intrude, but come now. What, you offer your suffering up to God? What kind of God would ask you to give up love in the very name of love? It's monstrous!"

"The standard answer is that one becomes the bride of Christ. My thinking is, in turning away from the singular, you're better able to focus on the collective. To focus, to pay attention. And attention in its highest form is prayer."

"You deny yourself. In denial, you turn away knowledge. You said this yourself, how can you understand suffering if you have not suffered? You should know joy, or else how can you understand joy? You should be free to do that, to be in the world, and the world is here! You are here, and while you are here you should be here fully. You should allow yourself to be loved!"

He had actually raised his voice, and his words hung in the thick air, almost suspended with the humidity. He couldn't take it back, and he fell silent, mortified. They had fallen to a stop.

"It's discipline," she said, helpless. She couldn't look at him, and he had to look away at her expression.

"In any case." He cleared his throat, and resumed walking. "Discipline I understand. There is discipline in my practice, you know."

"I can see that. Dedication, certainly. Seems like the whole world's against you. The dominant social climate is not accommodating to being that outspoken about, well, anything to do with sincere belief, really, but especially in your case."

"No. And in this situation, it is easy to-- tend to isolate. To stay in one's own community. Safer. Especially in a hostile environment. Anger is easy, you would say."

"Don't I know it. You do have to live in the world. I think you and I both have cause to be angry. Hell, we're probably angry at a lot of the same things. Coming at it from opposite directions, is all."

"The hypocrisy is galling," he agreed. "If I am a monster in the eyes of these people, let me be an honest monster. They feed their children poison and tell them it is virtue, to hate, to fear, I do not--" he cut himself off, blew out a laugh. "We are angry about the same things. The work is the same. We are both called to liberate, yes?"

"Yeah, I would allow that's fairly definitional."

"Here, you take that side, I will take this one, and we will meet in the middle and cast off all oppression," he said, grandly, sweeping out an arm as if he were back on stage. He echoed her smile on pure reflex.

"And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."

"Julian of Norwich. An anchoress." Something in the concept, and in the simultaneous hope and resignation in her face, pierced his heart all the way through. She was remote, and lost to him, a marble statue of a saint. The nature of his ministry was to encourage pleasure, of mind and of body, and he did want to break her out of the cell she'd walled herself off into. Perhaps merely for his own satisfaction, when freedom was the whole of his law. Even her freedom to walk into her own cage. "Not so much to be consoled as to console," he said, halfway to himself, watching her.

"Francis of Assisi. But I think you knew that."

"I did."

"You are something else, aren't you?" She looked at him, pleased and reassessing. He felt seen, almost entire.

It was not an entirely comfortable feeling. "Ah," he said. "Perhaps."

He recognized, now, the alleyway they had walked down, the venue shuttered for the night. The only lights inside were deep in the back, distant. Likely everything had been packed away, or near enough. Likely the ghouls were wondering where he was. And she was small, and faith alone would not protect her.

It was too much for him. "It is very late. And I do not know if-- do you have a place to stay? This is not, I think, your home."

"I don't and it's not." She waved him off. "Was planning on just sleeping in the car. The seats fold down, I got a pillow, it's fine."

"I don't like it."

"Ain't about what you like." She dropped her head. "I apologize, that was rude."

"No, it is only--." He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "I do have a hotel room."

"No." It seemed reflexive. But he could see the split second flash of her face cracking open with sheer want. Watched her snatch her composure together just as quick, even as the afterimage lingered in his brain like the echo of a lightning strike. "No, I-- I do not think that would be a good idea."

"There is a couch, even. I could take the couch."

"Copia." Oh, and it was costing her. Painful to watch. That wretched self denial. "Please." A brittle little laugh, accent creeping back in as she forced herself to sound brighter. "I seen you bounce around that stage, you gonna need a mattress."

"Nothing you do not wish, Miss Turner. Never that," he said, as gently as he could. A breath of silence strung out in the thick air, the space of a heartbeat. "Anyways." He considered his position, took a breath, and made the leap. "It would be good to-- I would like to continue this argument. You have some time, no? Before you are-- fully committed. Come to Charleston. My guest. In the spirit of, eh, ecumenical dialogue."

That got a smile out of her. "I'll think about it."

"Please. Do."

"I will. I will think about it."

"In that case." He straightened his spine by three degrees, took the smallest step forward, and picked up her hand in both of his. Even though the gloves it made something catch behind his sternum, the stutter of some cog in engineering. He bowed over it as deeply as he ever had on stage, registered the barest breath of the smell of her, leather and nicotine and something like amber, a clean animal scent. It was only an instant, and he straightened with some regret. "I have enjoyed your company, Sophie."

"I--. Yes. Yeah. Me too." She squeezed his hand, once. "Very much. Be well, Cardinal." And then she slipped away.

He watched her carefully measured walk to her car, head held up with the dignity of the condemned. She opened her door and looked back for the space of one brief inhalation. Orpheus, he thought, nonsensically. He stared at her taillights, the red glow like eyes, the dragon's breath curl of exhaust, long after it had faded into the wide restless night.

It was another twenty minutes before one of the ghouls dragged him back inside.

[anuchart19]

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[twinleeshop]

Okay, hear me out crochet thread isn’t everyone’s cup of tea because it’s challenging to work with but doesn’t this look amazing! 😻 This is a sunflower keychain my sister made using crochet thread and I can’t get over how beautiful it is! I admit I’m more of a chunky yarn crocheter 😅 I just wish I could crochet like this.

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[avocado-writing]

Kinktober 31

31. Reverse au

notes: we made it! I’d like to give a big thank you to everyone who’s been consistently reblogging my fics & commenting this month. You’ve given me the push to keep going! I wouldn’t have done this without you. And of course my friend & beta, M. Thank you for looking over my porn and pointing out my spelling mistakes (sincerely). 😌

You are never happier than when you’re with your angel and your demon.

