#Like “no those 2 aren't MY Grey”

[masked-alien-lesbian]

Her eyes are so pretty! 💙💙💙💙💙💙💙

I actually chose this version of Grey at first

Because I like her hair but her head looked too big in the game

So I ended up restarting and choosing the Af Am version of Grey

She just looks better proportion? Idk, maybe it's just me lol

[barnacles34]

Professional Hazard (And Blue Tongues)

Karina x Male Reader

9k words

18+ smut

'I expected you to have...'

'Grey hair? Glasses thick as tank armor?' You lean back. 'Let me guess—ancient and decrepit?'

'Something like that.' She toys with her iced americano, ice cubes clinking.

'Get that more than you'd think.'

'Can't imagine why.'

'Sure you can't.'

She straightens in her chair. 'Well? Are you going to ask your questions or what?'

'Did you have something specific in mind?'

'I thought you'd at least come prepared.' The sharp edge in her voice softens, adapting. 'After that email you sent.'

'I am prepared.'

'Do you know who I am?'

'I know you're Karina. I know you agreed to fund my little Italian vacation.' You keep your voice flat, unimpressed.

She laughs, short and sharp. 'They really sent someone who knows nothing.'

'Biographers aren't exactly growing on trees these days. Most of them are busy dying off.' [1]

'That's comforting.'

'About as comforting as your enthusiastic response to my email.'

'Ah.' She smirks. 'My monument to hubris?'

'Your words, not mine.'

'Christ, you're not exactly sunshine and roses, are you?'

'If only you knew.'

'Oh, I think I do.' She leans forward. 'People like me—we're your bread and butter. Desperate enough to take the abuse just to get that book written.'

'Quick study.'

'Experience, darling.' She draws out the last word like stretched taffy.

'If immortality's what you're after, we're off to a rocky start.'

'Not even grateful for the Italian holiday?'

You meet her eyes. 'Bribery's nothing new. Don't expect it to polish your image.'

'Tough nut to crack, aren't you?'

'I have what I need.'

'Meaning?'

'Let me put this delicately: my last subject bought me a year at New York's finest.' [2]

'Fantastic.' She rattles her ice cubes harder.

'You know what I think?' She sets down her drink with deliberate care.

'Enlighten me.'

'I think you enjoy this. The whole "unimpressed biographer" act.'

You pull out your notebook, unhurried. 'That'd make a great chapter one. "Local girl psychoanalyzes writer, lives to regret it."'

'There it is again.' Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. 'Tell me, do your subjects usually last long enough for chapter two?'

'The interesting ones do.'

'And the boring ones?'

You flip open to a blank page. 'They get a lovely rejection letter.'

'Which I didn't.'

'Yet.'

She leans back, studying you. The late afternoon sun catches the edge of her glass, throwing prismatic shapes across the table. 'You really don't care that I could walk away right now.'

'The door's right there.' You click your pen. 'But we both know you won't.'

'Because?'

'Because you didn't spend three months negotiating with my publisher just to storm off over hurt feelings.'

'Maybe I just like wasting time.'

'Maybe.' You meet her gaze. 'But people who like wasting time don't usually have a dozen designer brand sponsorships.'

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe, or respect. 'So you did do your homework.'

'I always do.' You position your pen over the blank page. 'Now, shall we begin with the real questions?'

'Shoot.' She shifts in her chair, the late afternoon sun warming the cafe corner we've claimed.

'Tell me about your sister.'

Her eyebrows lift slightly. 'Not starting with the obvious questions?'

'Would you prefer those?'

'No.' She smiles, genuine this time. 'She's a nurse. Like our mom.'

'Close?'

'Very. She's the only person who still calls me Jimin.' She stirs her americano. 'Probably the only person who can get away with it, too.'

'Why's that?'

'Because she knew me when I was just the quiet kid who'd rather read in corners than talk to anyone. Before all of...' She waves her hand vaguely. 'This.'

'Still prefer corners?'

'Sometimes.' She considers the question. 'There's this tiny bookstore in Seongnam. When I go home, I still visit. They have this perfect spot by the window.'

'What do you read?'

'Whatever catches my eye. Last week it was about sharks.'

You raise an eyebrow. 'Sharks?'

'Don't look so surprised.' She laughs. 'They're fascinating. Everyone thinks they know them, but they don't, not really.'

'Speaking from experience?'

She takes a long sip of her drink instead of answering.

'You don't have to do that, you know.' You set your pen down.

'Do what?'

'Deflect. Turn everything into a metaphor.'

She meets your eyes for a long moment. 'Force of habit.'

'Bad one.'

'Says the person who's been matching my deflections word for word.' A half-smile plays at her lips. 'We're quite the pair, aren't we?'

'Difference is, I'm paid to be difficult.'

'And I was raised to be.' The words slip out before she can catch them. Her fingers tighten around her glass.

You wait.

'You're good at this,' she says quietly.

'At what?'

'Making silence comfortable.' She looks out the window. 'Most people try to fill it.'

'Most people aren't trying to understand.'

She turns back to you, something shifting in her expression. 'Is that what you're trying to do? Understand?'

'Would that be so terrible?'

'No,' she says.

'Progress.' You pick up your pen again. 'Though I've just realized something deeply troubling.'

'What's that?'

'Your americano's been empty for ten minutes, and you're still pretending to drink it.'

She glances at her glass, caught. 'Method acting.'

'Ah yes, the classic "I'm too invested in this conversation to pause for a refill" performance.' You wave to catch the barista's eye. 'Oscar-worthy.'

'Says the person who hasn't touched their...' She leans forward to peek at your cup. 'What even is that?'

'Green tea.'

'Pretentious.'

'Says the person who ordered an iced americano in winter.'

'It's barely spring.'

'Case in point.'

The barista arrives with fresh drinks. Karina raises an eyebrow at your cup. 'Still green tea?'

'I'm consistent.'

'Boring.'

'Strategic.' You take a deliberate sip. 'Can't blame caffeine jitters for whatever honesty slips out.'

'Sneaky.'

'Professional.'

'Same thing.' She stirs her new drink, ice cubes clinking. 'So what's next in your strategic interrogation?'

'Thought we agreed to drop the deflection thing.'

'Old habits. Ten seconds at a time.'

'That's oddly specific.'

'It's how I learned to swim.' At your questioning look, she continues, 'Ten seconds of courage. Then you can panic all you want.'

'Does that work?'

'Got me here, didn't it?' She gestures between you two. 'Letting a stranger with a notebook and suspiciously consistent beverage choices pick apart my life.'

'You could always run.'

'To where? Croatia?' She laughs at your surprised expression. 'What? I have dreams.'

'Of Croatia specifically?'

'Of anywhere that doesn't know my name.'

'That's rather poetic for someone who just called me pretentious.'

'I contain multitudes.' She mock-bows in her seat.

'Walt Whitman now?'

'See? You're not the only one who can be insufferably well-read.'

You make a show of writing something down. 

You flip to a fresh page. 'Tell me about Croatia.'

'Nothing to tell. Just a place.'

'There are plenty of places that don't know your name. Why that one?'

She traces the rim of her glass again, a habit you've started to recognize as her thinking gesture. 'Have you ever seen those old coastal towns? The ones with narrow streets and buildings that look like they're having conversations with each other?'

'Been to a few.'

'I want to get lost in one.' She looks up. 'Properly lost. No GPS, no itinerary. Just... walking until my feet decide to stop.'

'Most people want to be found.'

'Most people haven't spent years being findable.' The sharpness in her voice surprises both of you. She softens it with a smile. 'Sorry. That sounded more dramatic than intended.'

'Don't apologize. It's the first time you've stopped performing since we sat down.'

'I haven't been—' She stops. Laughs. 'Okay. Point taken.'

'Progress. Again.'

'You're keeping score?'

'Always.' You tap your notebook. 'It's kind of the whole point.'

'And how am I doing?'

'In being honest or deflecting?'

'Both.'

'You're averaging about fifty-fifty.'

'Generous scoring.'

'Strategic encouragement.'

'You're good at that.' She stretches slightly. 'Making people think they're in control of the conversation.'

'Are you not?'

'Please. We both know you've been steering this ship since you sat down.' She pauses. 'Though I will say, you're the first interviewer who hasn't asked about my routine yet.'

'Your routine?'

'You know. "What time do you wake up? What's your skincare regimen? How many hours do you practice?" That whole song and dance.'

'Would you like me to ask?'

'God no.' She grins. 'But I'm curious why you haven't.'

'Because routines are what people do. I'm more interested in who they are.'

'And who am I?'

'Still figuring that out. But I know you crack your knuckles when you're nervous.'

She stops mid-crack, caught. 'Observant.'

'Professional hazard.' You lean forward. 'Tell me something real. Not about routines or schedules or practices.'

'Like what?'

'Like what you think about at three AM when you can't sleep.'

She's quiet for a long moment. 'Sometimes I forget what my natural speaking voice sounds like.'

'What do you mean?'

'You spend so many years modulating everything—your voice, your laugh, your reactions—until one day...' She shrugs. 'One day you catch yourself using your "public" voice to order coffee at 3 AM in an empty convenience store, and you realize you can't remember what you used to sound like.'

'And that bothers you.'

'Wouldn't it bother you? Losing something that fundamental without even noticing it was gone?'

'Is that why we're here? Trying to find it again?'

'Maybe.' She smiles, but it's different now. Unpolished. 'Or maybe I'm just tired of having "public" and "private" versions of everything.'

'Including your voice.'

'Including my entire existence.'

'Right.' You snap your notebook shut. 'We're getting gelato.'

—

[1] The suspicious rate at which biographers are "dying off" has become something of an industry joke. Three prominent biographers mysteriously retired after attempting to write about a certain K-pop company's CEO. Totally not suspicious.

[2] The Plaza Hotel, to be specific. Said subject was a tech billionaire whose autobiography mysteriously never made it to print. The hotel suite, however, maintains legendary status among New York's housekeeping staff for its impressive collection of empty green tea bottles and rejection letters.

—

She blinks. 'What?'

'We're walking.' You stand, gathering your things. 'Unless you have somewhere to be?'

'Are you actually asking, or is this another strategic move?'

'Both. Neither. Whatever. Does it matter if there's gelato involved?'

A genuine laugh escapes her. 'Fair point.'

The early evening air hits your faces as you step outside. She pulls on a cap—more habit than disguise.

'Left or right?' you ask.

'You're the one who lives here.'

'Technically, I've been here three days.'

'And you already know where to get gelato?'

'First thing I do in any city. Professional secret.'

'Ah yes, the biographer's handbook. Chapter One: locate ice cream immediately.'

'Chapter Two: never reveal your sources.' You turn left. 'Unless they're wearing a questionably large cap and hiding from their own voice.'

'Low blow.' But she's grinning. 'Also, my cap is perfectly sized.'

'For what? Smuggling library books?'

'That's... oddly specific.'

'Says the person who just quoted Walt Whitman in a cafe.'

You find the gelato place tucked between a bookstore and a vintage shop. The owner, an elderly Italian woman, lights up at your approach.

'Due?' she asks.

'Sì,' you reply, then turn to Karina. 'What's your poison?'

She studies the flavors intently. 'What's the most unusual one?'

'Professional or personal answer?'

'There's a difference?'

'Professional would be something elegant. Personal...' You point to a vivid blue flavor. 'That one tastes like your childhood imaginary friend made a pact with a Smurf.'

She doesn't hesitate. 'Two scoops of that, please.'

'Really?'

'What?' She raises an eyebrow. 'Scared of a little blue tongue?'

'More scared of what my editor will say when the interview notes are stained cerulean.'

Ten minutes later, you're both leaning against a stone wall, gelato dripping in the warm evening air. Her tongue is, indeed, impressively blue.

'Yah! Why are you taking a picture?”

'Your tongue. I need photographic evidence for my editor.'

She complains, ‘self-respecting people would’ve walked a long time ago.’

‘And let me guess-’

‘Correct. Take a picture if you want.’

'Pulitzer worthy.' You take another bite of your considerably more dignified pistachio. 'So tell me about the sharks.'

'You're still on that?'

'You brought up marine biology in a cafe and then mysteriously changed the subject. I'm invested now.'

'There's nothing mysterious about it.' She licks a drop of blue from her knuckle. 'I just think they're neat.'

'That's the worst deflection yet.'

'Fine.' She pushes off the wall, starting to walk. 'When I was younger, I used to think they were lonely.'

You fall into step beside her. 'Sharks?'

'Mm. Always swimming, never stopping. Everyone afraid of them.' She shrugs. 'Stupid kid logic.'

'And now?'

'Now I think they're just... misunderstood.' She grins. 'That was terrible, wasn't it? Like a bad movie line.'

'Terrible. But honest.'

'You and your honesty fetish.'

'Says the person who just admitted to emotionally relating to sharks.'

She snorts, nearly dropping her cone. 'When you put it that way—'

'Oh, I'm definitely putting it that way. It's going in the book.'

'Absolutely not.'

'Chapter title: "The Shark Whisperer”. I can see it already'

She tries to hip-check you, but you dodge, protecting your gelato. 'I'm revoking your creative license.'

'Too late. The mental image of baby Jimin crying over shark documentaries is seared into my brain.'

'I did not cry over—' She stops. 'Okay, maybe once. But it was a very sad documentary.' [1]

The sun is setting now, painting the cobblestones gold. You pass a street musician playing something soft and acoustic.

'Your sister know about the sharks?'

'Of course. She bought me the books.' Her smile turns fond. 'Still does, actually. Sends them to me randomly.'

'Recent ones?'

'Last week.' She finishes her cone. 'She has... interesting timing.'

'Interesting timing?'

'Mm.' She wipes her hands on a napkin. 'Right after I told her about the interview. She sent me one about great whites. Said something about facing fears.'

'Subtle.'

'About as subtle as your interview techniques.' She eyes your notebook, still tucked away. 'Not writing anymore?'

'Memory's better when I'm walking.' You tap your temple. 'Also, harder to write about blue tongues while walking.'

'Still blue?'

'Devastatingly so.'

She sticks her tongue out at a passing window, checking her reflection. 'Oh god, it's worse than I thought.'

'Crisis?'

'Please. I once had to perform with my hair half-green because of a dye mishap. This?' She gestures to her mouth. 'This is nothing.'

'Half-green?'

'Not going in the book.'

'Already mentally drafting the chapter.'

She groans. 'I'm starting to regret this whole walking thing.'

'Because of the blackmail material or the exercise?'

'Both. Neither.' She pauses by a small fountain. 'It's just... nice.'

'Nice?'

'Yeah.' She sits on the fountain's edge. 'No schedule. No plan. Just... walking and talking and eating questionably colored gelato with a stranger who probably thinks I'm having a quarter-life crisis.'

'Are you?'

'Having a crisis or eating gelato?'

'Now who's deflecting?' 

And she pauses again, caught.

She dips her fingers in the fountain water, watching the ripples. 'Maybe I just wanted one normal evening. One conversation that wasn't prepackaged and pre-approved.'

'Mission accomplished, I'd say. Your tongue is literally blue.'

That startles a laugh out of her. 'You're never letting that go, are you?'

'It's going to be a running metaphor throughout the book. Deep, meaningful parallels between blue gelato and the human condition.'

'You're terrible at your job.'

'I'm excellent at my job. I got you to walk around Rome with blue teeth.'

'Is that the measure of success?'

'For this chapter? Absolutely.'

The street lamps are starting to flicker on, and the air has that peculiar Roman evening warmth that begs for a drink.

'Know any good bars?' she asks, as if reading your mind.

'Thought you'd never ask[2]. Fair warning though—my Italian's terrible.'

'Better or worse than your interview skills?'

'Much worse. But I can order Aperol Spritz in seventeen different ways.'

'Useful life skill.'

'More useful than relating to sharks.'

She shoves your shoulder lightly. 'One more shark joke and I'm leaving.'

'No, you're not.'

'No, I'm not.' She grins. 'Lead the way, worst Italian speaker.'

You find a tiny place tucked away from the main streets. The kind tourists don't know about, with mismatched chairs and a bartender who looks old enough to have served Caesar himself.

'Due aperol spritz, per favore.' You ask.

The bartender raises an eyebrow. 'Americano? Il tuo italiano è buono!' (your Italian was… apparently… good.)

'Peggio,' you say. 'Giornalista' 

(‘Worse. Journalist.’)

He laughs, already reaching for glasses. Karina slides onto a barstool, looking around with genuine curiosity.

‘He seems pretty impressed by your Italian.’

‘Oh trust me—he wasn’t. He just wanted to be nice. That’s all. The inflections are quite easy to catch.’

‘Alright, whatever you say. Giornalista—.'

You grin at her cute prod.

'How'd you find this place?' She asks; needless to say, she likes it here.

'Got lost my first night here––five years ago. It was either come in or keep pretending I knew where my hotel was.'

'And?'

'Woke up knowing exactly where my hotel was. And how to say "I'm sorry" in Italian.'

She laughs. 'That bad?'

'Let's just say there's a reason I stick to green tea now.'

The drinks arrive, vivid orange against the dark wood of the bar.

'To blue tongues,' you raise your glass.

'And bad Italian,' she clinks hers against it.

—

[1] The documentary in question was "Blue Planet II." Her sister still has the receipt for three boxes of tissues and a plush shark from the aquarium gift shop. The plush shark now sits in her studio, wearing a tiny version of her debut outfit. Her company has tried to mass-produce it twice. She's vetoed it both times.

[2] You were never this humble about your Italian until you talked to an Italian nonna. "Qui giace la dignità di un giornalista" (Here lies a journalist's dignity).

—

'Speaking of bad decisions—'

'We weren't.'

'We are now. Tell me about the green hair incident.'

'Absolutely not.' She takes another sip of her spritz. 'Some secrets I'm taking to my grave.'

'Come on. Half-green hair? There's got to be a story there.'

'There is. A great one. You're still not hearing it.'

'I'll trade you.'

'Oh?' She turns on her stool to face you fully. 'What could you possibly have that's worth my green hair story?'

'Remember when I said I learned to say sorry in Italian?'

'The plot thickens.'

'Let's just say it involved a fountain, three angry nuns, and a very patient carabinieri.'

She nearly chokes on her drink. 'You're making that up.'

'Want to bet your green hair story on it?'

'You know what?' She signals the bartender for another round. 'Fine. But if you're lying, you're buying drinks for the rest of the night.'

'Deal.'

'And no taking notes.'

'Now that's just cruel.'

'Professional hazard,' she mimics your earlier tone, then grins. 'Okay, storyteller. Dazzle me.'

The bartender sets down fresh drinks, and you lean in conspiratorially. 'So picture this: my first night in Rome, about five years ago...'

'Wait.' She holds up a hand. 'We need to establish stakes. If this story doesn't involve all three elements—fountain, nuns, and police—you're not only buying drinks, you're telling me where you actually learned to say sorry in Italian.'

'Counter-offer. If my story checks out, I get the green hair story plus whatever happened at that music show in Busan.'

Her eyes narrow. 'What music show in Busan?'

'The one you just reacted to.'

'That's... that's actually impressive.'

'Five years of professional nosiness at work. Deal?'

She clinks her glass against yours. 'Deal. Now stop stalling.'

'Right. So. Five years ago. I'd just finished an interview with this ancient countess at the bar. I mean, it’s the bar. Who else gets to interview a countess at a bar? That’s like crazy Bourdain-level shit right there.’

She nods along. 'Of course you did.'

'Anyway, she invited me to this wine cellar...'

'Oh no.'

'Oh yes. And mind you, I was already quite drunk. And she was very, very insistent about hospitality...'

Twenty minutes and much laughter later, you finish: '...and that's why you should never trust Google Translate to help you apologize to Italian law enforcement.'

She's wiping tears from her eyes. 'The part with the cat—'

'Hand to god. Still have the scars.'

'Okay.' She catches her breath. 'Okay, you win. That was worth it.'

'Time to pay up. Green hair. Spill.'

'Can I have one more drink first?'

'For courage?'

'So I can blame it on the drink.' She waves at the bartender. 'I still can't believe you showed those nuns your interview notes to prove you weren't a street performer.'

'Desperate times.'

'Speaking of desperate...' She takes a fortifying sip of her fresh spritz. 'Ever tried to fix green hair with grape juice?'

'No.'

'Don't.'

'There has to be more to this story than grape juice.'

'Oh, there's so much more.' She settles into her seat. 'Picture this: it's two hours before a live broadcast. I'm sitting in the makeup chair, feeling pretty good about life. You know, like that particular moment where your face just… shines. Then my stylist walks in, takes one look at my hair, and just... screams.'

'Screams?'

'Full horror movie scream. Turns out the hair dye we used was... let's say "not exactly approved by management."'

'Let me guess. DIY job?'

'Worse. My sister's friend's cousin who "totally went to beauty school."'

'Oh no.' You snort, taking a hefty drink of the remaining spritz.

'Oh yes. So there I am, one side of my head this bizarre shade of swamp-thing green, and everyone's running around like it's the end of the world.'

'Which is when someone suggested grape juice?'

'Actually, that was my idea.' She grimaces. 'I'd read somewhere that grape juice could neutralize green tones. What they failed to mention was that this works for swimming pools, not hair.' [1]

'So what happened?'

'Picture a very expensive wig, three cans of dry shampoo, and me trying to explain to the camera director why I couldn't turn my head to the left.'

'Did it work?'

'Define "work."' She takes another sip. 'If by "work" you mean "did I make it through the broadcast without anyone seeing the grape-juice-tinged disaster," then yes. If by "work" you mean "did I maintain any dignity," then absolutely not.'

'The fans never found out?'

'Oh, they did. Someone leaked a backstage photo three months later.' She grins. 'By then I'd managed to fix it. Mostly.'

'Mostly?'

'My sister still has a strand of green hair she saved. Threatens to post it whenever I don't answer her calls.'

'Effective.'

'Terrifying.' She raises her glass. 'Your turn again. What's the worst interview you've ever done?'

'Besides this one?'

She kicks your chair. 'I'm delightful and you know it.'

'You're something, all right.'

Three drinks in, and the bar's emptied enough that her laugh echoes a little too loudly. She covers her mouth, but it's too late – the old bartender shoots them an amused look.

'Sorry,' she stage-whispers.

'For what? The laugh or the fact that it just shattered three ancient Roman wine glasses?'

'Shut up.' She kicks your chair again. 'I don't always laugh like that.'

'Let me guess – there's a public laugh and a private laugh?'

'There's a whole taxonomy.' She sits up straighter, counting on her fingers. 'Interview laugh, variety show laugh, fan meeting laugh, oh-that's-not-actually-funny-but-you're-my-sunbae laugh—'

'Please tell me you're joking.'

'I wish.' She slumps forward, head on her arms. 'I once had to attend a laughing seminar.'

'A what now?'

'A laughing seminar. Professional instruction on the art of the public giggle.' Her voice is muffled against her sleeve. 'There was a PowerPoint and everything.'

'You're making this up.'

She lifts her head. 'I spent three hours learning about laugh-adjacent breathing techniques while a woman named Mrs. Kim hit a triangle every time someone laughed "inappropriately."'

You stare at her. She stares back.

'That's the most horrifying thing I've ever heard,' you say finally.

'I know.' She dissolves into another too-loud laugh, this one definitely not seminar-approved. 'God, I can still hear that triangle.'

'Is that why you're here?'

'Getting drunk with a biographer in Rome? No, that's just poor life choices.'

'Speaking honest truths to a stranger?'

'Oh.' She straightens up, but there's still something loose in her smile. 'Maybe. Or maybe I just really needed to tell someone about Mrs. Kim and her triangle of terror.'

'Triangle of terror.' You shake your head. 'That's going in the book.'

'Along with the blue tongue and green hair? You're really painting a picture here.'

'It's called character development.'

'It's called character assassination.' She signals for water. 'What else are you putting in there?'

'Wouldn't you like to know.'

'Actually, yes. That's literally why I'm asking.'

'Fine.' You pretend to flip through your mental notes. 'Chapter One: Sharks and Empathy—'

'Oh my god.'

'Chapter Two: The Grape Juice Incident—'

'I'm starting to regret everything.'

'Chapter Three: Laugh Taxonomies by Aespa’s Karina—'

'I hate you.'

'Chapter Four: Why Romans Don't Trust Her With Fountains Anymore—'

'That was you! That was literally your story!'

'Was it? Everything's getting a bit fuzzy.' You tap your temple. 'Must be all that professional memory I was bragging about earlier.'

She throws an olive at you. The bartender clears his throat.

'Sorry,' you both say in unison, then look at each other and start laughing again.

'You know what's really funny?' she says, once you've both contained yourselves.

'Mrs. Kim's triangle?'

'Besides that.' She accepts the water from the bartender. 'This is probably the worst interview you've ever done.'

'Oh, definitely.'

'And yet...'

'And yet?'

'It's the most honest one I've given.' She pauses. 'God, that sounded way less cheesy in my head. Must be the spritz talking.'

'Blame it on the altitude.'

'We're at sea level.'

'Blame it on the sea level.'

'You're ridiculous.' She's grinning though. 'Is this how all your interviews go?'

'Usually there's less gelato. More gravitas.'

'Gravitas is overrated.'

'Says the woman who attended a laughing seminar.'

'Hey, I'll have you know my triangle-approved giggle is very dignified.'

'Prove it.'

She sits up straighter, arranges her features into something serene, and lets out the most artificial laugh you've ever heard. It's so pristine it's almost disturbing.

'That was horrifying.'

'That was three hours of professional training.'

'I'm concerned about your profession.'

'Join the club.' She relaxes back into her natural posture. 'We have meetings every Tuesday. Bring your own triangle.'

The bartender slides over the check with a knowing look. Last call came and went without either of you noticing.

'Well,' you say, reaching for your wallet. 'I suppose this is—'

'Wait.' She puts her hand on your arm. 'I have a confession.'

'Another one? The green hair wasn't enough?'

'I read your book.'

'Which one?'

'The one about the ballet dancer who quit to become a motorcycle mechanic.'

'Ah.' You sit back. 'And?'

'And I maybe, possibly, completely changed my mind about this whole interview when I read it.'

'Because?'

'Because...' She fidgets with her empty glass. 'You made her sound so... human.'

'As opposed to?'

'A story. A headline.' She traces a pattern on the bar top. 'Most people would've written about the scandal, the career she "threw away." But you wrote about how she names each motorcycle she fixes. How she still dances in her garage at midnight.'

'Ah. That.'

'That.' She looks up. 'Is that why you haven't asked me about any of it?'

'Any of what?'

'Don't play dumb. The headlines. The speculation. The—'

'The triangle-approved responses you've probably rehearsed?'

She laughs, caught. 'Something like that.'

'Here's the thing about headlines.' You start gathering your things. 'They're usually more interesting than the truth.'

'And what's the truth?'

'That sometimes people just want to eat blue gelato and tell embarrassing stories in a bar and talk a biographer’s ears off.'

She kicks your chair again, barely noticeable. 'Even if those stories end up in a book?'

'Especially then.' You stand, offering her jacket. 'Though I might need you to sign a waiver about the grape juice incident.'

'I knew it! You are using it!'

'Chapter title: "The Perils of Amateur Chemistry: A Cautionary Tale."'

She shrugs on her jacket, shaking her head. 'You're impossible. That AI flair was so intentional'

'Says the woman who legitimately attended a laughing seminar.'

'I'm never living that down, am I?'

'Not as long as I have a functioning memory and a publishing contract.'

The Roman night is warm as you both step out of the bar. She stumbles slightly on the cobblestones.

You offer a hand which she quickly grabs.

'Don't you dare put that in the book,' she warns.

'Put what? The graceful interpretation of contemporary dance you just performed?'

'These streets are rigged.' She steadies herself. 'Also, your hotel's this way.'

'How do you know where my hotel is?' You’re not exactly one to remember locations, probably the reason you were able to gain such a repository of ridiculous stories.

'Because it's my hotel.' She grins at your expression. 'What? You think you're the only one who does research?'

'I'm concerned about your stalking tendencies.'

'Says the person who somehow knew about the Busan incident.'

'Professional hazard.'

'You really need new catchphrases.'

The walk is quiet, comfortable. Rome at night feels like a different city—all golden lights and shadow play. A cat watches you pass from its perch on a window sill.

'Don't even think about it,' she says.

'About what?'

'Making some poetic comparison between me and that cat.'

'Please. I'm a much better writer than that.'

'Sure you are, shark whisperer.'

You reach the hotel entrance. She pauses.

'Well,' she says. 'This has been...'

'Professionally catastrophic?'

'I was going to say enlightening.'

'That too.'

The hotel lobby is all marble and soft lighting. Your footsteps echo slightly.

'I have a balcony,' she says suddenly. 'And a really pretentious coffee machine I can't figure out.'

'Is this a cry for help with appliances?' 

'This is...' She fidgets with her room key. 'This is me not wanting the interview to end yet.'

'The interview ended somewhere between blue gelato and the triangle story.'

'Then what's this?'

‘Believe or not, some people just like having fun on their Italian vacation.’

‘Haha. Very funny.’

'This is...' You pretend to consider. 'Two people who might be friends if one of them wasn't writing a book about the other.'

'Complicated.'

'Professional hazard.'

'There's that phrase again.' She presses the elevator button. 'Come on. I'll teach you how to laugh properly.'

'With or without the triangle?'

She steps into the elevator. 'Depends on how good you are at making coffee.'

'Now who's the impossible one?'

The doors start to close. She holds them.

'Coming?'

You join her in the elevator. 'For the record, I'm excellent at coffee.'

'For the record,' she mimics your tone, 'that's going in the book.'

Her room is on the top floor, with a view that makes you understand why people write poetry about Rome.

'So,' she says, fighting with the coffee machine. 'This button makes it angry, and this one makes it hiss.'

'Move over, amateur.' You reach around her to press a combination of buttons. The machine purrs to life.

'Show off.' But she's smiling as she heads for the balcony. 'Bring your coffee wizardry out here when it's ready.'

The balcony is small, just enough room for two chairs and all of Rome spread out below. She's curled up in one chair, shoes off, looking more real than she has all day.

'Your professional opinion,' she says as you hand her a cup. 'Is this going to be a good book?'

'Depends.'

'On?'

'On whether you let me keep the shark metaphors.'

She laughs into her coffee. 'You're never letting that go.'

'Never.' You take the other chair. 'Though I might be willing to negotiate.'

'Terms?'

'Tell me something nobody knows. Something that won't make the book.'

She's quiet for a moment, looking out at the city lights. 'I sing in the shower.'

'Everybody knows that.'

'No, I mean...' She turns to face you. 'I sing the old songs. The ones I used to practice when I was just some kid in Bundang with a dream too big for my voice.'

'And?'

'And sometimes I still feel like her. That kid. Especially at night, in foreign hotels, when the city feels like it belongs to someone else.'

'Especially at night, in foreign hotels, when the city feels like it belongs to someone else.'

'Wow.' You let out a low whistle. 'That was incredibly profound.'

She groans, covering her face. 'I know. I'm sorry. That was straight out of a drama script.'

'I was thinking more indie movie. You know, the kind where people have deep conversations on balconies in Rome at—' you check your watch, '—one in the morning.'

'Oh god, we're living a cliché.'

'Complete with coffee and two chairs overlooking Rome.'

'Quick,' she straightens up, 'say something unprofound. Save us from ourselves.'

'My tongue is still kind of blue.'

She peeks at you over her coffee cup. 'Mine too.'

'Better?'

'Much better.' She slouches back in her chair. 'Though now I'm thinking about how this would look in your book. "Two idiots with blue tongues have existential crisis on expensive balcony."'

'Don't forget the part where one of them somehow charmed a coffee machine.'

'And the other one used to sing in her shower.'

'Still,' you correct. 'Present tense.'

'Still,' she admits. 'But if you put that in your book, I'll have to tell everyone about your fountain incident.'

'Mutually assured destruction. I like it.'

She yawns, then looks embarrassed. 'Sorry. It's not the company, it's—'

'The five Aperol Spritzes?'

'That. And the emotional toll of remembering Mrs. Kim's triangle.'

'Tragic backstory,' you nod solemnly. 'Very character-building.'

'Speaking of character-building...' She sets down her empty cup, turns to face you fully. 'This is usually the part in your books where something significant happens.'

'Is it?'

'Mm. Chapter twelve. Always a turning point.'

'You really did read my books.'

'I told you that already.' She's closer now, somehow. 'What I didn't mention was that I figured out your pattern.'

'My pattern?'

'The way you write moments like this.' Her voice is soft. 'When everything gets quiet, and the city's just background noise, and someone's about to do something...'

'Inadvisable?'

'I was going to say brave.'

'Brave is just inadvisable with better PR.'

She laughs, barely a whisper. 'You're deflecting again.'

'Professional—'

'If you say "hazard" right now,' she cuts in, 'I'm going to throw you off this balcony.'

'That would be...'

'Inadvisable?'

'I was going to say "terrible for my book sales."'

She's definitely closer now. 'Your book sales are about to be the least of your problems.'

'Because you're going to kiss me or throw me off the balcony?'

'I haven't decided yet.'

'Well,' you murmur, 'for what it's worth, one of those options would make a much better chapter twelve.'

She closes the distance between you, smiling against your lips. 'Professional hazard.'

You and Karina shared an instant spark that neither of you had experienced. Ever. The moment that first tease left your mouth, it was over.

—

[1] The sentiment of grape juice being able to eliminate green tones turned out to be completely unfounded. Despite this, wine sommeliers around the world have complained about Koreans with their distinct accent asking about grape juice’s ability to change colors.

—

The kiss tastes like coffee and Aperol and something sweet—probably the remnants of that ridiculous blue gelato. It's soft and quiet and perfect, the kind of moment that would sound made up in a book.

She pulls back slightly. 'Your editor's going to hate this.'

'Definitely.' You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. 'Completely unprofessional.'

'Thoroughly inadvisable.'

'Absolutely perfect for chapter twelve.'

She kisses you again, and Rome keeps existing below, indifferent to your small moment of magic. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimes twice.

'You know,' she whispers, 'this is usually where you'd write something profound about the city of love.'

'That's Paris.'

'Now who's deflecting?'

'Still you. But I'm starting not to mind.'

She laughs, soft and real—definitely not triangle-approved—and rests her forehead against yours, your breaths intermixing, plenty of intimate eye contact. 'Is this going in the book?'

'What do you think?'

'I think...' Her fingers find yours. 'I think some stories we get to keep for ourselves.'

'I think some stories we get to keep for ourselves.'

'Even after I charmed your coffee machine? That's cold.'

She makes a face. 'You're really bringing up coffee machine prowess right after—'

'Right after you thoroughly compromised my journalistic integrity? Yes.'

'Your journalistic integrity was compromised the moment you let me eat blue gelato.'

'My journalistic integrity was compromised the moment I saw you.' You run your thumb across her knuckles.

Her eye contact wavers and her voice falters, ‘Gosh, you’re such a player.’

‘Flirting has never come so easily before.’ You whisper against her mouth.

'Oh really?'

'Obviously.'

'Which was?'