They are two utterly, utterly different souls, brought together by their adoration of each other and of you. You cannot thank the universe enough for them. They are a salve to your soul, the reason you want to come home every day. They are your dearest reward and most stable constant.

They are your husbands, and you love them.

You get home late that night, letting yourself into the back of the plant shop with the keys Crowley trusts you with. There’s two keyrings on them: an AC/DC one Zira got you when you went to see their Back in Black tour back in the 80s, and one you picked up from a museum where some of your finds were being put on display. It has a little dinosaur skeleton motif and reads ‘I dig you’. You laughed at it for so long Crowley bought a handful of them, just in case they ever fell apart.

“Boys?” you call. 

“In the dining room, my love!” Crowley chirps. You leave your suitcase by the door, deciding you’ll be bothered to unpack it later, and head towards them.

You grin when you see what they’ve laid out.

“What’s all this?”

The table is set with Crowley’s fine china, three places set by candlelight. Dinner, your favourite, has been set out on serving platters. Even Zira has managed to dress up in a black dress shirt which he has the top buttons undone on and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows for. Crowley is dressed in another new suit, but it’s your favourite colour, so you’ll let it slide without comment.

“We missed you, gorgeous,” Zira says with a grin as he pours you a glass of merlot. Crowley gets up and pulls your chair out for you, and you chuckle at the chivalry of it.

“I’ve only been away for a couple of weeks.”

“Mmm, which is the longest we’ve been apart since that stint in 2008,” Zira remarks. 

“Oh, right. The apocalypse thing. I suppose it has, hasn’t it?”

“Well, you’re back now. How was the dig, my love?”

You eat and go into detail about your time away, the site you were excavating. Roman villa. Not one you ever visited personally, but similar enough in style to ones you saw at the time for you to be able to lead the team in the right direction. Your husbands listen, hanging on your every word; Zira eating far more than you actually remember being cooked and Crowley taking the occasional bite and sipping his wine, dabbing his mouth gently with the edge of his napkin.

They love hearing about your day. When you’re all caught up with each other, Crowley reaches across to rest his hand on yours.

“You realise what today is, don’t your darling?”

You furrow your brow. 

“Saturday?”

“Well, yes. But it’s our anniversary.”

You immediately start fiddling with your wedding ring, confused. 

“No it isn’t? Our anniversary is —”

“Not that one,” Zira says through a mouthful of chocolate cake. “The other one.”

Oh. Oh. 

“Oh my god, when we all met each other again. How could I forget?” you whisper. Crowley smiles. 

“And when we all fuc—” 

“Yes, thank you Zira,” says Crowley, pursing his lips. “You’ve been busy darling, it’s alright.”

You cast your mind back to that night in 1656. You were so desperate for entertainment, your beloved theatre banned by that twat Cromwell, that you accepted an invitation by your friend Davenant to go and see his opera. Sneaky bastard had managed to get around the ban on plays by adding music to his work. You hadn’t been too sure but god were you glad you accepted because who else had been there but two handsome no-longer-strangers you never thought you’d see again.

Yes, the three of you had come back together. And then you came together in one of Davenant’s coat closets when you sneaked away during Act 2. The three of you have been inseparable since. 

“Well,” you say, standing up and grabbing both of them by the collar, “I suppose we’d better celebrate.”

Zira kisses you first. He usually does. He tastes of wine and tobacco, a heady mix you’ve long since come to love. He presses you backwards into Crowley’s grasp and your angel begins to undress you, his nimble fingers making short work of everything above your torso. Zira wastes no time before beginning to fondle your chest, grinning as you keen against him.

“Fuck, two weeks is too long,” he growls on your lips.

“Quite right,” Crowley agrees, peppering kisses along the length of your arm, sucking your fingers into his mouth and moaning around them. You capture him in a kiss next, loving the way he begins to whine in need when you show him any attention whatsoever.

“Oh Zira, how did you deal with this one while I was away? Isn’t he a handful?” you say, wickedly, enthralled.

“I used a gag, honestly,” Zira chuckles lowly. Crowley immediately goes pink.

“I, I…”

“You’re a beautiful boy. And so are you, Zira.”

The demon chuckles.

“I scrub up alright.”

You sink to your knees before them, looking up with doe-eyes.

“Come on. I’ve missed being down here. Let me use my mouth, it’s been ever so empty without your cocks in it.”

The sentence has them immediately under your spell. They fiddle with their flies: Crowley on the trousers of his suit, Zira his black jeans which he considers ‘fancy’ wear. Soon they’re both in front of you, dripping and hard.

“Oh, look at the both of you. I’m away for a fortnight and you’re both desperate for me.”

“Yeah,” Zira chokes out, eyes blown wide. You circle a hand around them both and stroke them in tandem, working their shafts with your clever fingers. They’re both so different: Zira’s cock is girthy and thick, ruddy red at the head; Crowley’s longer and more slender with a slight upwards arch. You don’t have a favourite. You like both of them in every hole you have.

You start with Zira, knowing he’s the most impatient, taking him down your throat as you pump Crowley with your hand. The demon growls and buries his hands in your hair, dragging your mouth up and down the length of him as gently as he’s able to.

“Fu-uu-uck, like that, babe,” he growls. You let saliva build up and drip down your chin along with his pre-spend, a filthy cocktail landing on your bare chest. As he gets more ravenous for you you release him with a pop, switching your attention to Crowley, taking him down in one swallow.

“Oh–! Oh my goodness, I–” your angelic husband whines, keening his hips against you, desperate to feel the slide of his length across your tongue. You choke a little in a way that you don’t with Zira, grinning as tears sting your eyes.

You stay like that, fucking one with your hand and the other with your mouth, until you know they’re both about to come. At that point you bring them together, watching them kiss each other as you take the heads of both of them between your lips at once. Your tongue swirls a sinful sonata on them and they come at once, all over your face and chest and down your throat, they groan into each other’s mouths as Zira fists one hand in Crowley’s hair and the other in yours.