'Stare at that blue tongue some more.’'

She shoves you lightly. 'You're terrible.'

'And yet.'

'And yet.' She settles on your lap, the forehead to forehead more natural now. 'So what happens now?'

'Well, traditionally, this is where I'd write something about dawn breaking over the eternal city—'

'Please don't.'

'—with golden light catching on ancient stones—'

'I'm begging you to stop.'

'—as two souls find each other under the Roman sky—'

She claps a hand over your mouth. 'I will literally pay you to not finish that sentence.'

You kiss her palm before she pulls it away. 'Isn't that technically bribery?'

'Add it to the list. Right after "compromised journalistic integrity" and "suspicious coffee machine expertise."'

'Speaking of compromising situations...' You glance at your watch. 'It's almost three AM.'

'Worried about your reputation?'

'Worried about your triangle-approved schedule.'

'Bold of you to assume I ever sleep.' She stands, stretching. 'Want to order terrible room service and you can tell me about all the other journalists you've scandalized?'

'That's a very short list. Very enticing regardless.’ 

'Good.' She holds out her hand.

The night air has turned cooler, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from somewhere below. Her fingers trace the collar of your shirt, hesitant but deliberate.

'What happened to room service?' you murmur.

'It can wait.' Her eyes meet yours, playful but wanting. 'I'm conducting my own interview first.'

This kiss is different from the first. Slower, more certain. The city hums below, a distant lullaby of late-night cars and echoing footsteps. When she sighs into the kiss, it's the softest sound you've ever heard. When she falters against your forceful touches, it’s the softest you’ve ever felt a woman.

She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against yours. Her heartbeat is quick under your palm.

'Better than chapter twelve?' she whispers.

You catch her lips again in answer, feeling her smile. The wind stirs her hair, sending strands brushing against your cheek. Everything smells like jasmine and coffee and her perfume—something subtle and expensive that you'll probably spend the rest of your life over-romanticizing.

Because that’s what Karina deserves.

Rome stretches out endless and ancient around you, but all you can focus on is how perfectly she fits against you, how real she feels away from cameras and crowds.

Your lips find hers in the dark, soft and certain now. Her fingers trail up your neck, threading through your hair, pulling you closer. There's an art to the way she kisses—deliberate yet desperate, like she's trying to memorize the moment. Your hands settle at her waist, and she makes a small sound that you know you'll remember forever.

Her lips part against yours, deepening the kiss until you're both breathless. The balcony railing presses into your back—when did that happen?—and her body is warm against yours, fitting perfectly in all the spaces between.

Her teeth graze your bottom lip, teasing. You respond by trailing kisses along her jaw, feeling her pulse jump under your lips. When you find that sensitive spot just below her ear, her sharp intake of breath makes you smile against her skin.

She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. Her lips are slightly swollen, her careful composure beautifully undone––hair spread everywhere, but just so that she looks ethereal rather than messy. You brush your thumb across her lower lip, and she catches it with her teeth, playful even now.

‘Still planning to put this in chapter twelve?’ she whispers, breathless.

Your answer gets lost somewhere between her lips and… her lips.

Her laugh vibrates against your lips when you finally break apart. ‘We should probably—’

‘Go inside?’ Your lips find the curve of her neck again.

‘I was going to say breathe.’ But her head tilts back, giving you better access. Her pulse flutters under your kiss like a trapped bird. ‘Though inside works too.’

You pull back just enough to look at her. Hair mussed, eyes bright, that perfect composure completely undone. She's never looked more beautiful than she does right now, with the city lights catching in her eyes and her professional smile nowhere to be found.

‘What?’ she asks, suddenly self-conscious.

‘Just thinking.’

‘About?’

‘How this definitely isn't going in the book.’

Her smile turns mischievous. ‘No?’ Her fingers trace patterns on your chest. ‘Not even a little mention of how you completely forgot about journalistic integrity the moment I—’

‘Then chapter 12 would entirely consist of me betraying my profession in order to catch your lips with my teeth.’

‘Wow. You’re bad. Like, real bad.’

‘You have no idea.’

You cut her off with another kiss, swallowing her laugh. Her hands slide up your chest, around your neck, pulling you impossibly closer. The world narrows to just this: her lips on yours, her body pressed against you, the soft sounds she makes when you run your fingers down her spine.

‘Inside,’ she murmurs against your mouth. ‘Before we really give Rome something to talk about.’

You let her lead you through the balcony doors, both of you stumbling slightly, unwilling to break contact. She tastes like promises now, like stories yet to be written. Her hands are everywhere—your hair, your chest, your face – like she's trying to read you by touch alone.

‘Wait,’ you manage, as her lips find that spot below your ear that makes thinking difficult. ‘What about—’

‘If you mention room service right now,’ she warns, ‘I'm going back to my original plan of throwing you off the balcony.’

‘I was going to say 'what about your triangle-approved image?'’

She pulls back, eyes dancing. ‘Oh, that?’ Her lips brush yours, teasing. ‘I think we thoroughly compromised that at the first meeting.’

"Professional hazard?"

"Shut up," she whispers, and kisses you again.

She sighs into your mouth, a soft, vulnerable sound that makes your heart stutter.

Her fingers tangle in your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp, sending shivers down your spine. You walk her backward until she's pressed against the wall, her body arching into yours.

You trail kisses down her neck, learning her— the spot beneath her jaw that makes her gasp, the curve where neck meets shoulder that makes her fingers tighten in your hair. Her pulse races under your lips, a rapid drumbeat that matches your own. When you find a particularly sensitive spot, her sharp intake of breath is the sweetest sound you've ever heard.

She tugs you back up to her mouth, kissing you like she's trying to tell you something words can't capture. Her lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours with a rhythm that makes you dizzy. One of her legs hooks around yours, pulling you even closer, and you groan into her mouth.

Her hands frame your face now, thumbs stroking your cheeks as she kisses you deeper, slower, like she's trying to memorize every second. You respond in kind, pouring everything you can't say into the kiss—how beautiful she is like this, how real, how perfectly she fits against you.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen. You rest your forehead against hers, sharing the same air, neither of you willing to move away.

"Still thinking about the book?" she murmurs, voice husky.

You answer by catching her lower lip between your teeth, gentle but playful, and feel her smile against your mouth.

Her smile against your mouth turns into a soft laugh. "I'll take that as a no."

‘Take it as whatever you want.’ Your lips find her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. ‘I stopped thinking about the book long ago.’

She hums contentedly, her fingers tracing patterns on the nape of your neck. ‘Good.’ Her other hand is still tangled in your shirt, keeping you close. ‘Because I have a confession.’

‘Another one?’

Instead of answering, she kisses you again, slow and deep. Her tongue traces your lower lip, and you respond by pressing her further into the wall, swallowing the small sound she makes. One of her legs is still hooked around yours, and when she shifts slightly, the new angle makes you both gasp.

‘That wasn't a confession,’ you murmur against her lips.

‘No?’ Her teeth graze your earlobe. ‘I thought I was being pretty clear.’

Your hands slide to her waist, steadying her. She's intoxicating like this, all careful control abandoned, her public persona nowhere to be found.

‘Jimin,’ you breathe, and feel her shiver at the sound of her real name.

Her response is to pull you closer, kissing you like she's trying to say everything without words. Her lips are soft but certain against yours, and you lose yourself in the feeling—the warmth of her body, the subtle scent of her perfume.

The city continues its nighttime symphony outside, but in here, the only sound is your shared breathing and the soft, desperate noises she makes when you find that sensitive spot on her neck again.

She pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. In the dim light, her gaze is soft, unguarded. Her thumb traces your lower lip.

‘What?’ you ask, voice rough.

‘I'm trying to decide something.’

"Whether to throw me off the balcony? Because I thought we moved past—"

She cuts you off with another kiss. Her hands cup your face, holding you there as she explores your mouth with a thoroughness that makes you dizzy. You respond by feeling her firm and perky ass.

‘No—,’ she moans when you break apart for air. ‘I'm trying to decide if this is real.’

Instead of answering, you trail kisses down her neck, feeling her pulse jump under your lips. Her head falls back against the wall, giving you better access. When you reach her collarbone, she makes a sound that's half-sigh, half-moan.

‘Feels real enough,’ you murmur against her skin.

Her laugh is breathy, unsteady. ‘I meant—’ She gasps as you find a particularly sensitive spot. ‘I meant this. Us. This whole night.’

You lift your head to look at her. Her lips are swollen from kissing, her carefully styled hair a mess from your fingers. She's never looked more beautiful.

‘If you think I did all of this for the fun of it, you’re clearly missing something.’

‘A gear in the head?’

‘Definitely—’

‘Gosh, how do I allow this sort of petulance?’

‘Because it’s me.’

‘You’re a player.’

‘Only for you.’ You catch her lips, even more wanting—and she forfeits it all. 

You pick her up, mussing up her perfect outfit, mussing up her perfect lips. And you finally throw her against the bed.

‘You’re really roughing up Prada’s global ambassador.’

‘And ambassador to a dozen other brands worth billions—couldn’t care less.’’ 

She smirks, and her arms open, waiting, pliant, obedient.

You rip off your buttoned shirt, tear off your pants; now, there’s truly no way of going back.

‘Wow. That scar is a lot larger than I imagined.’ She’s referring back to the scar that you received during that drunk haze of a night.

‘It was dark. Might’ve even been a lion.’ 

‘Mm. Heroic. Come here.’

Now, who could ever resist that?

You rip off her clothes, each layer even more decadent than the other. And then, she was there. bra barely containing her breasts, and a layer of dampness along her sexy panties.

‘That was expensive, by the way.’

‘I’ve got a payment plan on course.’

‘Mm. Enlighten me.’

You pull her panties to the side.

She’s dripping wet, nectar spooling right on her pink core. A glorious sheen that makes you stare far longer than you should’ve. She’s red-faced at this point, and her forearms cover most of her sight, and yet, she doesn’t move, doesn’t retreat. 

The first lick you place, just a brush against her engorged clit, crumbles every self-regulated triangle-approved behavior she has. Two pants turn fifty, one lick crumbles everything. Her hips coax you in ways gymnasts can’t even replicate, and of course, you oblige.

Soft licks, teases around her outer lips, swollen from all the anticipation and arousal; tonguing at her inner lips, just at the crux of her clit, gets her screaming in ways her deep voice would never register; and above all, she’s orgasming, squirting, losing every pretense in favor of her built up lust. 

‘Oh~fuck—’

Her fingers find purchase in your hair, and she softly pulls you in—rides your face like it was all that she ever desired: her eternal wish.

‘Ohmygod! Imcumming!’ Her voice turns mousy, and her pupils go back in pure pleasure, coupled with hip movements thought impossible: this was the greatest pleasure of her life.

You grab her chin, squeeze softly, her cheeks molding to your grasp, and you press a soft kiss right on her kiss-bruised lips. You let her taste herself on your tongue.

‘Good. Right?’

And she nods. A complete personality switch from the playfulness she displayed earlier. Delicate.

Her hands land on your boxers as she melted into your kiss. Once you felt her palm your cock, you groaned right in her ear. She starts softly, stroking. But her strokes grow more all-encompassing as you press harder into the kiss.

‘Fuck. You’re so good for me.’

She mewls back, on the gradient slide of unadulterated pleasure.

Softly, you release your shaft from the boxer. And you press your cock right on her core. Feeling the wet heat, the sticky nectar that pooled to a mindbreaking degree. 

‘It goes without saying.’

‘That I’m head over heels for you?’

You grin, ‘Well, that too, but you’re hopeless.’

‘Maybe if we weren’t so compatible.’

You grab a breast, palming it, ‘Well that, that too, goes without saying.’

She smiles, so warmly, every trace of everything else melted off her face––the sort of smile you’d never forget, and the sort of smile you’d want to wake up to… forever.

Finally, you press into her, and her wet heat envelops you, enough to make you groan, enough to make her moan like there’s no greater pleasure––because really, there’s nothing else.

Her pussy clings onto you, a wet suction that is immeasurably soft and yet, a vacuum-seal-like tightness that gets you groaning after every thrust.

Her arms cling to you, and her eyebrows knit, her small face full of emotion—all of it processing how good you fuck her.

‘Oh god. Would it be bad that I want you to declare to the world that you own me?”

‘Chapter 12—’

She cuts you off, ‘Something along the lines of: “Chapter 12: Karina is my fuckslut”’ 

‘I don’t tolerate Karina disrespect.’ You say, truthfully.

‘Even if it’s by myself?’

‘Especially for that case, sweetheart.’

‘Oh… you’re too good.’

‘You’re blind.’

Most popular idol in the world, and… she’s hopelessly down bad for you.

‘If I’m blind. Then you don’t have eyes—complete darkness.’

‘We’re two of the same.’

‘I’m your biggest fan.’

‘We’re two of the same.’

‘I love you.’

‘You have a way with words, Karina.’ You reply, pressing soft kisses along her jaw, whispering sweet nothings into her ear, thrusting into her harder, sharing breaths.

‘You’ve inspired me.’

And you lock lips with her, the thrusts were becoming a blur, and her moans music to your ears—it was all just… heaven.

There was no technique. Nothing too purposeful. It was all just pure affection, pure love guiding all your actions. And the fact that she’s cumming again was no coincidence.

‘Oh. My. Fucking. God!’ Her head goes back deep into the pillow and you follow suit. Pressing soft kisses that covered every square centimeter of her beauty, kisses that made her giggle even in her most orgasmic moment of her life. 

‘If I knew anything that felt like this… I’d be doing it constantly.’

‘Well—’

‘That’s right,’ Karina gives a soft peck, ‘I have you now.’ 

You could feel her heartbeat, her skin precipitate, and her cunt pulse—it’s just heaven at this point. 

‘Are you trying to convince me to follow you?’

‘2 years, finest in New York.’

‘Deal. Though you overbid a little.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Means anything you want, dear.’

The soft slick of her cunt made it nearly frictionless, just pure pleasure for both parties. Her hips gave way every time, an identity of its own, retreating when you thrust too hard, giving in when softer.’

‘Is this like a sugar mommy situation?’

‘Two words I never expected you to say.’ You both share a laugh.

‘I mean that’s what it is right?’

‘A power imbalance? Please. I can get you to buy a New York penthouse for me at this point.’

‘Well. You’re right. But—’

You bring your cock to the hilt inside of her, whilst stealing her lips for a deep kiss. She moans and mewls and gasps—music to your ears. You change positions. You bring her legs to your shoulders, and you begin kissing along her ankle while thrusting inside of her.

This time, you can see the full view. How her breasts bounce against the thrusts, how her slick has completely covered your entire length at this point, and how beautifully her face is framed between it all. 

Her mouth’s agape, moaning, giggling intermittently with the jokes shared through eye contact. You bite softly at her ankle then down her legs, to her calves, then releasing her legs altogether to kiss her again.

She fits perfectly against you, small and delicate but the perfect puzzle piece under you. She’s absorbent, aware of your needs, placing soft kisses along the ridges of your eyebrows, rubbing away the day’s fatigue along your jaw and temple. 

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

‘I didn’t hear.’

You press against her, feeling her breasts spool against your chest, bring your thrust to the hilt, the wetness of her loins pressed against yours, all of them vividly apparent. ‘I love your beauty. I love your humor. I love how clever you are. I love how authentic you are. And I could continue on and on but I’m about to cum.’

Karina sniffled, ‘God, I was about to cry and then you say that.’ She softly smacks your shoulder, ‘just cum inside me and let’s cuddle.’

You oblige, the thrusts turn into a haze of pure pleasure, a desperate moment chasing the local maxima, and finally, you burst inside of her. Cum spooled, all inside her, and she moans so gracefully, staring at you with all the affection in the world.

‘We can worry about this tomorrow.’ She palmed your jaw.

‘Of course.’ You fall onto her, cuddling her.

Both of you are a mess, gross, bodily fluids spread everywhere, and yet, the both of you fell into a deep slumber.

A/N: I'd like to apologize for switching up styles so much (But if you enjoyed this dialogue-heavy work, then lmk!)

[oconswrld]

(Fem bodied!partner, used they/them for the reader!!.. hihihi)

I neeeeeed... Sergeant John 'Soap' MacTavish with a sensitive partner

I mean sensitive like, their hips buck the moment you start rubbing their clit. They don't make a lot of noise other than heavy breathing, and the occasional squeak of pleasure, but their legs are shaking, and twitching, their back is arching, and they're squirming away from his touch

"What's up, bonnie? Cannae' 'andle it, lass?" Soap says in a mocking voice as he rubs quick circles on their clit with two firm fingers. They only whine, throwing their head back.

Thinking abouttttt.. Captain John Price with a partner who's prone to squirting.

And i mean, stick a few fingers into them, and they're drenching your arms, hands, and-... Oh my fuckin' God, they ruined the bed.

"Fuckin' hell, princess.. You're drenching the sheets, baby" John says in a gruff voice as he keeps fucking those two thick fingers into them. Nothing can stop the brutal pace he set where his partner doesn't even know if his fingers are in, or out- It's their third time squirting tonight, give them a break, Price

My thought train wassss.. Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley with a partner whose legs aren't reliable after a good sesh

They stand up, trying to go for a pee in hopes to not get an infection when they grip the edge of the beside table, stabilising themselves with their wobbly legs. Their mixed cum trailing down their legs, and the pain from his cock bruising their cervix making a jolt go up their spine.

"Like a newborn deer, 'luvie." Simon chuckles, standing up, still naked as he puts a supporting hand on their hips, guiding them to the bathroom

"Bruised your cervix, did'n i?" He mutters as he opens the bathroom door

Wondering, and fantasizing about Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick with a partner who has difficulties making themselves cum, which results in them seeking out Kyle.

Gosh, they've tried everything. Rubbing, two fingers inside their pussy, but nothing works. They only get that warm tingly feeling, but never the full-blown pleasure throughout their body. They've tried, really. It's frustrating almost.

After a quick text to Kyle, he's on top of them in the next five minutes, ramming his cock into them.

"You can take it.. I know you ken', baby" He rumbles, his voice only being broken by groans, and moans from him. They're on their back, folded in half with their legs over his shoulders, and their knees to their chest. They've already came once, staining the bottom of his grey shirt effectively.

His pants are only pulled down to his mid thighs, while they're fully naked. They babble, fucked out of their mind, with eyebrows furrowed in pleasure, and a throbbing clit still.

(Fuelled by a few cigarettes with my Glo, a bottle of 2 liter lidl brand sugar free coke, and Work by Rihanna.)

Written by your one and only <3

(This is my first time posting smut/COD here. Spare me, guys)

[fishbonex]

And would you go ahead and just cry? 2/3

Jinx x fem!reader | Caitlyn x sister!reader

Summary: A conversation with your sister after Cassandra's death.

Word Count: 0,7K

Warnings: mention of character death, mention of PTSD attacks, mention of murder.

note: this chapter focuses on the reader's relationship with Caitlyn, so I apologize for not having any interactions with Jinx in it. But Vi does appear!!

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE.

< previous chapter next chapter >

You weren't surprised. You already knew she was going to do this, but not to this extent. It's not like you didn't understand her, Cassandra was your mother too, you were also grieving, your heart was hurting too.

But all of Zaun should not have to pay for the actions of just one person.

Walking quickly through the halls of the silent mansion, you could feel the anger emanating from you. Your steps stopped in front of the large door to Caitlyn's chambers, where you knocked and didn't wait for an answer to enter. The tall figure of your older sister stood in the center of the room, staring intently at the old map she left on the floor, and Vi's pink hair could be seen behind her, sitting on the bed.

You opened your mouth to question Caitlyn, but she spoke first: "You should measure your actions, like wait for me to answer before barging into my room. I'm sure you don't want to irritate me even more."

"Ah, don't start. I already know you know." you scoffed. "I'm surprised Commander Kiramman hasn't sent me to Stillwater yet."

"You have no consideration at all, do you? Or a brain?" she turned to you, the long blue cape shifting behind her. "How could you?"

"How could I what? Have a Zaunite friend? You have one there too." you nodded to Vi, who raised an eyebrow at you.

"Is it really that little to you?" Caitlyn sighed, her voice sounding weaker. "Don't you have any respect for Mom's memory?"

"I'm grieving too, Caitlyn. For God's sake." you sighed loudly. "But I can't let it take over me, or I won't be able to think straight."

"You don't seem like you're thinking straight." she raised her voice. "Mom dies and you're going to take comfort in her killer?"

"She didn't mean to do that! She was having an attack. You said you've seen it before." you exclaimed. "And I didn't come here to talk about her. The engineers told me that you want to shut down the ventilation system there."

"This is official business, it's about the search and capture of a criminal," she replied. "You shouldn't question me, I know what I'm doing."

"Have you lost your mind?! You can't do this, do you want to end everything?" you almost screamed. "How can you say I don't care about Mom's memory if you're the one trying to destroy it?"

"No one will get hurt. My team was only ordered to capture Jinx and nothing more." she said almost automatically.

"Caitlyn, our mom thought about the quality of life of those people when she had that ventilation system created. And I felt honored when she asked me to improve her creation." you murmured. "The Grey is toxic, you can't say no one will get hurt. You'll have protective masks, the people down there have nothing."

"You shouldn't even be here, you should be thankful I didn't have you arrested for siding with and not cooperating with the search for Mom's killer." she growled.

"What are you talking about now?" you fumed.

"Were you the one who gave her that hextech gem?" she frowned even more angrily.

"Of course not! Why would I do that?" you put your hands on your hips.

"If you stayed with her after she killed our mother, I don't doubt what you would do for her before that." She lowered her voice.

You laughed in derision, shaking your head, "You gave your girlfriend who just got out of jail an enforcer position, is that any different?"

Vi got up from the bed when she was mentioned. "I was wrongly arrested, I didn't commit any crime."

"Oh, shut up, you too." you rolled your eyes, irritated. "Aren't you ashamed of wearing that uniform? Your sister is alone and scared and here you are playing police officer."

"You don't know anything about me, and I doubt you know anything about Jinx either." she walked over to you and Caitlyn. "What do you think you are? A vigilante? Doing good deeds for the poor? You don't know anything about being in need. You've been up here your whole life."

"But I know very well what decency and loyalty are. Standing firm for what you believe in." you replied. "And I see that is not your case."

Vi's face twisted into an angry expression and she threatened to advance towards you, but was stopped by Caitlyn, who turned back to you: "That's enough. Our operation is going to happen, whether you like it or not. I suggest you stay away from Zaun, I'll leave enforcers to... look after you. Be thankful you're not trapped."

You huffed and turned to leave the room.

[darkbluekies]

Like magic —Part 1

part 2 Male!yandere x female!reader x female!yandere

Hogwarts AU

Summary: your parents have denied you access to going to hogwarts, but finally in your 3d year, you manage to sneak off. But is life really that good at hogwarts when two students take a concerningly big interest in you?

Warnings: bullying, indications of unstable home life, kissing (dubcon?), forcing reader to throw up,

Word count: 6.8k

A/N: I have loosely followed the AU, but have made up my own things for the plot to work, so don't take my work literally :)

It has to be a joke, right? There’s no way that you can run straight through a wall! You gulp and look around, seeing if anyone else is doing the same, or if anyone is noticing how much you’re staring at the pillar separating the two platforms. Finally, you see two others make it through and you decide to make a run for it. You close your eyes and when you dare to open them again, you’re there. The train, the students, it’s finally time. After three, long years. 

You were supposed to start when you were eleven, but you weren’t allowed to. They didn’t believe you. If you hadn't picked the lock to your bedroom, you'd not be here this year either. You don't have anything — no books, no animals, no broom. You only have a wand and a packed suitcase. You watch the other students already wearing their Hogwarts uniforms. They hug their parents and catch up with their friends. You sneak onto the train and sit down in your own little coupe. Your heart is hammering against your chest. Your parents will figure it out soon enough and you're terrified that they'll stand on the platform and demand you to get off. 

Just start the train, make it leave.

"Oh, excuse me", a voice says.

You turn your head to the door, seeing a blonde girl standing there with a black, Grey and yellow uniform on.

"Can I sit with you?" she asks and quickly adds: "I saw you out on the platform. You looked rather lost so i just wanted to see if I could help you."

"Yeah, sure", you answer, startled. "Thank you."

The girl sits down on the couch in front of you with a smile.

"I'm Hedwig", she smiles. "Third year student. What's your name?"

"Y/N", you answer hesitantly. "I'm … new."

"I see. You're a first year student?"

"Not exactly, no … I'm supposed to be in third year too-"

"Oh, really?" Hedwig shines up. "I don't think I've ever seen you before. Which house are you in?"

"I don't know." You shrug embarrassedly. "This is technically my first year."

"Oh … I see." She smiles brightly. "That's totally fine. I can help you if you want. We have some hours to kill, so I can fill you up on most things so you're not as lost when you reach Hogwarts as you were out on the platform."

"Yes, please, that would be great. Thank you."

Hedwig fills you in on basic information. Four houses, different characteristics, a talking hat gives you your house. The school is a gigantic castle that has moving stairs, every house has passwords to their common rooms, some teachers are asses, some are okay, some are nice. Don't wander into the forest, especially at night, stay out of certain corridors. The janitor's cat is an asshole.

"I suppose you're a muggleborn then", Hedwig smiles and adds when you frown confusedly: "born and raised by normal people. Otherwise you'd know most things already."

"Are you?" you wonder, wanting to find something in common with this extraordinary girl.

"Halfblood, actually. My dad is a businessman and my mother is a witch. But don't worry, I don't care about what type of families people come from. It doesn't interest me in the slightest."

"Do some care?"

Hedwig squirms uncomfortably. "Some do. Some people think that being from a wizard family makes them superior to halfbloods and muggleborns, but don't you worry, those people aren't worth socializing with."

"Which house are you in?"

Hedwig smiles and shows you the yellow logo on her cape. You can see a badger in the middle.

"I'm a Hufflepuff!" she smiles and giggles. "The best house according to me, but I'm supposedly a bit biased."

"Which do you think I'll get into?" you ask.

"I'm not sure. It's hard for me to say after only talking with you for thirty minutes … but I think you could be a Hufflepuff like me … or a Gryffindor."

"Why a Gryffindor?"

"I don't know, but you seem to have a steady heart."

"Which is the worst house?"

"There's no such thing as a 'worst house', Y/N. Every house has both good and bad people — even Hufflepuff. Although some houses may have a bigger percentage of 'bad' people." She sighs. "Slytherin. Although I do have some friends from Slytherin, some of the students in that house can be quite … scary. Their pride can be extremely big and they let that go out over other people. Don't worry about it though, not everyone is mean."

You nod and gulp.

Hedwig catches you up on some easy spells and knowledge on the rest of the way. You avoid every type of question that can lead her to know about your … situation.

You get sorted into a house in private, after Hedwig asks the principal about not pulling so much attention to you. You're embarrassed as if already. You're a Ravenclaw.

"The uniform is so pretty on you, Y/N!" she gasps as you come out of Dumbledore's office. "The blue looks really good on you."

"Thank you", you say and feel the material. "What do I do now?"

"We'll go back to the welcome ceremony and then you'll have to talk to your prefects. They'll fill you in with everything you need to know." She takes your hands in hers. "If you ever need any books, let me know and I'll lend you one, okay?"

"Thank you, Hedwig."

She doesn't let your hands go. You have to pull them back to be able to walk to the hall. You sit down with the other third years and glance over to Hedwig’s table.

"You know Hedwig?" a Ravenclaw boy with black eyes asks. 

"I met her on the train", you say.

"She's the most popular girl in our year", a girl says. "Everyone wants to be her friend."

"Really?" you wonder and glance at Hedwig who's sitting and smiling with her fellow Hufflepuffs. "She never came across as someone popular."

Maybe you're too used to how the people back home act.

When all the first years have gotten their houses and the food has been devoured, you follow your prefect through mighty corridors that have ghosts flowing past. You enter a rower with a long, spiral staircase. Your legs hurt after four steps.

"Y/N", the prefect says. "Before I show you to the dormitory, I need to talk to you a bit. Do you know any magic at all?"

"Hedwig taught me a bit on the train", you reply, concluding that only saying her first name should work if she's as popular as that boy had insisted.

"You'll have to take extra classes unless you want to start all over with the first graders."

You shake your head quickly. Rather hard work now than be known as 'the third grader among first years' for your entire school time.

You're led into the dormitory and granted your own bed. Your things are already in your drawers. After this long, eventful day, you fall asleep quickly, finally where you should be. When waking up, you’re first confused about where you are, sure that everything that happened yesterday was just a nightmare … but no, it was all real. 

"Now, don't be alarmed, my dear", Hedwig says when you meet her. "You will do just fine, okay?"

"I have never been around the castle", you mumble and take a bite out of your toast. 

"Your first lesson is Transfiguration. You'll have that class with the Slytherin students."

"Will we have any classes together?"

Hedwig smiles widely. "Sure, we will. But I think you better go now, you start in ten minutes." 

Hedwig shoots her book over the table.

"Here you go" she smiles. "Good luck now, I'll meet you for lunch, okay? You can sit with me."

"Okay, thank you", you say quietly and walk out of the great hall. Your heart is beating loudly in your chest and you start to wonder if the feeling of needing to throw up is real or only imaginary.

You find yourself lost in the large corridors before finally finding your way.

"I'm so sorry", you say quietly as you enter. "I lost my way."

"I will have mercy on you this time", the professor says. "But don't think that this will be a habit of yours, young lady. I expect you to be on time from now on."

"Of course, Professor McGonagall. I'll never be late again."

"Very well." She looks around. "Sit down beside Edmund, all the Ravenclaw seats are filled."

"Yes, professor."

You glance over the class and see an empty seat with a boy wearing the Slytherin uniform sitting beside it. He looks bored out of his mind. Carefully, you make your way over and sit down. Edmund glances at you.

"Who are you?" he mutters. "Are you a transfer student or something?"

"Something like that", you answer. 

The class starts and you immediately feel your head spin. You can't keep up.

"What's the matter, new girl?" Edmund chuckles while he leans his cheek in his hand. 

"I-I've never done anything like this!" you hiss to avoid anyone else hearing. 

Edmund’s face drops. He seems to … crawl together without having to move.

"You're a … a-", he starts.

"Edmund and Y/N, if you're going to continue talking, I'll use the both of you as guinea pigs — literally!" the professor says sternly.

Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment when the rest of the class turns to look at the both of You. Edmund rolls his eyes and grabs his book. When they turn around, you breathe out.

As break time starts, Edmund joins his friends.

"New girl", he says, catching your attention. "Next time, come earlier so I don't have to sit with you again."

"Of course", you mutter and leave.

You smile when you see Hedwig wait for you by the entrance to the big hall. She holds out her hand.

"I've missed you!" she smiles and hugs you tightly. "I was worrying for you all through Herbology!" She holds your hand while pulling you with her. "Tell me everything!"

You sit down by the Ravenclaw table to eat. Hedwig’s hazel eyes never leave yours. 

"I came late, so I sat down beside a Slytherin student."

Hedwig's smile thins out slightly. "Oh? Who? Do I know them?"

"His name is Edmund."

Hedwig chokes on her pumpkin soup and starts to cough. 

"What's wrong?" you ask quickly and pat her back.

"Did he say anything to you?" Hedwig asks worriedly. 

"He just told me to be quicker to class next time so he didn't have to sit with me. A bit rude, if you ask me."

"A bit rude? Y/N, that boy is a bully!"

You feel a shiver run down your back. 

"Edmund is one of those bad Slytherins I told you about", Hedwig says quietly. "He's a pureblood and … thinks he's better than anyone else. It's said that his parents helped … well, you know who, before he disappeared two years ago." 

Hedwig had talked about that man on the train. You gulp.

"Whatever you do, Y/N — and promise me this — don't go close to Edmund", Hedwig says and holds your hands in hers. "Please?"

You nod. Hedwig smiles and caresses your cheek.

"Let's go to the library and study on the lunch break", she says. "There's so much you need to learn!"

You study with Hedwig every day. But she doesn't seem to mind, she neglects her friends to be with you. 

"What a cute sight, isn't it?" you hear a voice say.

You're sitting in the courtyard, studying magical history. You look up, seeing Edmund and his two friends come over.

"One half and one mudblood, how sweet", he says with a wide smile. "They really do be letting anyone in these days."

“What is wrong with you?” Hedwig gasps. “Have you no shame?!”

“What? Did I say anything wrong? Aren’t you halfblood, Hedwig?” He turns to you. “New girl, aren’t you muggleborn? What did I say that is wrong, Hedwig?”

“You do not call Y/N that. You are a disgrace to the wizarding world, Edmund.”

“I find it funny how someone that isn’t fully pure is calling me a disgrace.”

Hedwig grabs your hand and helps you up on your feet. 

“Come, Y/N”, she says. “Let’s leave. We can’t study here.”

You nod. While Hedwig drags you away from the courtyard, you glance over your shoulders, seeing Edmund’s icy eyes follow you. 

“I can’t believe that he called you that”, Hedwig says quietly and pulls you with her. “I’m furious.”

“What did that mean?” you ask carefully. “Why did that matter so much?”

“Mudblood, Y/N, is one of the foulest things anyone can ever call a person. It basically means that your blood is disgusting for not being born into a wizard family. He … he called you something less than human. It’s disgusting.” Hedwig hugs you tightly and hides her face into your shoulder. “You don’t deserve that. You’re such a sweet soul, I’m so sorry.”

“Hedwig, it’s okay”, you promise with a smile. “I didn’t take any offense — I barely knew what it meant.”

“I get sad for you. You don’t deserve that.” She thinks for a moment and then lights up. "Would you like to have a sleepover?"

"How would that work out?" 

"Sneak into Hufflepuff, I'll give you the password. I'll take all the blame if we get caught. Please, Y/N? It'll be so much fun."

"The girls you share a dormitory with will be tell on us-"

"No, they won't! Trust me. The girls like me, they wouldn't tattletail."

It must be beneficial to be popular. You frown. Aren't you quite famous now too? After being glued to Hedwig’s hip for over a month must have caused rumors. You have been so busy with your extra classes and studying that you haven't been able to catch up with it all. You barely know what your fellow Ravenclaws are named.

"Please, Y/N?" Hedwig pleads. "It will be so much fun. I will get us some snacks and we can read together and tell stories."

"Where should I sleep?"

"In my bed, of course! We're friends, it's not weird. What do you say?"

"Alright, if you promise that we won't get in trouble."

"No one will tell, I promise!" She takes your hand. "Let's go to the library and study now."

You do sneak into the Hufflepuff common room that evening together with Hedwig. You can't help but feel terribly wrong and every motion you make feels watched. At any time someone will pop out and you'll be caught. Hedwig pulls you through the common room and you can't help but gawk. Why weren't you placed in Hufflepuff?

Wearing your pajamas, you climb down into Hedwig’s bed. She smiles, cuddling up beside you. Her arm hugs yours, her head leaning onto your shoulder. The other girls in the dormitory glances at you, but none of them say anything to you. 

“Y/N, what do you want to do?” she asks. “Would you like to read anything? Or just sleep? Or anything else?”