You barely have time to recuperate before Zira drags you to your feet, kissing you so he can taste the combined mix of their cum on your tongue. Then with a strength you forget he has he hefts you over one shoulder and Crowley over the other, marching you both to the bedroom as he miracles off his clothes.

“Zira–!” you squeak with glee, reaching down to slap his peachy arse as he goes.

“What? We all said it: two weeks is too long.”

He deposits you both on the bed and you don’t leave it for the rest of the night. They share you between them, sandwiching you between their bodies in the most heavenly and wicked way. Their cocks fill you up at once and they fuck you until you’re nothing but a ragged, exhausted shell between them, dripping with come and decorated with bruises and scratchmarks. All three of you are, actually: the signature of your lovemaking. Messy, intense, and always always gorgeous.

You snuggle between them as you relax in the afterglow. Zira has lit a cigarette and smokes it lazily, exhaling it in rings in the air above your bed. You pet Crowley’s hair and are thoroughly content with it all.

“Happy anniversary, my darlings.”

“Happy anniversary,” Crowley whispers from where his lips rest against your skin.

“Here’s for another four hundred years,” Zira chuckles, and you think you’d like that very much indeed.

@bootlmoth @elleofdragons  @angelic-anarchy27 @yeethaw13 @candlewitch-cryptic @kwyn-q @rat-that-writes @buryustogether @letthenightingalessingagain @ltlthetrifecta @angiestopit @purplefrog1sblog @wereallbrokenangels @angelspathway @clarina04 @belilwen @chaospossum @eightsdoctor @oo-delallymrcrow @silcosmoke @climbingivy97 @live-logs-and-proper @project-sad @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @imagination-phantom @anonymously35 @corgis04 @peytonpenguin37 @catlynharper @unabashedgentlemenpirate @wolfe-houler

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[dreadsuitsamus]

Ruin | Suguru Getō x Reader |

author's note: i opened a doc and then this happened, ask no questions bc i have no answers!!

pairing: suguru geto x fem!reader

warnings: minor violence, reader has a gun, nsfw but not particularly explicit, unprotected sex, angst

Lounging in bed, it's a chill evening that draws towards midnight. Your pajamas are minimal, an equally thin tank top and pair of shorts that cover little skin as you rest amongst your several blankets and plush stuffed animals. Boredly, your gaze focuses in and out on the video playing on your television.

The boredom doesn't last long.

The gun kept securely under your pillow is quickly and decisively in your hand, the safety clicked off as you aim right at your bedroom door, just as it opens to reveal your intruder.

"You're far too eager to use that thing, sweetheart." His face reveals no emotion, but with that telltale lilt in his voice he may as well wear a smile full of teeth.

"Stop breaking into my house." Your hand is steady, still aiming at Suguru's head.

A glimpse of silver shines between his fingers. That bastard must've slipped it off of your keyring and copied it at some point. Your eyes narrow as your finger moves to the trigger. "It's still breaking in, Sugu."

"Semantics, really." Geto slips the key back into his pocket and eyes the glock in your hand as he waves his nonchalantly. "Go ahead, if you must."

The words have hardly any breath of life before you're firing off the shot, the bullet aiming directly between his eyes. Sighing with a lazy roll of the eyes, one of the many curses he carries swiftly takes the shot. "Do you feel better?"

"No." You do relent, though, as a wave of relaxation does settle in your bones despite your verbal response, and set the gun on your nightstand. "What do you want?"

"What happened to the kind woman that was always willing to help, hm?" Geto vacates his spot in your doorway, his shoes already slipped off by the front door as he slinks closer to your bed.

"A few near-death experiences." You grouch, unmoving as your mattress sinks under Geto's weight combining with yours, the man settling between your legs and coming to lay chest to chest with you. His face is mere inches from yours, and his dark eyes glitter with amusement— for all the violence and shit talk you provide him during each visit or encounter, you sure have no issue with the physical, touchy and even intimate parts of his appearances.

"You can't give an old friend a place to stay, just for a night?"

"If only it would actually be just a night." You scoff, shaking your head as your eyes roll. "Fine. Just add it to the neverending list of shit you owe me for."

Geto plucks his hair from its bun easily, the raven locks pouring out to frame his face and rest on his shoulders. He leans in then, pressing his smooth, cold lips to yours in a kiss you eagerly accept turning into something much more than something so innocent.

Panting as his hips roll into yours, Suguru's hand holds your cheek as carefully as any fine glassware. "I'm sorry…"

One of your legs hooks around his waist, urging him deeper inside of you. "Shut up." Your lips mash with his, burying any further attempts of confessions or apologies from your rogue former lover.

When you come to at just past dawn, there's a morning after pill that was almost certainly purchased with money snagged from your purse, and you sigh in defeat as your eyes close again.

He's got far too much to be sorry for, and your poor little heart just won't stop forgiving him.

[sequinsmile-x]

I physically cannot stop thinking about Emily’s reaction if Jack asked her to officially adopt him and be his mom. I think she’d turn into a puddle of tears omgggg

hiii friend <3

I know this is likely a little different to what you were thinking, but I really hope you like it!

I decided to write it like this because Jack Hotchner turns 18 this month!! Which is insane. So it felt like a nice way to kind of acknowledge that <3

Please do let me know what you think! -x-

Building Blocks

A few months before his 18th birthday, Jack has an important question for Emily.

-x-

Words: 2.4k

Warnings: none!

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

Emily sighs contentedly as she steps onto the porch of her home, the thought of an evening with her Hotchner boys, after she’d been away for almost a week, was just the balm her weary soul needed. She digs through her purse for her keys, but the door opens just as she grabs them, her fingers wrapping around the worn and faded keyring that was a photo of her, Aaron and Jack that had been taken shortly after they got together. 