“I think I’d just like to sleep”, you say quickly. “My nerves are still telling me that this is a bad idea.”

You don’t admit it out loud, but you want it to be over as quickly as possible before someone finds you out. Hedwig nods and turns off the lights. You lay down in the light of the moon and feel how Hedwig crawls down beside you. She pets your hair in a loving manner, feeling it gently.

“You have such pretty hair”, she whispers, making sure no one else hears. “I always stare at it. Have you caught me looking?”

“Actually, no”, you smile. “I know you look at me a lot, but I didn’t know you looked at my hair specifically.”

“I’m not only looking at your hair, silly. I think you’re pretty.”

“I think you’re pretty too, Hedwig.”

“Really? Do you really think so?”

You nod. She seems to burst with happiness.

“But you already know that”, you say. “Everyone loves you. Everyone tells you that.”

“Yes, but there’s a difference when someone you don’t care about says it and when someone you hold dear tells you.”

You smile. Hedwig’s hazel eyes glisten in the moonlight as she smiles widely and curls up in your arms, like a cat. She holds you tightly, hiding her own face into your neck. You’re not sure how, but you do fall asleep easily that night — snug and secure in her warm embrace.

The next morning, Hedwig doesn't want to let you go. She begs you to skip breakfast and lay in bed, buy you insist on eating.

“Before we go, could you please try my uniform?” Hedwig pleads and holds up the yellow and black uniform. “I want to see how you’d look like if you were a Hufflepuff. Please, Y/N? Just for fun?”

“We’ll be late for breakfast”, you mumble. 

“Nonsense.”

She has already start to tug at your pajamas. You give in and put on the Hufflepuff uniform. Hedwig watches you with excited eyes. 

“Oh, why weren't you placed in Hufflepuff?” she sighs. “Why weren’t you placed with me?”

“I don’t know, Hedwig.”

“It’s so unfair.” She pouts. “We belong together. We’re destined to be side by side. Why did the sorting hat have to put us in two different houses?”

“The sorting hat has its reasons. Now, give me back my own uniform so that I can go to breakfast.”

“Yeah, yeah …”

You change into your own uniform before sneaking out to the corridor with no one in sight. A small smile plays on your lips. You managed to to do it!

Together, you walk to the great hall but before you reach it, Professor Snape has caught the both of you. 

“You two better follow with me”, he says coldly. “You’re both in deep trouble.”

Shit. He knows. 

Hedwig takes your hand, squeezing it. You only have time to look at her terrified eyes before you’re pulled into Snape’s office. He’s not alone. It seems like the entire faculty staff is there. Hedwig’s squeeze becomes tighter. 

“Y/N, you went into the Hufflepuff house this night”, Dumbledore says, not sparing any sweet talk. “That is strictly forbidden.”

“I made her do it”, Hedwig says firmly. “Y/N hesitated, I told her into it, I convinced her. Please don't punish her, I was the one giving out the password from the beginning."

"These are serious things, miss."

"I know. I just … I really want to be with Y/N." She takes your hand. "More than anything. I’m so sorry for causing all of this, professor. I will never do it again. Punish me only, please.”

“Snape, this is a clear sign of innocent love”, Dumbledore tells the other man. 

You flinch. Love?

“I don’t care”, Snape mutters. “They broke the rules.”

“I don’t see any malice in their intentions. They only wanted to be with each other. I will not punish them — this time — but if they do this again, I will give them a week’s long detention in different classes. I can’t punish miss Hedwig all too much, after all, she is Y/N’s tutor. But if you break the rules again, Hedwig, we will find someone else to tutor her, is that clear?”

“Yes, professor”, Hedwig replies. “Thank you for not punishing us. We will make sure to behave.”

“You can go.”

Hedwig tugs on your hand before you leave. Your head is spinning with confusion. Who snitched you out? Did one of the girls do that? They could risk house points and to get in conflict with Hedwig … no they wouldn’t risk any of that. Then who?

“Breaking rules is so not Hufflepuff behavior”, a voice snickers. 

You turn to the side, seeing Edmund lean against the wall. 

“You spied on us?” you ask. 

“Spy?” Edmund wonders and stands up. “I couldn’t care less about the two of you, don’t flatter yourselves. You two are like annoying, loud flies, I can’t ignore you because you’re always in my face.”

“Don’t listen to him”, Hedwig says and pulls on your arm. “Let’s go get some breakfast, Y/N.”

“Careful, Hedwig”, Edmund smirks. “You heard what they said: break one more rule and you lose tutor privileges over Y/N.”

You roll your eyes as the two of you walk alongside each other. Edmund’s words don’t feel good in your stomach and you have an eerie suspicion that he’s going to do something. 

You sit out in the grass, reading. While Hedwig is having her defense against dark arts-class you have a free period. Deciding to take your alone time to your benefit, you decide to read up on some things beforehand.

"Where's your little halfblood?" you hear that voice ask.

You look up from your book, seeing Edmund and his two minions grin at you.

"In class", you answer shortly and start to change pages, hoping he gets the hint that you're busy and leaves you alone. 

Edmund snatches the book from you. You cut your finger on the paper. With a hiss, you stand up. Edmund laughs as he looks in the book.

"I learned this last year", he chuckles. "You really are a transfer student. Cute."

"Give it to me", you sigh. "I'm not in the mood, I have to learn that."

"You won't learn from the book. We barely used it for this topic."

"Great. I'm doomed."

"I could offer you some tutoring. I got full marks after all."

You frown. "Why would you do that?"

"What can I say? I'm a generous spirit. Besides, I'm bored. Teaching a little mudblood magic could entertain me for a week or two."

"Don't you have class?"

"Not until twelve thirty." Edmund points at the castle wall with the book. "Sit down, mudblood, let's learn."

That 'nickname' makes your stomach turn. After knowing the full definition, you'd rather have Edmund call you something along the lines of a whore — that way you could actually have some clever comebacks. Mudblood, on the other hand, is nothing you can answer to. You sit down slowly. Edmund sits down on your left side and his two minions on your right side. Edmund opens the book and puts his finger to a paragraph.

"See this?" he asks. "This is something you have to learn in case you want to pass. The checklist doesn't contain this, but it will come anyway. So learn it."

You nod. 

"Take up your wand", he says. "You have to learn this spell."

You pick up your wand from your pocket. Edmund orders one of his friends to stand in front of you as he holds his hand over yours, showing you how you're supposed to move. His hand is cold. The spell causes his friend's wand to be sent flying. You lay the word Expelliarmus onto your mind.

"This is actually great for dueling", he says. "We had some dueling classes last year, but I guess we'll have this year too. In that case, you'll have to have mastered these spells or you can kiss your ass goodbye."

"You'll end up in the hospital wing", one of Edmund’s friends grins.

"H-Hospital wing?" you say and damn yourself for stuttering. 

The three of them chuckles.

"Yes, little girl, hospital wing", Edmund smirks darkly. "Ending up there is never fun. People often scream in pain there. If you end up there you'll never be the same again."

Your wide eyes make Edmund laugh. He presses the book in your arms and stands up.

"Let's make a deal", Edmund says. "Do you know what quidditch is?"

"Hedwig told me on the train", you reply.

"I play. If Slytherin wins the next match, you're going to be my little maid for a full week. You'll do everything I tell you to. And if those ridiculous Gryffindors win, you're free from polishing my shoes."

"I don't get anything either way."

"Don't be greedy, transfer student."

He takes your hand and shakes it before you have time to register. 

"Now you can't back out", he smiles proudly.

"Did you enchant-?"

"Yes."

You rip your hand back, snatch your book and start to walk away. You meet up with Hedwig who's walking out of the classroom.

"What's wrong?" she asks quickly, rubbing your shoulder. "You look disturbed."

"Edmund and his friends cornered me outside. He forced me to make a deal with him."

Hedwig goes white. "What type of deal?"

"He plays quidditch and if he wins the next match, I have to be his maid for a week."

"Oh, my God, I hate him." She cups your cheeks. "We'll come up with a way to stop him or break the deal. Worst case scenario, we'll have to ruin for the entire Slytherin team and then we'll be dead, but if we have to then …"

You nod.

"Let's get you something to eat", Hedwig smiles and takes your hand.

She stays with you until your class starts. The second the classroom door closes, her smile drops. She makes her way over to the Slytherin entrance and waits for one to come out.

"What are you doing here?" the Slytherin girl asks.

"I need to speak to Edmund, do you know where he is?" Hedwig asks shortly.

"I'd suppose the quidditch court. He came in laughing and said that he had to train hard this time."

"That son of a- … thank you, for your help."

"No problem."

The Slytherin girl passes her and Hedwig scoffs. The audacity of Edmund …

She makes her way over to the quidditch court, finding him training all alone. He doesn't notice her at first, but when he does  a smirk plays on his lips. He flies down to the ground and steps off his broom, holding it close to his body.

"Well, well", he says. "I start to believe that you're obsessed with me the way you're always hanging around. By the way, did you know that there's a rumor going around about you and Y/N? You're not slick, you know. Everyone knows that you're head over heels for her."

"Cut the talk, Edmund. Break the deal with Y/N. She has enough on her plate. I'm not going to let you hurt her."

"You came here to threaten me? Careful now, Hedwig, think about what you're doing." 

"I'm not going to let you take her from me."

Edmund takes a step closer. His icy cold blue eyes seem to darken without having to change their light color. "Listen closely, you filthy, little halfblood", he hisses. "If you try to interfere — if you even try as much as to stick your pointy little nose into my business — I'll put you into the hospital wing until I'm done with Y/N. Is that clear?"

Hedwig can't answer. Edmund walks past her, intentionally hitting her shoulder with his. 

The day for the match arrives. 

"I think that I'm going to throw up", you mutter, taking a hold of the wood railing in front of you.

The two teams are flying above you, tension growing.

"I'm sure he won't win", Hedwig says, but she sounds hesitant. 

“Slytherin has the lead!"

"Let's hope that the Gryffindor seeker gets the snitch."

"Did you manage to destroy for Edmund?"

Hedwig shakes her head carefully. You groan and rest your forehead down on the wooden railing. Another score has been made and you don't want to look. Finally, someone has caught the snitch. Slytherin wins. You look up in horror, eyes darting to Edmund. He's looking right at you with a smirk. You're dead.

Already the next morning, Edmund waits for you outside the Ravenclaw entrance. He dumps his heavy books in your hands.

"We're having a class together", he says. "And you are going to carry my books."

You groan and take a better grip on his — and your — books, unsure how you're going to carry them all to the other side of the school.

"Where's your friends?" you ask.

"They're still at breakfast", Edmund replies as you start to walk. "I don't need them now, not when you're carrying my things. Speaking of friends, I don't want you to be with that annoying Hufflepuff during the entire week."

"I'm not going to be your dog."

"Oh, yes, you are — and you're going to bark if I tell you to."

"What am I going to do when you're in class and I'm not, then? Be all alone?"

"Yes, because if I find out that you've been talking to her, I'm going to make you wish you never transferred here, got that?"

You nod. Edmund doesn't say anything more until you reach the classroom. He catches up with his friends who laugh loudly when they see you. Oh, how you wish that you knew any transfiguration spell that could turn you into a mouse.

"Look, she's embarrassed!" one of his friends mock.

Others start to turn to look at you with chuckles. Their stares burn right through you. You want to hide your face in the pile of books in your hands. 

"Sit with me", Edmund says and grabs your tie to pull you with him. "You're going to take notes for me."

You sit down in the middle of the classroom. Edmund pushes you to the chair by the wall while he takes the aisle seat, trapping you. You take notes for him while simultaneously trying to ignore that he exists. Surprisingly, you're great at multitasking. 

You give him the notes as soon as the class is dismissed. Edmund reads it with a smirk on his face.

"Good job, little girl", he says. "I can actually read them." He folds it and puts it in his pocket. "Now, let's go get some air."

Together with his two friends, you walk out to the courtyard. You can see Hedwig with some of her friends walking from the Herbology classroom. She hugs books close to her body, one being the Herbology book, the other a book about potions. You meet her eyes. She suddenly looks incredibly sad, but tries to give you a small, reassuring smile. You're close to jumping out of your skin when you feel a hand on your shoulder. Turning, you see that Edmund has noticed Hedwig as well. He squeezes your shoulder while keeping eye contact with the girl. Hedwig turns her eyes away and speeds her steps.

Not seeing Hedwig feels like a punishment in itself. Edmund and his friends aren't pleasant, at all — or at least not his friends, Edmund’s not been as bad as you thought. He's toned down on the vulgar nicknames and started small talking when you're walking.

"Stop fucking yawning", Edmund mutters and hits you in the back of your head.

"Why are we up before the sun?" you whine and rub your eyes.

"You're going to watch my quidditch practice."

He drags you out into the cold, autumn air, over to the high wooden pillars of the quidditch court. You're sat down in the Slytherin section and told to sit there until he's done. Edmund disappears to the changing room and comes out in his quidditch uniform. You sit still, watching. You can't quite understand the rules, even if you've already watched a match. You're unsure of what Edmund’s position is or what the flying balls are used for. Every minute grows colder. When the sun has risen, you're as cold as ice. You can no longer feel your fingers or toes.

Edmund flies over to you, now holding his Slytherin scarf and gloves in his hand.

"You're so stupid, why didn't you bring your own scarf?" he mutters while tying his around your cold neck. 

"I barely knew who I was when I walked out of the common room", you mumble. "I was so tired. And now I'm cold and hungry."

"You do nothing but complain, do you? Breakfast is in an hour. Think you can hold out until then?"

You nod tiredly. 

"Good girl" he says and puts the gloves on your cold hands. "Keep your hands in the gloves and put them in your pockets. You're like a child, unbelievable."

Ironic, coming from a brat like Edmund. You take a deep breath and sink into the seat. When Edmund’s done, he changes into his normal uniform and comes to meet you. You start to take off the scarf, but his hands stop you.

"Leave it on", he says shortly. "Come now."

The second you enter the castle, you feel warmer. You're about to remove the scarf for a second time.

"God, woman, just keep it on, will you?" Edmund mutters and ties it to the point where you choke. 

"We're inside now, I don't need it anymore."

"Oh, trust me, you do."

"Why?"

Edmund smirks. "To give your girlfriend a sweet little memory."

"We're not together though."

Edmund furrows his brows and nods, clearly thinking hard.

"Very well", he says. "Winners keeper, I say."

"What?" 

"Nothing."

His icy blue eyes sparkle in a new, competitive way, like he's now gotten a new challenge. His hands tie a double knot in the scarf before sending you off to the Ravenclaw table. The others give you weird glances. By now, it's not a secret that you're Edmund’s pet. Although it's only two days left of your week, you're sure that your reputation as his dog will stay with you throughout your entire schooling. 

You look around, noticing Hedwig sitting by the Hufflepuff table. She looks at you with something you can't describe in her eyes, something dark. She holds something in her hand. You can just make out the outline of a small, pink bottle. She gives you a small, sad smile. All you want is to go over and hug her, but you remember Edmund’s warning. You have a class together after breakfast however, he can’t forbid you from going to it. 

Your plate is already set out with a glass full of pumpkin juice. Devouring it would be an understatement — especially after the morning you’ve had. You're happy no one is taking a picture.

The day continues normally after Edmund’s rude awakening. You can meet up with Hedwig in Herbology class, and oh, how happy you're to see her. You hug her tightly, earning a mirroring squeeze back. She buries her head into your hair. 

"I've missed you so much", she coos, hugging you tightly. “So, so much.”

You breathe her in, mind getting fogged up with her scent. Oh, how you want nothing more than to ditch Edmund and be with her. Hedwig doesn't seem to mind how you cling onto her and you’re surprised yourself with how much you want to hold onto her. She strokes your hair with a smile. Being back with Hedwig — despite Edmund's warnings — feels like absolute paradise. The few days spent apart has made you see her in a completely new light. You’ve forgotten how pretty she is. 

"I can't watch that anymore", she sighs and starts to remove the Slytherin scarf from your neck. "Where is your scarf, dearest?"

"In my dormitory", you answer sheepishly. 

Hedwig gives you a motherly stern gaze before taking off her Hufflepuff scarf and tying it around your neck. It smells just like her.

"That's better", Hedwig smiles. "Don't you think so?"

You nod. Much, much better. The teacher interrupts your talk with demands of the two of you working. You don't mind, because you work with Hedwig who knows exactly what to do. 

"Would you like to read on the break?" Hedwig asks you.

You nod, not even thinking about Edmund’s threats. You follow her out to the yard, sitting on one of the brick walls with her. You lay down with her head in her lap while she reads aloud for you. You can't focus on the words, only how they're formed through Hedwig's pink lips. You want to feel them on yours. Before you have time to think, you reach up to kiss her. Her lips melt into yours instantly.Hedwig lets go of her book and cups her cheeks to kiss back. Fuck Edmund, you think. You pull Hedwig closer, wanting to be filled with her and her only. Everything about her is soft, even her kisses. They're filled with love and taste like strawberry.

"What the fuck are you doing?" the voice you've just damned says angrily. "I warned you, mudblood, didn't I?"

He rips you from Hedwig, up on your feet. Edmund glances from Hedwig to you, and back. He halts and grabs a hold of your face, opening your eyes with his thumbs. 

"You sneaky bitch!" he gasps. "You've given her a love potion!"

"I have not", Hedwig replies defensively. 

"Really? Then why are her pupils heart shaped?"

Hedwig doesn't answer. Edmund grabs a hold of your arms.

"If you excuse me, I'm going to go shove my fingers down her throat to get it out of her", he says coldly.

"You are not!" Hedwig screeches and rips you back.

"Then you'll get it out of her. I don’t care how, but Y/N is going to puke that love potion out before the break is over. Y/N is still mine, remember? I have two more days to do whatever I want with her."

Hedwig groans. Edmund, you, Hedwig and Edmund’s two friends make your way to the girls bathroom. The boys wait outside while Hedwig takes you into the bathroom stalls. She helps you throw up the love potion, holding your hair in her hands. 

“And there goes my well earned breakfast …”, you sigh groggily and get up from your knees. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N”, Hedwig whispers guiltily with tears in her eyes. “I didn’t want to trick you or anything, please don’t believe that. I-I just … I was scared that Edmund had manipulated you. I had to make sure that you knew that … he wasn’t good.”

You sigh and nod heavily. “I understand, but I had wished that you hadn’t given to me without my knowledge.”

“I’m really, really sorry. Can you please forgive me?”

The tears fall down her cheeks. You can’t be mad at her, not after every nice thing she’s done to you. You can see how bad she feels. You’re sure that she won’t do it again. 

“Of course”, you say. “I’m just grateful that you didn’t make a potion that did something bad. It wasn’t the potion itself that was bad, it was the way you did it.”

“I understand. I’ll never do it again, I promise! I will never, ever do anything like that again!” She takes your hands and sniffles. “I don’t want to lose you as a friend. I-I do like you more than a friend … but I will not let that come between our friendship. Please don’t leave me. I can lose every single friend I have … but not you. Oh, God, not you.”

You can hear Edmund bang on the door to the girls bathroom impatiently and you sigh.

“I can’t spend time with you right now”, you say. “Edmund’s right — unfortunately — I have two more days in his captivity. If not, he’s promised to ruin my life. I don’t want to take that risk, I’ve had enough problems.” You squeeze her hands. “It’s just two more days.”

Hedwig sniffles and nods. “Okay.”

You give her a small smile before going back to Edmund. He tells his friends to take you further down in the corridor while he talks with Hedwig. She wipes her tears and glares at him. 

“Silly girl”, Edmund scoffs. “You’re not that bright, are you?”

“I don’t know what you want Y/N, but at least I didn’t do anything to cause her harm, like you do”, Hedwig answers sharply. “I did something that would benefit her.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Y/N belongs to me now and if you don’t want to get hurt, Hedwig, stay out of my way, got it? I’m warning you. If I were you, I’d listen.”

Hedwig takes a step closer. “I’m not going to let anybody take her from me.”

Edmund’s eyebrow twitches. “Alright then. Suit yourself.”

With that said, he walks towards his friends and you, leaving Hedwig behind. He rips of the Hufflepuff scarf. 

“Get that ugly thing off of your neck”, he mutters and drags you with him. “Can’t even leave you alone for five minutes! Can’t fucking believe that little filth. If Hedwig gets to play dirty, then I do too.” He stops to wipe of your lips. “If you ever kiss her again, I’ll kill her.”

You try push his arm off of you, but instead, it tightens and he gives you a stern look. 

“I should just do it …”, he mutters. 

“Do what?”

He gives your lips a quick peck. You stand as frozen, looking up at him in shock. Edmund rests his hand on your cheek. 

“Never kiss her again.”

[nofomogirl]

We need to talk about body snatching

I'm not a massive fan of the 1827 minisode - if you're curious why it bothers me, I've explained it in my post about two GO canons - but there's no denying it does an amazing job at exploring the complexity of morality and moral choices. It starts with a very black-and-white two-dimensional image and gradually adds shading and perspective, making it harder and harder to judge as we go along.

I think it's worth digging into (pun not intended but I'll take it).

Layer 1: body snatching bad

We learn someone did something

It's those first few seconds where we see a person robbing a grave, and since we know that robbing graves is a crime and generally not a good thing to do, we can quickly form a tentative conclusion that this is wrong.

Okay, in this exact instance, we immediately get enough context clues to see that this kind of judgment would be oversimplistic and superficial. Only Aziraphale, who for some reason acts as if it was his first day on Earth after a thorough memory wipe, is ready to condemn Elspeth based on just that.

Nevertheless, this is the first layer - the deed itself with no context.

Layer 2: body snatching acceptable

We learn about the person who did the thing

That's the whole journey with the first dug-up body where we get to know Elspeth and become privy to her circumstances - she's desperately poor, she has another person depending on her, she robs graves to survive. Aziraphale's suggestions that she might earn her living by selling books, weaving or farming just serve to prove how inaccessible more honest and dignified professions are to her. In turn, her comment about how she's not hurting anybody who isn't already dead hints that from the realistically available options, Elspeth could have chosen something much worse.

Technically this layer is a significant step up from layer 1 but it still isn't really challenging. Things are spelt out really loud for us, and most importantly everything we learn about Elspeth is just attenuating circumstances. To top it off both she and Wee Morag are immediately endearing. The takeaway is that sometimes things that in theory are bad can be excused which is important but the verdict still comes without any second thoughts.

Layer 3: body snatching complicated

We learn the larger context around the thing

This mostly happens when Aziraphale and Crowley discuss body snatching with Mr Dalrymple. We learn that the stolen corpses are used for a medical study that can advance human knowledge and make it possible to save living people and that surgeons have no legal means to obtain enough of them for their research - hence their need to buy them from body snatchers.

At first glance it's just more of what we got in layer 2 - more agruments in favour of body snatching that aren't all that nuanced and don't really give us any pause - just from a larger perspective, beyond Elspeth's individual experience. But if you glance more than once you'll notice this is when things stop being straightforward and easy to judge.

The moment we enter a proper grey area is when Aziraphale asks why Mr Dalrymple doesn't acquire the bodies himself. This is a very valid question - while we might easily agree that studying the human body to further medical knowledge is a good thing, and with just the slightest hesitation admit that it's acceptable to resort to using stolen bodies if that is the only way the research may continue, it's not as easy to excuse taking advantage of the poor and the desperate to do the actual stealing that we know is very dangerous.

The moment we know without a doubt we are in a proper grey area is when Mr Dalrymple laughs at Aziraphale's concern.

Objectively, the surgeon is right that it's more effective if he doesn't risk his own life in the graveyard and uses his time on actual research, teaching students and saving lives. But it's also clear he doesn't exactly see people like Elspeth as actual human beings and feels he has every right to use them. On the one hand, he is paying, on the other, he happily benefits from the cruel class system and is not even one bit remorseful about it. On the one hand, he takes risks too, on the other he has a chance of rewards Elspeth will not benefit from. It's not the poorest whose lives will get bettered by the progress of medicine, even though they're the ones who pay with their lives for that progress. And if Mr Dalrymple gets lucky and is knighted for his work (we know he wasn't in the end but it was a possibility), the poor still won't be pardoned for stealing for him. Nevertheless, he has no issue with that.

As I said, things get nuanced.

Layer 4: it's different when it's someone you know

The thing actually happens in your life

I think you'll all agree that the turning point of the minisode is when Elspeth decides to sell Wee Morag's still warm body. This is what finally leaves us speechless.

That's because up until now we've been approaching the issue intellectually. It's not that we didn't care about the characters, but we were allowed to keep a safe distance. The whole thing was like a problem to be solved - "Is body snatching right or wrong? Discuss in 500-1000 words" - and everything we've learned so far was data for this assignment. I believe that one of the reasons why this detachment came naturally was that there was a very thick line between people involved in body snatching and the bodies that were being snatched. The former were, well, people, obviously. The latter were inanimate objects.

It isn't until Wee Morag is to be sold that we are forced to see a person in a dead body. This is also when real emotions enter the equation.

This shift forces us to question our judgment for the first time. It was easy to justify Elspeth when she was selling a nameless corpse. But the fact that she decided to sell her closest companion - and most likely lover - shocks us. Something inside us strongly objects to how quickly she makes the decision.

And then there's the transaction, and it is also different when it's someone we know. The fact that we knew Wee Morag fully exposes Mr Dalrymple for the heartless jerk that he is. The way he treats Elspeth is the absolute worst and if you haven't realized he was a hypocrite earlier, you should be disillusioned by now.

But at least Elspeth is not a hypocrite, right? It may seem cold that she sold Wee Morag but it just proves she simply believed it's all right to sell a dead body, doesn't it?

Well, about that...

Layer 5: it's different when it's you

You are forced to face the thing happening to you

This layer is reached when Elspeth plans her suicide and asks Aziraphale and Crowley to bury her "somewhere where no ghouls will ever dig her back up again".

It turns out Elspeth McKinnon really was a filthy liar.

Not long ago she was insisting that body snatching doesn't hurt anyone who isn't already dead, and asking why she should let Wee Morag rot in the ground when she starves. But she wants to make sure it doesn't happen to her own body. The idea that someone might dig her up terrifies her and she calls people who do it ghouls. So why was digging up other people okay again? Why should she rot in the ground while other people suffer? There were other people living in the street where she and Wee Morag hid. Why not ask Aziraphale to give the money to them? Or just anybody in need? Why not ask to sell her body as well and use the earnings the same way?

Also, if you look at it from a certain perspective, Elspeth betrayed Wee Morag in the worst possible way. Wee Morag believed that if someone's body gets cut, that person's soul cannot enter Heaven. Yet Elspeth sold her to Mr Dalrymple, claiming that Wee Morag would have wanted her to have the means to survive. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Wee Morag would have made that sacrifice. But then Elspeth decided to kill herself and use the money she got for Wee Morag's body for her own funeral.

But does it make Elspeth wicked? Certainly not. She's simply torn by grief. I seriously doubt she's been planning to commit suicide when she was taking Wee Morag to Mr Dalrymple. She might have genuinely tried to carry on but the reality of what happened caught up to her. Mr Dalrymple's cruel words certainly didn't help her cope with a personal tragedy. I even suspect one of the reasons she sold her friend was that she had no idea what else to do with a dead body.

Does this excuse her actions? Kind of, but not really.

Elspeth was a tragic character, not an innocent lamb with a heart of gold.

The point is - can any of us really judge her?

Which, coincidentally, is a question that the original Good Omens book toyed with quite a lot.

If you've reached this far, thank you for reading!

[what-eats-owls]

It matters how you do it

I finished Dragon Age: The Veilguard and had some big feelings about it. Spoilers for basically everything under the cut, and frankly, it won't make sense unless you've finished the game anyway.

First of all: I had a blast with this game. I didn't find Act 1 slow, I did find Act 2 a bit of a whack-a-mole, and then Act 3 kicks you in the kidney (complementary) while insisting it's for your own good.

I've seen some recurring complaints: that it lacks depth/edge/darkness, that it abandons previous lore, that the previous choices don't matter. I don't entirely disagree. To me, it felt like a massive Dragon Age 4 game that pivoted to a different, tighter game after complaints about bloat in Inquisition. The key is that when editing down, there's such a thing as trying to trim the fat and taking a chunk of the roast with it.

I enjoy the concept of Lucanis's character, and the voice actor sold the hell out of him, but the storyline felt like being taken to a museum and allowed to see one (1) beautiful unfinished sculpture. Why did Spite, specifically, work? We know the spirit of Justice became Vengeance by abomination, we knew Solas was Wisdom before he became Pride, so what was Spite before, and why wasn't that tied to Lucanis's own personal arc? (Doubly so if you romance him!)

Similarly, Harding was a delight, and her greenhouse was such a lovely little haven. I would have loved to see more explanation of the connection between plants and the titans, and how Harding's own personal struggles with rage connected to that of the titans. She has every reason to be angry and scared, and the game tells us she pushed that away—but we don't actually see her toxic positivity manifest to that degree, until she abruptly has an angry clone.

On the flip side, I loved the other five character quests, and I felt they had solid, poignant arcs that delivered. I also adored their interactions with the codex—if anything, I wanted to see more of that type of interaction on the screen. You have to fill in a lot of the character work for Rook yourself; Rook has all these interesting potential backgrounds, but I think starting the game playing through those, a la Origins, would have gone miles towards establishing more personal stakes up front and made for a stronger start.

So that's all my nitpicking. But let's talk about the bigger theme: It matters how you do it.

In the first Fade conversation with Solas, he gets so mad when Rook refuses to let him DARVO them about the consequences of his botched ritual. This makes way more sense when you understand he's literally imprisoned by his own regrets, and he needs Rook to have that same kind of regret in order to take his place. His entire arc is about rationalizing binary choices and shitty actions that hurt others in the name of a hypothetical greater good that he wants.

Solas can't engineer every binary choice Rook's forced into, but he uses Varric to maximize Rook's regret. He is trying to quite literally mold Rook into him, and the game is great at presenting this both as a coldblooded manipulation and a broken plea for validation—if you let it. You don't have to give Solas a moment of consideration; you don't have to take time to view his memories, or kill his demons, or listen to those scraps of Mythal still holding onto the good in him. You don't have to do any of it.

But you can. And in the end, it matters.

It matters because for every companion, you can encourage them to either be more nurturing/compassionate or destructive/closed off versions of themselves, and that is frequently tied to continuing or breaking from a cycle. (The exception is either Neve or, presumably, Lucanis, who are forced into the Hardened version depending on which city you save.) These aren't presented as morally opposing choices, just who you want them to be. You can see how the Grey Wardens fucked up bad with griffons and decide they have a better place. You can help Emmrich face his fear by finding deeper meaning in life instead of indefinitely postponing death. You can help them do things differently.

So when you get to the final choice in the game, you may have two options: physically force Solas into saving the Veil, or trick him into it. The kind of binary choice Solas has molded you into making by pelting you with cruelty and manipulation.

Or, if you've taken the time, you can get him to understand he's wrong. You bring out the people who saw the best in him and speak to what he's had to endure, even as you're showing him there's another way. You reach him not as Pride, but as Wisdom. And he goes willingly.

Ultimately, I think DA2 and Inquisition grappled with big questions of oppression and violence, faith and authority. It makes sense for those games to delve into harder, uglier subject matter, and ask you to make binary calls.

But my read of Veilguard is that, at its core, it's about how those decisions are meant to trap you in regret at best, and numb you to rationalizing cruelty at worst. It's why the companion who loses their home city becomes colder, more isolated, in response—more like Solas.

That's why it offers you a third way at the very end, but only if you've worked for it. A better way is possible, yet it has to be more than words. You have to understand where the pain comes from, what maintains and is being maintained by the current cycle. Then, and only then, can you break it.

I can't wait to play it again.

P.S. Utterly obsessed with the Trevisan fish merchant.

[mer-acle]

Do you have any athena hcs?

Uhhh

How much time do you have lol

I'll try to list the short ones so this post doesn't get too long. Due to writing about her a lot I have a lot of lore lmao

1. Athena is the eldest child (Hephaestus born shortly after her). Nobody who's spoken to her once would expect anything else honestly

2. At the time of the Odyssey she's about 4000 years old (No reason or proof I just decided) Her first 200 years give or take were spent with Triton (read: Pallas)

3. She only got assigned with Warfare as her domain after officially joining Olympus

4. Her emotional distance with her siblings is partly due to Pallas trauma, and partly due to Zeus liking to "keep her to himself" (read: isolated as the favorite). She gets along best with Hermes and Hephaestus (yes, I refuse to accept Erechtonius happened) bc the former is just as chaotic as herself and the latter shares her creativity and both don't ask for a big commitment from her (again. No Erechtonius and no arranged marriages in my plotline let me have this)

5. Dislikes being touched. Her siblings learn to accept it, Zeus does not. She doesn't try to enforce it with him. (Yes in every iteration of her that I will ever write, there will be a touch-starved to hug plotline sue me. I need therapy)

6. Never braids her hair. She used to have braids when with Pallas, but since then she has never worn her hair this way again. She also wears it quite a bit shorter than she used to back then.

7. Her grey eyes are inherited from Métis. They also glow in the dark. She has perfect night vision.

8. Perfect memory. Also she has bird's eye view versions of even her own memories (hc that one of her domains is history so that's why) It's how she found out that Zeus interfered with Pallas's death.

9. Used to have an Oceanic themed armor before joining Olympus (Métis made it for her) She allows Hephaestus to make her a new one, shedding the Ocean symbols in an effort to please Zeus.

10. Connected to her status as a virgin goddess but in contrast to Artemis, Athena dresses pretty covered up, doesn't undress even for bathing (in ancient Greece sometimes you'd keep your chiton on as a sort of bathing suit almost, but being naked was more common) (also this is not 'purity' stuff btw I just get that vibe from her, Artemis, literally go off queen you're doing great)

11. Classic but good, cocks her head like an owl like all the time. Also says "hmm" a lot (intonation may vary)

12. (Remember, my hc, you can do whatever you like) I think all the virgin goddesses are acespec/arospec in some capacity, but Athena is the cut and dry aro/ace/repulsed one. Like... It's a big fat no from her (I'm projecting hard btw)

Anyway twelve seems like a good number I hope you like them :) I picked those that aren't specific to Epic and can be applied to myth!Athena too

[jcollinswrites]

How the fudge are you writting so fast??? I sit down to write and end up with nothing or reworking plot instead of writing 😭Have any tips you want to share? Perhaps the ingredients to the dark ritual you perform to get the motivation and remain focused 👀👀👀

So, first of all, you'll need half a newborn, shaken, not stirred…

lol jk (don't shake babies)

Believe it or not I'm the same as you, so here are some stuff that helped me tremendously, especially with my squirrel ADHD brain:

NUMBER ONE that I needed 20 years to learn, is that… forget editing, man. You can't edit if there is nothing to edit, so first you have to sit ya ass down and just fuckin' do it. It doesn't matter if it's shit at first. It's called work in progress for a reason. Who cares if it's shit? You can edit it LATER when the whole thing is already done. What you're reading in my game is literally my first draft. Lots of scenes might change later. In fact, I'm already changing scenes in the background, I'm just not always telling you. It doesn't matter. If anyone gives you shit for it, tell them to kindly fuck right off.