She smiles as her eyes meet her husbands, the sight of him casually dressed in jeans and a polo shirt enough to undo her even after all these years. She was more in love with him today than she had been when they got married. Something about the salt and pepper flecks in his hair, in the deeper laugh lines on his face, evidence of the joy of their lives etched into his handsome face, enough to make her fall for him again and again. 

“Hi sweetheart,” he says, stepping forward to stamp a kiss against her lips as he removes her go-bag from her grasp, slinging it over his own shoulder as he pulls back. 

“Hi,” she replies as she lets him guide her into their house, his hand on her lower back, pressing into the curve of it that had seemingly been made for him, “I missed you.” 

“I missed you too,” he says, stamping a kiss against her forehead. He puts her go-bag down, idly thinking that he’d take it to the laundry room later as he does so, “Jack did too.” 

Her smile gets softer as she thinks of the teenager, the boy who was only a few months off from being a man. It was hard sometimes to think of how many years had passed by, slipping through her fingers like sand as she watched him, her son, grow up in front of her. He’d started calling her mom years ago. A slow transition from calling her Emily into the moniker that meant more to her than she’d ever care to admit. Even now it still warmed her from the inside out, made her feel happy in a way she thought she was never destined to experience. 

They’d tried to add to their family, tried to give Jack a little brother or sister, but it had never happened for them. It still made her sad sometimes, the slightly out-of-focus image of a child that was half her and half Aaron always just out of her grasp. It made her relationship with Jack, the little boy who she knows she couldn’t love more even if she had carried him herself, all the more precious to her. 

“He actually wants to talk to you about something,” Aaron says, a knowing smile on his face that makes her stomach flip. It was how he’d looked at her before he proposed, a nervous edge to it as if he’d thought she’d ever say anything other than yes. She frowns in confusion as he tucks some of her grey hair behind her ear, and it only makes his smile wider, “Come on, he’s in the living room.” 

She lets him lead her there and she leans into his side, content to let the scent of him and his endless warmth overwhelm her senses, slowly drawing her back into the comfort of their home and away from the work that left her feeling weary more than it didn’t these days. Jack jumps up from where he’s sitting on the couch when they walk in, he looks nervous, anxious in a way that makes concern start to simmer low in her gut, a shake to his smile as he walks over and hugs her as she detaches herself from her husband to hug her son.

“Hi honey,” she says, hugging him a little tighter, “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, Mom,” he replies as he pulls back, his eyes flicking to Aaron’s as they exchange a look she can’t entirely read, as if they were privy to a secret she wasn’t, “I got you a gift.”

He leans down and picks up a gift bag that had been on the ground near the couch and he passes it to her. She smiles as she takes it from him, her eyebrows furrowing as she does so.

“Thanks, sweetie,” she says as she sits down, her smile turning curious as she sees Aaron smile and nod at their son encouragingly as Jack sits down next to her and Aaron takes a seat in the nearby armchair, “What’s this for?” 

It wasn’t her birthday for a few months, and even then Jack’s was the week before hers, and their anniversary had been and gone. Aaron, and Jack to an extent, had always been big into gift-giving. Her desk both at home and in the office were covered in things Jack had made her when he was young. A pen pot that was rudely painted, a mug that leaked from the moment he handed it to her, a proud smile on his face, and countless paintings he now claimed were embarrassing when he saw them. 

“Just open it, sweetheart,” Aaron says, clearing his throat to smother a laugh when she turns to look at him, her eyes narrowed slightly. She looks back at Jack and sees the matching expression on his face and she rolls her eyes lovingly at them. 

“You two are ridiculous,” she says, shaking her head as she pulls out a double picture frame from the bag, and she smiles widely at the two photos in it. They were both of her and Jack, the first from when she’d just started dating Aaron. It was one he’d taken of the two of them on one of their many weekends at the aquarium. She’d hauled Jack onto her hip as he spoke at her about the sharks they were looking at, one of his small hands tangled in her hair and the other pointing at the tank. She was listening intently as she held him in her arms, unaware that Aaron was capturing the moment she was now looking at, frozen in time and shining up at her from behind glass. 

The other picture is much more recent. It was taken just a few weeks ago at Dave’s house, at a summer barbeque he’d thrown for everyone from the BAU’s past and present an annual event they all enjoyed. Again, Aaron had taken the picture, forcing his wife and son to stand there, their arms around each other, as he got the perfect picture. The juxtaposition of the two moments next to each other makes her ache, the passage of time far too fast for her as she looks back and forth between the two versions of her son. The little boy who had once insisted she carried him around the aquarium and the teenager who was now taller than her. 

“Oh, Jack,” she says, looking back up at him, “I love it. I’ll put it on my desk at work.” 

“Maybe you could replace one of those paintings I did in the 4th grade,” he quips, smiling when she raises an eyebrow at him. He clears his throat, his smile turning slightly nervous again, “There’s something else in the bag.”

She looks back in the bag and sees a manila envelope, she pulls it out and opens it, gentle as she removes the paperwork that was in there. She freezes as she spots the title of the form, her heart seizing in her chest as she struggles to breathe for a moment.

Petition for Adoption of Minor

Superior Court of the District of Columbia 

She was his legal guardian, she had been since she’d married Aaron, but she’d always been careful to not overstep, desperate to make sure Haley wasn’t erased, that she was still part of their lives. It was enough for Emily, and she didn’t need a piece of paper to determine whether or not Jack was her son. 