Have a plan for the book (written down. Not just in your head). Don't even start writing until you have a plan for the entire book. It doesn't have to be detailed. Mine is just bulletpoints, but you should know which chapter will contain what, including plot points, character development, relationship progress etc, otherwise you'll get lost, especially in a big IF. And then as you get closer to the next chapter, you can work out more details in the plan to help the actual writing.

If you don't feel like writing a scene, then don't write it. Leave a placeholder word there (I use 'mandarin' because that word likely won't come up anywhere else in the text), and instantly move on to another scene that you have inspiration for. Later, you can just search for 'mandarin' and add the scene when you feel like it. If you accidentally come across any MANDARINs in my game, that's the reason lol.

If you are writing an IF, it helps to start simple. Write the story until a choice comes up, then write the title of the choices, and continue ONLY with the route you feel the most inspired for atm (use mandarin for the rest). Don't let your momentum die by getting bogged down in choices. That's why I have so many greyed out choices when I start a new origin or chapter. I just write write write until the end of the chapter, THEN I go back to whatever choice is the simplest to add, and put the variations in the already-existing text if needed. Repeat until all the choices are written and coded in. This way, the text might feel more organic too, because you already have a pre-written skeleton that you can just add variations in.

Keep notes. It helps to have them on paper, next to you, so f.ex. when you make 9 different deities to choose from, you don't have to go back to the beginning of the chapter every single time to look up which deities those were and what they mean, you can simply turn your head to the side lol.

Take regular breaks. Exercise, stretch. Keep a daily schedule. Eat and drink enough. Try to keep a good health. Your brain won't work if it's starved.

Know yourself and your habits, and be honest with yourself. I know of myself that once I start working on the big plot points, I won't have any motivation to come back to the beginning again. That's why I'm writing all the origin stories first, because I know that if I start going into chapter 2, I definitely won't feel like coming back to start yet another route from the very beginning. So if you don't feel like doing something, then just… don't do it. Or do it simpler. Do it smarter. Trick that asshole brain into cooperating.

Last but not least, guys, 90% of my motivation COMES FROM YOU! Your engagement, your messages, your feedback, every little interaction is what keeps me going! So write me! I will answer! (if you aren't a dick). Literally, about anything. Even if it's just "hey I really liked this small detail here", that will already make my day, seriously. I LOVE talking about my work, and I'm pretty sure every author is like that, so keep engaging with writers, because that's 90% of the reason when a novel gets finished! I'm writing for YOU! Your enjoyment, your fun, because I love telling stories, but those stories don't mean anything if no one is reading them.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 95 (Meeting Clones in Henford-on-Bagley?!)

Despite her late Friday arrival, Heather's family welcomed her and Lavender with open arms. Winterfest wasn't far away and they planned to return for the holidays, but between guilt trips from father Neal and the birth of her second nephew, Heather had returned to her childhood home in Henford-on-Bagley for a weekend visit.

The towns were only an hour apart on the Simmerloop Superhighway, but climate in Simlandia can be strange sometimes. While coastal Brindleton Bay was coated in snow from the first day of winter to the last every year, Henford winters were grey and rainy, which usually helped Daisy's winter garden grow just as plentiful as any other season.

Daisy excitedly bounced Lavender in her arms while she caught up with her eldest child. "The Winter Harvest Festival is this weekend. Did you bring your produce?"

Heather nodded. "Thank you for letting us come one night early."

"You're always welcome, Buttercup. And how is my gorgeous granddaughter?"

"She learned to grab her toes earlier this week, and we think she's just about ready to sit on her own." Bragging about her daughter's milestones was a welcome distraction.

Heather was grateful her family didn't press her for details of her early arrival this evening. River was too busy teaching Michael not to empty his mother's paint tubes on the floor while Cass tried to get Sammy fed. Neal and Daisy were working in their garden, since their exotic produce could always draw a bit of a crowd on Finchwick Fair days.

Heather wanted to get Lavender back to bed and figure out her feelings after Conrad's confession at the dinner table. But as often as she leaned on her family, advice was the last thing she wanted right now.

She cuddled her nephews, helping River and Cass get Michael bathed and ready for bed. She stayed up late waiting for Conrad's call, though she dreaded talking to him just the same.

She wanted to be so much angrier at Conrad than she was. About the lies - over a criminal ex-girlfriend, no less - and about a lack of trust, but in truth she was already ready to forgive him. Almost. She knew what it was like to be under the spell of someone who was wrong for you. And she knew Conrad to protect those he loved with a passion she attributed to his inability to save his mother when he was young.

He'd earned the benefit of doubt, but she wanted him to know he could trust her to handle even the darkest parts of himself and his past. They were a team, through thick and thin. That's why they were getting married, wasn't it?

But she didn't want him to think he could make her fold so easily, and wanted to wait until they were together again to completely forgive him. So their phone call was short, but not devoid of their usual 'I love you.'

The next morning, her family was ready to pry into the reasons for her early arrival, and her father and brother cornered her after breakfast. "I told you Conrad went to work and he'd be investigating a d-e-a-d body all night. He wanted us to come early." She spoke carefully because four-year-old Michael was in the room.

"Is that out of the ordinary?" asked her father.

"There aren't a lot of cases like it in Brindleton Bay."

Neal scoffed. "Isn't his fancy security system enough to keep you safe? Why didn't he want you in town?"

"It's a dangerous case, and he's just worried about us."

"He lied to you, didn't he." River could read through any facade. "And now you're lying for him."

"River, please," she begged. "It's not like that."

He shot her a knowing look. "Yes it is."

She needed to be alone with her thoughts, so her family agreed to watch Lavender while she played in the yard with the family's elder dog, Bernadette, and rambunctious Michael. She focused on his childlike giggles before he went back inside to find his parents.

Taking advantage of the lonely moment, she wandered around Finchwick. The sun had come out and she soaked in the nostalgia of her hometown. Air crisp and dry, the world was quiet. She needed this.

It was still early when she heard the familiar clatter of metal - the sound of local grocers and gardeners opening their stalls to sell fresh saplings and produce to local growers.

With plans to rebuild her clinic in draft stages, Heather needed to make sure she had enough to pay the architect on completion, and she'd saved up enough for a money fruit seed. The purchase was extravagant and she should have run it by Conrad first, but she was mad enough at him to make this decision by herself.

It was an investment in her own clinic and her children's futures, anyway. Growing a money fruit tree - properly caring for and cultivating it - was a more honest way to make simoleons than the Landgraabs were doing, even if it felt like an unfair advantage reserved only for those who could afford it.

Yet with purpose she approached the flower stall with its green awning, where Everett's grandmothers, Agnes and Agatha Crumpcakes, sold seeds and blooms for decades before their deaths. Pulling out her wallet, she approached the stand ready to greet the new owners with a friendly Henford hello, only to find herself face-to-face with...Agnes Crumpcakes?

She was shocked to see none other than Everett's grandmother - (formerly?) deceased, now alive and well behind the stall curtain. "Heather Nesbitt!" she greeted warmly. "It's been too many years. How's your son, Ash?"

"He's great! So smart..." She stammered as she placed the purchased seeds in her pocket. "Mrs. Crumpcakes, is it really you? I thought you and Agatha passed away. I was so sorry to miss the funeral."

"Oh! We did die, dear. But we knew before we passed that we couldn't face an uncertain eternity without one another, so we contacted a scientist in Newcrest named Aileen Blackburn. She's slightly mad, but I mean that as a compliment - not least because she offered to clone us," explained Agnes. "She even let us keep our memories! But this time we weren't born, so we can't die. We can't even get sick now!"

Heather listened, awestruck. "Wow, Mrs. Crumpcakes, she sounds kind of amazing."

"She is! And as memory serves, I can say quite objectively she's gorgeous, too. But Agatha and I jumped at the chance for immortality knowing we'd be together. We'll never need to face saying goodbye to one another again. And the whole process was almost entirely painless."

The idea didn't sound romantic to Heather at all. Would she really want to live forever as a zombie clone to outlive her own children? Watcher, no! But she wouldn't judge Agnes and Agatha Crumpcakes for their choices.

Strange as it was, as Heather reacquainted herself with the old clones running the flower stall, she felt as though she'd known them all her life. And maybe she had...sort of.

Heather loved coming home, but as the Finchwick Fair began and the square started filling with locals, she knew her heart was in Brindleton Bay investigating a murder case. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

RECAP: I made Agatha and Agnes married and playable when I started this save - they're not cousins don't worry! - made Agatha the mother of Bob Pancakes and Agnes his stepmom (with MCCC!), and that's how I learned all the other Henford NPCs get replaced with new sims, but Agnes and Agatha get cloned. So I've actually been playing about 30 sim-years with two versions of both and I've just pretended they're the same person. I came up with the clones thing before Agnes and Agatha's playable sims died because I must have an outlandish reason why they're still around. As I got deeper into reading the adventures of mad scientist Aileen Blackburn and her family, it was obvious to me who was behind it!

In this scene Heather really is meeting the NPCs for the first time and of course Agnes loves her immediately because she's unflirty. That hug was completed Agnes-initiated!

THANK YOU @dreamyyesenia for letting me shout out the mad brilliance that is Aileen Blackburn and your epic, stunning save file! I hope you love that its now canon for me that she's the reason the Crumplebottom ladies never, ever, ever die... 😂

NOTE: When I say I will find a way to crossover mention all your stories and save files eventually (with your permission!), I very likely mean it. 😂

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Old Scars, New Blood 2

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, manipulation, borderline bullying, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader has accepted that she’ll never be wanted, not only by the man she’s crushed on for years, but by anyone. That is until a new player enters the game. (f!, short!reader)

Character: Lloyd Hansen, Thor Odinson

Note: Man, I need some sleep.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

As the large house fills with the rabble of strange men and flowing alcohol, you retreat back to your quarters and stare at your dead phone. Still not sign of life from Lloyd but that doesn't worry you in any existential way. He always finds a way to scrape by, it's just that you usually hear from him by now. Even when he leaves you behind, he has a dozen orders for you. Not that time.

You lean against the headboard and mull the walls. Maybe you'll finally leave this life. You should be proud you got this far. You weren't exactly honed in blood like these underhanded mercenaries. You're just an executive assistant who took a chance. A woman and a Craig's List add, what an origin story.

After a while, you find it hard to sit still. You leave your bed in a mess from the turmoil of your nerves. You drag yourself to the door. You must look like you're going through a breakup, at the very lest, a crisis. A grey gap hoodie and black leggings. You shuffle around in your beat up Keds and drift downstairs, concealing yourself in the distraction and cacophony of the full house. Valhalla and his men jeer from the dining room as you slip past, a quick peek inside at the joining of forces. 

Rico sits near the head of the table next to the gargantuan blonde with his braided locks and rugged jawline. The host looks less than impressed as his guest guffaws and claps his back roughly. You don't stay and watch, hurrying on as your stomach squeezes hungrily. You find when Lloyd's not around to demand his meals, you tend to forget to feed yourself.

You enter the kitchen and find chaos strewn over the counter tops. Bottles, some half-filled, others empty, littered over the granite. Crumbs and whole chunks of cheese and meat tossed around carelessly, a lingering stench hanging in the air. You assume the staff is hiding until there aren't men mixing alcohol and firearms.

You pull open the fridge and growl to find your neatly stacked containers gone. You keep your own food and Lloyd's precisely curated. You're a planner and meal planning is your greatest pride. While the other men depend on the processed foods dished up by the help, you make sure to feed your boss his preferred organic cuts. The door shuts as you let it go and turn to peruse the kitchen. There's a bag of biscuits with some spilling out. You leave the spilled cookies on the counter and claim the rest.

You stop as you come to face the wine rack. A single bottle remains in the crisscrossed slats of wood. You're not exactly fond of Risling but you've never been very picky. Nor much of a drinker.

You slide the bottle out with a soft clink against the rack and consider the label. You're not expert, would it pair well with shortbread? You compare the rumbled package of cookies and the pristine font on the bottle.

"Another!" The booming voice makes you leap and you spin around, the wine sloshing in the glass and loosening your grip. You face the large man as he bounces into the kitchen and the long neck slips free entirely. You step back with a surprised squeak as the glass smashes around your feet, sending a splash of wine up your leggings. 

Valhalla stops short as he finds you standing in the ruin of your surprise. His rosy cheeks pale and his cheeks draw to a more sober expression, a glint still gleaming behind his bright blue irises, "ah, pardon, my lady, I didn't mean to startle you. And look at what I've done," he gestures to your feet. You lift a shoe and he makes a noise, "ah, ah, do not move."

He comes closer as you stand dumbly in the shards. You look down then back at him. "I have shoes on--"

"And you wouldn't want to stain them," he insists as he nears. You shy away but not fast enough. He picks you up easily, like a hero in a ridiculous story, scooping you over the broken glass and carrying you to safe ground. "Forgive me for wasting the wine."

"It's fine," you wiggle in his hold, the bag of cookies wrinkling loudly, "really, I think..." you look down, dizzy as you see the pattern of tile below, "you can put me down, sir. Please, if you don't mind."

"As you wish," he places you gently on your feet, "what an introduction. Valhalla," he holds out his large hand, his palm rough and calloused, fingers thick but lock, "and you, beautiful woman lurking in the shadows?"

Your breath is stolen by the unexpected compliment. You remind yourself that it is only gas. He's like Lloyd, he must be, compliments are only currency. You take his hand and introduce yourself as sternly as you can. Your voice is barely more than a mousy squeak.

"It is you," he lights up as he tilts his head, clinging to your hand. 

"Me?" You question.

"Oh, I hope you remember. I suppose I am forgettable. We emailed... how pathetic I must sound," he chuckles at himself.

"No, I remember," you wiggle your hand and look at it, still trapped in his grip.

"Apologies," he lets you go, fingers brushing your palm reluctantly, "I only... I was disappointed when you disappeared."

"I disappeared?" You frown. "You never answered my last message."

"I..." he pauses, "I was in communication with Hansen, he said he preferred to take on the negotiations himself."

"Oh," you nod. Lloyd never mentioned that. "Of course, I'm so... careless. I have so much going on. I... I should've said goodbye. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he pleas, "you've nothing to be sorry for. I should be. I might make it up to you. You like wine, so let us grab a bottle and catch up."

"Catch up," you muse meekly, "you make it sound like we're old friends."

"Aren't we?"

"Emails..." you murmur.

He laughs as he turns and goes to the wine rack, ignoring the puddle of glass and wine by his feet.

"That was the last bottle," you say dully.

"There must be a cellar, I'm certain the best vintages are there," he turns as he pokes his finger into the air, "let us go scavenge."

"Uh, that's nice and all but I think... cookies are just fine for me."

"Cookies?" He comes back to you, eyeing the bag in your hand, "shortbread. My favourite."

"Oh, well, erm, if you want some--"

"Only if you come with them," he meets your gaze and you shy away at his implication.

You open your mouth but no sound comes out.

"I mean, I'd like to eat them with you. Share them," he stammers slightly, another rocky chuckle escapes him, "I've been on the road long, I'm afraid I'm bit delirious."

"It's fine, I wouldn't want to-- you and your men should settle in and maybe tomorrow--"

"Tonight. Right now. I can't wait. I'm not known for it," he seizes your hand, "come, meet my men."

"I... please," he tugs you, moving you with little effort, "I'm only an assistant."

"Bring your cookies," he insists, ignoring your protests.

You can't stop him. Your soles squeak and slide under you as he drags you into the hall and through the wide archway of the dining room. The men at the table are drunk and a few whistle as you pass by, even as female agents sit smattered among the group.

Valhalla brings you to the head of the table and claims the empty chair awaiting him. Before you can react, he lifts you onto his lap, his arm firm against your back.

"Wait-- what are you--" you can barely catch your breath with how fast everything is moving, "I really should-- Lloyd will be back soon and I have to--"

"Forget him. I want to know about you," he bows his head, focusing on the cookie bag as he slips his fingers through the open top. He plucks one out, admiring it before holding it out to you, "please, you first."

You go to take the cookie from him, shifting on his leg, uncomfortable as you hear the snickers from the table. You must look ridiculous. This man is like a storm, he just comes in and blows everything out of sorts. He pulls the cookie away from your reaching fingers, instead hovering it before your mouth. You swallow, too humiliated to look anywhere but him.

"I can--"

He shakes his head and presses the shortbread to your lips, quieting you. You open your mouth and bite into the crumble buttery goodness. You snap your teeth shut and chew stiffly, lowering your eyes as he watches you. He tosses the rest of the biscuit into his mouth and hums.

"Delicious," he remarks as his fingers tickle the back of your arm, "now, we have tonight. Tomorrow we can work, but now, you will tell me everything."

"Lloyd--"

"Not him," he interrupts again, "you," he cups your chin in his hand, "I travelled all this way, won't you humour me just a little?"

You rub your lips together. What can you say? Every time you try to come up with something, it begins 'Lloyd...' Is there even anything interesting about you? Have you lost yourself so completely to your own foolish crush?

"Tell me," Valhalla rests his hand on your shoulder more firmly, "anything. Tell me your favourite cookie. Just speak and I will listen."

You look at him again. Listen? How long have you longed for someone to do just that? To be heard? To be seen? It's almost as if he knows and is heeding that desperate call inside of you.

"The little..." you put your fingers up to show the size you have in mind, "jam-filled ones," your voice grows less wobbly as you speak, "with the bit of custard."