She looks up at Jack and she lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, her emotions overwhelming as they hit her all at once, “Jack…”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he says, swallowing thickly, “I spoke to Aunt Jess and Dad about it and they said it was up to me,” he explains, and she looks over at her husband, unsurprised to see the wistful look on his face, the tears shining in his eyes, “And I just kept thinking about how you’ve always been there as long as I can remember. I love my Mom, I really do, but I barely remember her,” he says, his voice cracking as he talks about Haley, about the mother he never got to really know. Her love for him clear in her sacrifice, “I remember you. You’re my Mom too,” he wipes a tear away from his cheek and she feels her own fall from her lashline, “I want to do it. I’m only a minor for another few months,” he says, shrugging one of his shoulders nonchalantly, “And I want you to be my Mom legally.”

His words hang in the air around them, laying over them like a comforting blanket, stitched together with their love for each other.

“Sweetheart?” Aaron says, his voice soft as he reaches over and places his hand on her arm. The touch brings her back to herself, her chest feeling hollowed out, nothing but love for the family she’d found in the most unlikely of places spreading through her. 

“Yes,” she chokes out, nodding as she clutches the paperwork fiercely in her hand, crumpling it together, as if she couldn’t quite believe it was real unless the paper was all but cutting into her skin, “Of course, I’d love to as long as you’re sure-”

She’s cut off as Jack throws himself at her, his arms tight around her as he hugs her fiercely, “I love you, Mom.” 

She hugs him back and turns her head to kiss his temple, something she hadn’t done since he was smaller, “I love you too.”

Jack pulls away and smiles widely at her, tears still shining in her eyes, “I’m going to go tell, Aunt Jess.” 

He’s out of the room in seconds, all of the previous nerves gone and replaced with excitement, helping him bound out of the room. Emily gives herself a moment to blow out a steady breath, her chin trembling with the force of the emotions she was feeling.

“You ok, baby?” 

She turns to look at her husband and slaps playfully at his shoulder, “You couldn’t have prepared me?” 

He chuckles, and she’s sure it should make her mad at him but it doesn’t, and he stands from the armchair to resettle next to her on the couch. He wraps his arm around her and pulls her into his side. He kisses the top of her head, his smile so wide she can feel it.

“He swore me to secrecy,” he says, kissing her again before looking down at her, “He was nervous.” 

She hums and leans in to kiss him, a quick thing stamped against his lips, “I…never expected…” 

She couldn’t put it into words, couldn’t express how she felt. Totally floored by the request from her son, and how it felt like a piece of the puzzle she hadn’t realised was missing. The answer to a question she’d never dared to ask.

“I know, sweetheart,” Aaron says, stamping a kiss to her lips again, as aware of her feelings as he always was, “I know.”

___

The adoption goes through two weeks before Jack’s 18th birthday. 

The courtroom was bustling with members of the BAU, both current and from the past, and Jess, all excited to watch as the judge declared the adoption was official. They all cheered, sharing hugs and handkerchiefs when there were inevitable tears from Penelope and JJ, and Emily thinks the last time she’d felt so intensely happy was on her wedding day, another polarising moment from her life that had happened in a different judge's chambers just down the hall. 

Dave insists on hosting a party afterwards, always happy to have an excuse to have everyone over. As the evening ticks on Emily feels herself getting slightly overwhelmed, the emotions from the day catching up with her, snapping at her heels as the party being thrown in her honour only really gets started. 

She seeks out solace in Dave’s home office, looking for a moment of peace, but her solitude doesn’t last long. There’s a soft knock on the door followed by it opening and her husband peeking around it. 

“Are you ok?” He asks, his concern clear as he steps into the room and closes the door behind him. 

“Yeah,” she replies, smiling tightly at him as she blows out a breath, “Just…I just needed a minute.”

“Do you want me to leave you alone?” He asks, and she shakes her head, reaching out a hand to him, inviting him to join her on the couch Dave kept in his office.

“Never,” she replies, smiling softly when he joins her. She immediately leans into his side, seeking out the comfort he always gave her. They sit in silence for a while, the only sound the rasp of the material of her dress as he runs his hand up and down her arm. She wipes a stray tear from her cheek and swallows thickly, making him look down at her. He hooks a finger under her chin and makes her look at him

“What’s wrong sweetheart?” He asks, wiping a stray tear from her cheek, “Today is a good day.” 

She nods, chuckling humourlessly, “I know, it’s the best day,” she says, clearing her throat in a fruitless attempt to get rid of the shake to her voice. “It’s just…I’m someone’s Mom.” 

It was something she couldn’t get her head around, something she had once told herself she’d never get. She was someone’s mother, a title that now went beyond the confines of their home, something that would be recognised by everyone. 

“Sweetheart,” Aaron says as he smiles at her and kisses her forehead before he pulls back, love for her, for their family, making tears press at the back of his eyes, “You’ve been his mom for a long time.” 

-x-

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[ifonlyitwasmidnight]

TW: DARK CONTENT. Massive yandere themes. Dubcon. Murder. Knife play. MINORS, BLANK, OR AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. I WILL BLOCK YOU ON SIGHT.

WC: 3.7k

This is dark. If you are not okay with obsessive stalker exes coming after you to get you back and murdering your date, DO NOT READ THIS.

Shikamaru is obsessed. He wants you back, and he won't let anyone stand in his way. Not even you.

ShikamaruxF!Reader

CW: Names (including whore), threats, violence, fingering, vaginal sex, coercion, forced voyeurism, aged-up content

Shikamaru stood across from the restaurant you were in. That fancy one you had been begging him to take you to for the past few months, watching as you reached across the table and placed your hand on your date's forearm. The heavy drag he took from his cigarette did nothing to calm his nerves. 

You'd stopped returning his calls three weeks ago. Now he knew why. You must have thought you were smart by changing your phone number and moving jobs. It had been an easy task tracking you down again. A charming smile and a quick hook-up with one of your co-workers, and she spilled all the information about you he was looking for. Simple enough for a man like him. 

He always told you that you needed to be more careful about who you were friends with. He watched, never removing his eyes from you, as you gingerly drank from your cup, covering your mouth as you placed it down to cover a giggle. He knew the sound of that giggle—he could hear it in his mind. He'd be hearing that sound from your sweet lips again. Soon.

Your apartment was bathed in moonlight as he pulled himself up to the second floor of the building, hopping smoothly over the railing onto your patio. Shikamaru reached into his pocket, fishing out the keyring that contained a key to your new lock. You'd had them changed one day after someone had broken into your apartment while you were asleep. You never figured out it was him checking on you after a night out with your friends. 

Shikamaru had simply taken the liberty to swipe the extra key when you called him, crying and begging him to sit with you while the locksmith did his job. You had said you needed him... even though you'd already asked for a "break" at that point. He couldn't deny you, not when you were begging in that sweet way you knew drove him crazy.

Your keys jingled in the hallway. Shikamaru disappeared into the shadows in the corner of the room, where he knew the light from the hallway outside wouldn't permutate and reveal his hiding spot. He could hear your tipsy laughter and the deep timber of a male voice.

You'd brought him home. Here. To the place he lived with you. 

His blood ran cold. Had he put his hands on you in the car? Had this nobody touched what belonged to him? You tumbled in through the door, tossing your purse and keys onto the entryway table while your date was pressed against your back, arms wrapped around your waist as he peppered kisses over your exposed flesh. 

Every muscle in Shikamaru's body was poised to strike. To beat the man bloody. But he waited. Waited until you turned in your date's arms and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pressing your lips against his in a hungry kiss. Watched as you stepped backward, stumbling over your own feet as the bastard reached behind you to unzip your dress. The air was quickly turning thick. The scent of lust in the air seeped into every nook of a place that was once filled with you and him. 

Your date tried to lead you to the couch, closer to where Shikamaru stood, and he relished it. How unsuspecting you both would be. At the last second, you pulled away, grabbing him by the hand and tugging him towards your shared bedroom because it was his bedroom still, even if you refused to admit it to yourself. You didn't even bother to shut the door before he heard you both collapse onto the bed in a fit of giggles. 

Shikamaru stalked slowly toward the door, straining his ears as your contented sighs began to fill the next room. He stopped just on the other side of the wall, listening as you let this man attempt to fuck you right. He could tell by your strained grunts that he hadn't even bothered to try and prep you, that he didn't bother to give your sweet pussy the attention it deserved. He wondered if you were regretting it yet, bringing home a stranger to try and fuck him out of your memory. Shikamaru knew it would never work. 

Ten minutes. That's all the fucker lasted before he whined, asking if you had finished yet. He smirked when he heard you fake your orgasm a moment later. The bed creaked as you excused yourself to the bathroom. Shikamaru reached into his pocket, knowing this was his chance. 

The idiot didn't have a chance to scream before Shikamaru was on him, yanking him off the bed, quickly wrapping an arm around his neck, cutting off the airflow. He covered your date's mouth with the rag he had retrieved. The pathetic sounds he made muffled as he tried to warn you of the danger waiting for you upon return. His body soon went limp in Shikamaru's arms, and he let the bastard's body collapse to the floor. 

Shikamaru moved to the bathroom door next and waited once more. The door cracked open, and you emerged wrapped in a silk robe he had purchased for you. You paused just over the threshold, looking around whatever his name was. Shikamaru grabbed your arm, pulling you tightly against his chest before slapping a hand over your mouth, muffling your screams of panic. 

"Shh, angel. You wouldn't want the neighbors to hear, right?" He whispered in your ear.

You were frozen. Unable to move even a single finger. You knew what this was. You'd played with these shadows too many times in your life before. Shikamaru knew you would understand the implications. 

"I'm going to move my hand. I need you to stay quiet for me. Can you do that?" He could feel you shiver as he trailed his nose up and down the column of your throat. You were wearing his favorite scent. He savored the way you felt in his arms again. Safe. Secure. You'd see in the end that this was what you needed, just a simple reminder that he was what was best for you. 

Shikamaru tightened the arm around your waist when you didn't answer, squeezing hard enough to make you whimper. You nodded quickly as fat, hot tears fell onto Shikamaru's hand. 

"That's my good girl," he said. 

He let the shadow possession fade away before pushing you forward to the bed. He turned you in his arms, not giving you a chance to run from him again, before digging into his pocket again for the zip tie he had stashed there. 

"I'm going to tie your arms behind your back, and then I want you to sit. Can you do that for me, baby?" He didn't wait for your answer before securing your arms and gently pushing on your shoulders until you were sitting. He wiped the tears from your cheeks as they continued to fall.

"What're you doing here, Shika?" Your lip trembled as you spoke. 

"I missed you." 

"We broke up." 

Shikamaru froze and felt the anger roaring in his mind. It clouded all rational thought. It drowned out all the things he wanted to say. He gripped your thighs tightly, hard enough to bruise, before looking you in the eye. He knew by the sharp intake of breath that he must look terrifying. 

"You're mine." The words were laced with venom, dripping in ire as he spat them at you. He knew you were trembling out of fear now. You flinched as he raised a hand and pressed the backs of his knuckles against your cheek. "Don't be afraid of me, angel. You know I'd never hurt you."

Shikamaru pushed your back onto the bed and climbed over you to press his lips against your forehead before retreating. He went to the small table for two where you used to have breakfast together and grabbed a chair, dragging it across the floor and back into your room. He placed it at the end of your bed, facing you. He quickly retrieved your unconscious date and sat him upright in it, using the remaining zip ties to secure his hands and legs to the metal legs and backing. 

"Dan!" You gasped when you saw his lolling head. Dan, Shikamaru now knew he was called, groaned as he slowly regained consciousness. A loud crack sounded through the room as Shikamaru's hand collided with Dan's cheek, rousing him completely from his stupor. 

Dan coughed as he gasped for air. He struggled to raise his arms to rub at his abused throat, which already had a purple bruise blossoming across the skin. 

"What the fuck?" Dan yelled in a hoarse voice. 

Shikamaru grabbed Dan tightly by the jaw, forcing his face up at an unnatural angle while sneering down at him. 

"You touched what's mine," Shikamaru spat.

"Shikamaru!" You screamed from the bed.

"Shut up!" Shikamaru yelled back, whirling on you. "I told you to stay quiet!"

You shrunk back into yourself, trying to retreat as far onto the bed as possible to escape. Shikamaru looked back to Dan, who was struggling with new vigor to escape his imprisonment. He spat in Dan's face before shoving it away. He returned to the bed, ripping his shirt off and dropping it to the floor. You wiggled, desperate to get away as Shikamaru advanced on you. He grabbed your arm and sat you upright, dragging you back to the center of the bed. You were looking at him with such fear and hatred. He'd fix that soon enough. 

Shikamaru climbed behind you, leaning back into the mountain of pillows still askew from your previous encounter with Dan. He pulled you back against his chest and hooked his feet under yours, pushing your legs apart, causing your thighs to be draped over his own. Your robe fell open, exposing you to Dan, who looked upon you with fear and disgust. 

"I don't think he likes me being here, angel," Shikamaru whispered in your ear, dropping his voice an octave. He touched your inner thigh, and you jumped from the unexpected contact. 

"You're a sick bastard," Dan said.

Shikamaru felt your skin prickle as he dragged his fingertips over your exposed skin, making his way up to your center. He felt you shiver against him and hid his smirk against your shoulder. He couldn't resist pressing kisses there, covering the places he had seen Dan kiss you. He'd erase all the marks on your body put there by another man. Shikamaru groaned, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head when his fingers grazed over your pussy; you were wet. 

"My, my, my... if I didn't know any better, I'd say you missed me too," Shikamaru said.

You whimpered when his fingers brushed over your clit. 

"I just need one more thing from my pocket, love." Shikamaru nipped at your earlobe as he fished a kunai out of his pocket and pressed it gently against the underside of your jaw. You froze as the cool metal met your skin. 

"What're you doing?" Dan yelled. 

Shikamaru looked Dan in the eye as he resumed the light brushes over your clit, causing you to whimper again.

"If she wants to act like a whore, I'm going to treat her like one," Shikamaru said simply. He applied more pressure to your clit, rubbing it in a perfect figure eight like he knows you enjoy, and your body instantly responded, chasing the stimulation. 

You tried to suppress your moans at the ministrations, struggling to keep your composure. 

"I want you to look at him while I play with you, baby. Did he make you cum?" Shikamaru felt your head turn slightly as more pressure was placed against the kunai in his hand. "Tell him. I know the answer." 

Shikamaru slowed the assault on your clit as your legs began to tremble. 

"Go on. Did he make you cum?" The words were said a little more forcefully this time, Shikamaru's patience running thin at your continuously delayed answers. 

"No." Tears fell from your eyes once more at the confession, stifled by the loud moan reverberating through the air when Shikamaru plunged two of his long fingers into your pussy, curling them tightly to drag against your g-spot. 

Shikamaru placed a hot, open mouth kiss on your neck as he pumped his fingers into you. Only aided by the gushing of your pussy as he increased the pace.

"Did he fuck you as good as I do?" He continued.

"N...no," You whimpered.

"Did he play with your pretty pussy before he shoved his dick into you? Did he bother to get you wet like this?" Your hips writhed against Shikamaru's hand, spurred on by the words he was spitting into your ear. 

"No!"

"You sick fuck!" Dan yelled again, horror across his face at what he was witnessing.

Shikamaru stopped his fingers and removed the kunai from your throat, pointing it at Dan. 

"If I hear another word out of you, this kunai is going into your heart." Shikamaru turned your head by placing the back of the blade against your cheek. "Do you want me to keep fucking you, angel?"

Your pupils were blown wide. You were looking at your ex-lover with a mix of lust and fear. 

"Why are you doing this, Shika?"  

Shikamaru slowly pumped his fingers back into you. Once. Twice. Before stopping again.

"I already told you. Now answer my question: do you want me to keep fucking you in front of your date, or should I kill him now and leave you here unsatisfied?"

Your eyes darted between Shikamaru and Dan. Dan trembled in the chair, his eyes shut tightly. 

"Will you let him go?" You whispered, and Dan's eyes snapped open.

Dan was shaking his head, "No! No, you don't have to do this! Tell him to stop!"

"I'll think about it." Shikamaru began pumping his fingers back into you quickly, rushing you toward the precipice of orgasm. Your legs shook, still hooked over Shikamaru's thighs. 

"Open your eyes, Dan!" Shikamaru shouted. He grinned as Dan made eye contact with you. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he watched you submit to Shikamaru's wants. He couldn't tear his eyes away from watching Shikamaru's fingers disappear into your cunt. 

Your walls fluttered around Shikamaru's fingers, sucking them back in each time they retreated from your heat. 

"Let go, baby. Let him hear you." 

Your back relaxed into Shikamaru the closer you got to orgasm, letting your head lull against his shoulder. Your moans grew in volume, little whimpers of Shikamaru's name thrown in every so often that made his cock strain against his pants. He wanted to slam his cock into your wet cunt. He longed to feel you wrapped around him again and hear the sound of his flesh against yours as he made you scream. 

"Tell him how good my fingers feel," Shikamaru demanded. You shook your head, biting down hard enough on your lip that Shikamaru could smell blood. "Tell him or I stop," he growled.

"Good! Fuck, Shikamaru! Please don't stop!"

Shikamaru dropped the kunai to the bed and grabbed your jaw with his now free hand, turning your face up so he could slam his lips against yours. You moaned into the kiss as your legs shook and your back arched off Shikamaru's chest. 

"Cum, whore," Shikamaru growled against your lips, and you exploded. You came with a scream of his name, and if Shikamaru were a lesser man, he might have come in his pants from the sound. 

Dan was sobbing and shaking where he sat. Your chest rose and fell quickly as you came down from your high, melting completely into Shikamaru. 

"Shika," you whimpered.

"Hmm?" He answered as he pressed kisses along your hairline.

"My hands. Please." 

Shikamaru retrieved the kunai and cut the zip tie, content with you lying in his arms now that you had begun to remember who he was to you, where you belonged. The knife clattered on the bedside table. 

You leaped for the knife and quickly turned back to Shikamaru, straddling his hips before pressing the blade against his throat. Shikamaru chuckled darkly at the turn. 

"You gonna kill me, sweetheart?" Shikamaru lifted his chin and leaned forward, pressing the blade deeper into his Adam's apple until it drew blood. 

"Do it!" Dan yelled at you.

Your hands trembled as you loomed over Shikamaru. He knew you couldn't do it. You would never seriously hurt him. 

"Do it, baby," he teased. His hands landed on your hips, pulling you down onto his stiff cock and rocking you against the fabric of his pants. "Go on. Do it."

Shikamaru groaned at the feeling of your cunt rubbing against him, unbothered by the knife to his neck. Seeing you like this, over him, threatening him, made him harder, only reaffirming in his mind that you were just as crazy for him as he was for you. That you would be willing to do this and still hesitate confirmed how much you still needed him. He knew his cock would be dripping in pre-cum by the time he finally got to fuck you.

"Can't do it, can you?" He increased the pace of his push and pull on your hips, and your resolve faltered again, loosening the grip on the knife. "You want me too much, huh, angel?" 

"What the fuck is wrong with you! Kill him!" Dan yelled.

"Shut up, Dan! I can't fucking think!" You screamed.

"Kill him, whore!" 

The room froze as the words escaped Dan's mouth, and Shikamaru quickly disarmed you, launching the kunai with perfect precision into Dan's throat. You didn't even scream as Dan gurgled, eyes wide with shock. Blood pooled from his lips and escaped down his chin before he slumped over. 

Shikamaru gently guided your eyes back to him. 

"No one gets to talk to you like that," he said as he brushed hair away from your face.

"You killed him..." 

"I said I would."

"You said you would let him go!" 

Shikamaru shrugged. "I said I would think about it."

Your eyes bounced from Shikamaru's eyes to his lips, clearly panicking about what to do next. 

"You're mine," Shikamaru said again. 

You pressed your lips against his in a heated kiss, fighting for dominance as emotions overtook you both. Shikamaru nipped at your bottom lip before forcing his tongue into your mouth, resuming the rocking of your hips. You reached your hands down and undid the belt and button on his pants, grabbing his cock through the material of his boxers, forcing a hiss from his lips. 

He pushed you off him onto your back and quickly shed his pants. You ripped at the robe, letting it fall from your body just quickly enough before Shikamaru latched his mouth around one of your nipples, causing you to yelp as he sank his teeth into it, sucking the bud into his mouth harshly. His fingers trailed up your slit again, testing to see how wet you were. He paused, letting your breast fall from his mouth.

"Did he fuck you raw?" His voice was low. A threat lingered. 

You shook your head. 

"Good." He bit into the skin at the top of your breast, leaving a harsh imprint before lining himself up and slamming his hips forward, filling you in one thrust. 

Shikamaru moaned at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him already. He pressed your legs back against your chest, settling his chest on the back of your thighs. His pace was relentless, knocking the breath out of you with each punishing thrust. Your moans grew in pitch each time he angled his hips to abuse your g-spot. 

"This my pussy, baby?" Shikamaru's words broke through your moans, and you nodded. A sharp slap landed against your thigh, causing you to yelp. He asked again.

"Yes! Yours, Shika. Only yours!" Tears forced themselves from your eyes at the overwhelming pleasure. 

"Good. Now prove it." Shikamaru thudded to his back on the bed, pulling you with him and settling you on top. He grabbed your hips, forcing you to bounce. Each downward pull was met with a harsh thrust up. Your hands landed on his chest, digging your nails deeply into his skin. You worked your lower body, keeping up with him, rolling your hips in a way that made Shikamaru's eyes disappear into the back of his skull. 

"Gonna fill you up. That way, you can never leave. You'll be mine forever," Shikamaru was rambling, too lost to the pleasure to be able to control his moans. He felt it in his lower stomach, that growing sensation that clued him to how close he was to filling you with his cum. Your legs began shaking again as your walls gripped him tighter. Shikamaru leaned forward and captured a nipple between his teeth again, twirling his tongue around it. Your fingers tangled into his ponytail, and you pulled, causing him to groan against your skin. 

"'m gonna cum, Shika," you whimpered.

"Do it. Cum on my cock, angel. Fuckin' do it!" 

You screamed his name as you came, sobbing loudly as he pulled you down once more onto his cock before he pumped you full. His hips weakly twitched, ensuring you drained him of everything before collapsing back on your bed, pulling you down to lay on his chest. 

You both panted, sucking in desperate gulps of air as reality set in. Shikamaru felt you stiffen against him.

"Nara..."

"Don't you fuckin' dare," he said. 

"Shikamaru, you killed my boyfriend." You said it so matter-of-factly. 

"And I'd do it again." It wasn't a threat. "I love you. Don't you see that?"

You sighed heavily, fully collapsing your weight against him, surrendering to the circumstances.  

"Don't you love me?" The whisper was broken. You looked up at Shikamaru, who looked so broken, so lost in that moment.

"I wish I didn't have to." 

Shikamaru pressed his lips against yours in a gentle kiss. He'd deal with the body once you were asleep. 

AN: I blacked out and somehow wrote 3.7k of Yandere Shikamaru which has been plaguing my brain for the past 72 hours. It's barely proofread, don't come at me. <3 Take care of yourselves.

@tengens-4thwife