"Ah, those are a delight," he proclaims, "my brother is overly fond of those. I caught him sneaking some at the family holiday last year-- anyhow, he is another matter. I see it, you are sweet, you like sweet things." He frames your face with his hand, "and you have a sweet voice, tell me more.”

"I..." you begin and push your shoulders into a shrug. You take out a cookie, needing to do something with your hands, "I'm not that interesting."

You nibble on the cookie as he laughs again. Not mean or judgmental like Lloyd, just fun. You focus on chewing, wilting away as you feel him watching you.

"I'm interested," he intones, his timbre blowing through you.

You don't know what to say. There are no words. It's like you're the centre of the world in that moment, or at the least, of his. A man you hardly know, a man you only ever encountered in text.

Or maybe you're all wrong. Maybe you're misinterpreting every word he says. Just like you did with Lloyd. Searching for any sliver of longing.

"In fact," he leans back, rubbing your back casually, "you're the only interesting thing I've found in this place."

❤️‍🩹

The night sweeps you up like a whirlwind. You don't quite remember it ending, waking up in bed with remnants of the evening dancing in your mind. Valhalla's voice nips at you, sending spirals over your flesh, zapping every nerve as it echoes in your ears.

You almost feel guilty that he's your first thought. How he never looked away, never spoke to anyone else, only you. His entire focus was yours.

And yours was his. You listened to his stories, mentions of his family, though his reputation never suggested sentiment. His tales of firefights made comical by his retelling. The way he described his homeland like some mystical paradise. He filled the void left by your own boring life.

You stretch and roll over, sitting up as something dangles down your chest. You look down. Still inhe same hoodie you wore all night was a charm hanging between the strings. You take it between your fingers and examine the medallion, a bullet lodges into it, the burn of gunpowder seared around it. Strange.

A waft of amber and citrus clings to the sweater. You dare to take a whiff before you stand. It smells like him.

You peel off your sweater reluctantly and hang it, opting to skip the hamper. You strip your leggings and your undershirt and pick a fresh outfit. Something more appropriate.

You force yourself into the shower and come out feeling awake. You pull on each piece; a pair of stiff slacks and a striped blouse, paired with a gray blazer. Your usual dull attire.

You sit and slide into a pair of leather flats. The mornings aren't usually hard. Something is different. Something has changed.

You head downstairs and find several staff working at tidying the previous night's ribaldry. You enter the kitchen and set the keurig to brew a cup as bodies scurry around you. Everyone has their place here; you, Rico, and Lloyd.

But not Valhalla.

At the very thought of him, a blaring horn takes over. Your ears throb and you forget your mug as you race to the front door. There's a man passed out against the wall in his own puke. Wonderful.

You pull open the left door as the gate opens and tires bounce over the paved drive. Lloyd is behind the wheel to your surprise, laying into the horn as he skids to a halt. Grumbling comes from behind you as Rico drags his feet and peers out over your head.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

The alcohol lingers in his breath. You step outside to escape his stench. Lloyd swings open the door and hops out, smiling at the sky as he presents himself as some great hero returned home.

“Morning, fuckers!” He bellows.

Silence, only an odd rhythm. You realise as a figure jogs around the east wing that it's footfalls. You turn to look as Rico and Lloyd do the same. It's him, Valhalla, running towards you.

He smiles, unaffected by his brisk pace as he nears, a smile on his face as he waves. He slows and you get a clear sight of his shirtless torso. He wears only running shoes and a pair of riskily short shorts. 

There's a sheen of sweat over his skin but he hardly seems spent. His veins bulge beneath his skin and his muscles are thick but toned. His chest is broad and trimmed in golden hair, every part him immense and statuesque.

You almost let out the ‘wow’ as it creeps up your throat.

“Who the fuck is this ken doll?” Lloyd asks as he points to Valhalla.

“Ah, you must be Hansen,” Valhalla ignores his brusque question and holds put his hand.

“Who's asking?” Lloyd rests his hand on his holster.

Valhalla smiles and gives his name, unfaltering as he keeps his hand put. Lloyd doesn't shake it as he scowls. He looks the larger man up and down.

“You're early.”

“Or you're late,” Valhalla challenges and turns, clapping his hand on Lloyd's shoulder as it goes unshaken, “I thought you'd be bigger.”

Lloyd tilts his head, a grimace twisting his features, “huh?”

“I must day, it's a nice property,” Valhalla continues, gesturing to the house. He smirks and gives you a wink, “very welcoming.” He grips Lloyd's shoulder and pulls him closer, “I could get you somewhere even bigger. How about that?”

Lloyd squints at Valhalla, head craned awkwardly, “yeah?”

Valhalla smiles, “let's talk.”

[phyrestartr]

My World Ends With You (1/2) | Miguel O'hara x M!Reader

Miguel x Husband!Reader W/C: 4.7k

#SFW, hurt/comfort, infidelity, toxic relationships, brief verbal abuse, mending relationships, difficult/complex feelings and emotions, things work out in the end, nobody dies, the zombies aren't that important, old men just really going through it, ZOMBIES BABEY

Note: Tis a continuation of Till Death Do Us Part . Would rec reading that first lest you get mad confused

--

“Did Miguel cheat on you?” 

The question caught you off guard. As far as you knew, only a handful of people got the gist of what happened, and even fewer knew the exact reason why everything systematically fell apart. 

“How'd you–who told you?” You asked Gwen, surprise and trepidation creasing your brow. 

The young lady shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest tighter as she leaned toward the fire you'd made–the one you made out of pure restlessness from staying inside for too long. You decided to pretend you were out in the great outdoors like the old days, and set up a ring of rocks and chairs on the roof to escape the fluorescent lights and white walls. Evidently, Gwen needed a break from it all, too.

“Gabi.” She fiddled with her toque and cleared her throat. “She, uh--y'know. She mentioned it.” 

“Huh.” Your gaze wandered away from Gwen, and back to the fire. “I didn't think she'd remember.” 

“How old was she? When it happened, I mean.” 

“Must've been 11. We split when she was 13, I'm pretty sure.” You sighed and leaned back in your shitty old soccer mom chair. “Guess we were bad at hiding it.”

“Pretty hard to hide that kinda thing from your kid,” Gwen mumbled, dwelling on something ancient and sore in the depths of her memories. “They're more perceptive than you think.” 

You nodded. The stars caught your attention and you stared up, gazing upon the winking lights and shooting comets flying by. Most of those celestial bodies were there when everything happened. Did they remember, too? Were they haunted, too?

“Yeah. My parents thought I didn't know nothin’ either. They didn't know how wrong that was,” you agreed. 

“So he did cheat on you?” Gwen asked. You nodded. She scoffed. “But--why? He always acts so lovey-dovey and gross around you. Why would he–?”

“Good people do bad things,” you said, and continued before she could cut in, “‘n bad people do good things, sometimes.” 

“So which camp is he in?” She asked.

“Pretty sure he's mostly good.” 

“Pretty sure?” 

You chuckled. “I've met ‘bad guys,’ believe me.” You took a breath and nudged some logs around in the fire with a stick. “Miguel ain't like them. He's full of himself, arrogant, stubborn ‘n all that, but he's helped people. He's helping people, even if he's got a crap attitude about it.” 

“Right,” Gwen breathed. Her voice carried something heavy with it. Something uncertain and unwavering, like the teeter of winter into spring, or thunder that wondered if it might rain. Her restless energy mirrored the fire as it roiled and spat brilliant sprays of embers into the cold, night sky; only, the fire would eventually die down, calm itself into blackened coals. Gwen’s torch would not fade as such. 

“You think he’s a bad guy?” You asked. 

“Never really thought he was a good guy.” She rubbed the back of her neck before sighing. “But. Yeah.  Never thought he was a bad guy, either. Kinda feels like a vigilante, or something. But less cool.”

You smiled when you peered over at her. “Maybe like an antihero?” 

“Way less cool than that, but yeah. Sure. An antihero,” she huffed. “But you’re a blue-blood. I don’t think those types are supposed to get along.” 

That made you laugh. “I think they get along pretty well. They do in the comics, even if they don’t see eye-to-eye on everything.” 

Gwen rolled her eyes. “You mean most things?”

You nodded. “Yeah, most things.” You tucked your hands into your pockets and gazed up again, this time losing your thoughts to the endless void of grey sweeping in and devouring all light in the sky. “You don't need to worry about me, Gwen. There’re more–”

“More important things to worry about?” She finished, not sounding too impressed. “Feels like you're using the end of the world as an excuse.” 

You frowned, and wiped the dew of melted snowflakes from your cheek. “Maybe you got yourself a point, there.” 

–

You were the new kid in year 12. Normally, no one gave a shit–it was New York, after all–but you had a tendency to catch everyone's attention when you never sought to try. 

You were a country boy. A fella with a strange tendency to be kind and hold doors open for ladies or help some sorry idiot pick up their dropped assignment. That gentle lilt in your voice, the only evidence that you weren't from the city, always had people staring your way. Boys would mock you, especially when their girls flushed soft colours and whispered while they glanced your way. It didn't help that you were handsome as all hell, too. 

And one day, like a fucking fairytale, Miguel finally ran into you and got hit with the triple threat that was your accent, face, and genuinity–what he didn't expect, however, was to meet you at the Kwan's ranch.

You were clad in boots and jeans and a stupid cliche cowboy hat hung around your neck, hiding the impressive display of shoulder blades flexing and rippling with strong muscle as you shoveled and cleaned out the old hay and debris from the stables. Something warm and melodious trilled under your breath as you worked, and it beckoned like a siren's song--so captivating Miguel couldn't help himself. 

“Hey,” he said. 

You looked over your broad shoulder and blinked a few times, like you were showing off the brilliant hue of your eyes on purpose. A kindly smile made you shine brighter, too, like the sun somehow lit you up from within. 

“Howdy,” you said. 

“Howdy?” Miguel snorted and tucked his hands into the pockets of his shorts as he wandered in. “That's a little too country, isn't it?” 

“Is it now?” The twang in your voice must’ve been fake. No normal person sounded like they were ripped straight from a Western. “Maybe you're just too city.” 

“Hm.” Miguel crossed his arms and leaned against a beam as he watched you continue to work. “Maybe.” 

“Come on, now,” you laughed, “I can smell the city on you. Could probably taste it, too, if I could.” 

Miguel's face burned. His heart pitter-pattered just a little bit faster, soon going a lot faster when he registered the wink you threw his way. Were you flirting? Was it working? Was Miguel swooning? 

Yes, yes and yes. 

–

“Y'know, you don't have to be such a busy body,” Miguel said, wandering into the lab-turned-greenhouse. He had to admit, it looked good. Peaceful. And it certainly helped with keeping everyone fed and happy. So did your presence at Alchemax; you and Gabriella felt like a fresh coat of paint on a beat-up old car. A nice change. Good additions. 

And Miguel felt complete now that you were with him, too. There were still issues, still things to work out and problems to talk about, but it felt nice to work towards something selfish and meaningful. Something that was wholly and unabashedly for him and him alone.

But you were such a restless man. All day, every day, Miguel found you working; clearing snow, repotting, sowing seeds, cleaning, teaching, handyman-ing were all on your resume of husband material and so clearly those skills ruled your mind every waking hour of every day. It didn't help that the other folks In the colony realized just how much of a do-gooder sweetheart you were. Miguel was one more flirty comment away from nuking the building. 

But the way you smiled in the face of adversity let him keep a reasonable cool. Whether it was your awkward attempt to be cordial with someone who so clearly thirsted for you and your attention, or in a sheepish and innocently guilty way whenever Miguel called you out for working too much, you had a way of melting his frigid heart into something cool and light like an autumnal spring.

“I’m just puttering,” you hummed, pausing what you were doing to lean in and give him a kiss, careful to keep your dirt-crusted hands away from him and his neatness. “Just movin’ some of these into bigger pots. Don’t want them to go dying on us.” 

“I think they’d live.” Miguel hummed as he looked over the array of little plants sprouting with flourishes of brilliant emerald. His hand slipped to the small of your back before his arms looped around your waist, and he pulled you flush against his chest. “I need you more than they do.”

You laughed, soft and smoky. “That right?”

“Yeah.” Miguel left a sweet kiss on your neck, right on the odd, heart-shaped-ish scar he used to leave hickeys over back in the day. “They’re not the only ones that need fertilizing.”

“Christ. Did Pete teach you that one?” You laughed, but didn’t crumble and fertilize Miguel. Damn. 

Your partner huffed. “Come on, just–can’t you take a break, viejo?” He kissed your neck another handful of times and buried his face into the strong curve of your shoulder with a most petulant sigh. “Feels like I only get to see you when we go to bed.” 

“Not much different from how it used to be,” you said. “I worked nights, you worked days. Hardly got to see each other.” 

“I hated it,” Miguel mumbled. And you actually paused, your busy hands halting with the rest of your body. “I wanted you home with me. I didn’t want you to work nights.” 

He felt you shift again, the sound of your hands under running water sparking hope in his chest. But he snuffed it out himself–he knew you too well. You weren’t the type to stop when something needed to be done. Miguel couldn’t fault you for it, though, not when he was the exact same way. 

“Miggs.” You turned in his arms and held the sides of his face. “I’m not going anywhere. No night shifts, no driving after gun-toutin’ idiots on the highway, no overtime. You can always find me if you need me.” 

“Would you've come for me and Dana–” he stopped, a bout of regret punching the words back down his throat. The sudden distance in your eyes and the stiffness of your touch haunted him. Why did he have to talk? Why was he still chasing you away like this? 

“Don't,” Miguel pleaded, his hands flying up to your arms, holding you still. 

An overcast of something chased away the far look. Miguel wished he could read you as easily as you read him. He didn't know what you were thinking. Did he ever?

“I still have some things I'm working on getting past, Miggs,” you managed. “I don't--I'm trying.” 

Miguel nodded. What could he say, really? Try harder? Love me more? Get over it already? Your marriage reached a difficult point before the apocalypse; now, it'd climbed to new heights, but problems erased themselves thanks to the simple fact that the world had ended. There were more deadly things to worry about in the present.

“Just let me know if I can help,” your partner offered. And you smiled, tired and weary, unknowingly soothing the frigid panic freezing Miguel's veins. 

“Promise I will.” You gently stroked the arch of his cheekbone with the back of your knuckles. “Just don't worry too much. I'm alright.” 

And he believed you. 

– 

“Who's your friend?” 

The question drove Miguel insane, like a chisel tapping away at marble. Because everyone asked when they saw you, a stupidly handsome, ridiculously tall, polite southern gentleman dressed to the nines in a custom suit Miguel picked out himself–garments he picked out for his fiancé. His betrothed. His to-be husband. 

Miguel's coworkers knew he was taken. He thought it'd be obvious by whom since, well, he rolled up to the event with you and had complimentary outfits with you and you were wearing a fucking ring on the finger.

Still, countless folks introduced themselves to you, sweeping you up into conversations and leaning in too close for comfort. Miguel’s ego swelled, sure; he had the most impeccable, handsome, perfect man in the world, but his jealousy chomped away at his temper. He didn't like people thinking they had a chance with you. It was funny at first, but you were too nice to snap at them, to put them in their places. And, quite frankly, Miguel had had more than enough of watching his damn coworkers throw themselves at you the second they heard that stupid, endearing drawl or saw your charming, lopsided smile. 

He floated to your side, anchoring an arm around your waist while his other hand held a crystalline glass of something golden and fancy. 

“Hey,” Miguel hummed as your eyes met, and he leaned in, planting a soft, sweet peck onto your lips. “Havin’ fun?” The energy around the bystanders shifted dramatically. Miguel felt more pleased than a lion catching its prey. 

“Better now that you’re here,” you hummed, eyes creasing with a gentle tilt of your lips. He loved that look on you. It was the same one you wore every morning when you cooed your sweet good morning-s. 

“I make everything better,” Miguel agreed. He finished his drink and handed it off to whatever poor sod stood beside him. “Guess they haven’t heard the good news.” 

Your head tilted as whispers spread around you both. “Thought you would’ve told ‘em by now, honey.” 

“Well,” Miguel said, sing-songy and so obviously annoyed and bitter with how annoying this event had been for him. He took your hand and brought it up, feigning examination while purposefully catching the light on the band of gold hugging your finger. “I didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to not put two and two together.” 

With that, the vibe died. Soft scoffs and muttered words were left in the wake of party-goers as they abandoned the two of you. Some offered anxious goodbyes to you before shuffling off, but many who’d been burned and shit on by Miguel in the past were not pleasant enough to separate you from your man. Which Miguel preferred. 

Miguel smirked to himself, satisfied with his work. Though, when he met your eyes, you looked anything but impressed. Oops. He probably should’ve considered the aftermath.

“Look, they should know who they're messing with,” he testified.

You quirked a brow. “You mean who they're talkin’ to?” 

Miguel huffed, the smallest of pouts forming. “Don't give me that. They were all over you.” 

“Honey, no one's ever gonna replace you, alright? You've got nothin’ to worry about.” Still exasperated, you smiled, and fixed his tie for him, giving it a light tug and tucking it back against his breast neatly. “You think I'd ever fool around behind your back?” 

“What? No.” Why wouldn’t you? You were handsome, a gentleman, a man who could have anything and anyone you wanted with looks and charm alone. So maybe–maybe that's why Miguel did what he did. Maybe he was trying to show you just how wrong you were. 

“Exactly. Now, you stop worrying and try to enjoy the event, alright? Promise I'll stay by your side for peace of mind,” you said with a wink. Miguel melted. You were too good for him. 

“Por dios–yeah, alright, okay. Fine.” He huffed and pulled you in close to him again and gave you a sweet kiss to seal the deal. 

And of course, it was in that moment Dana passed him by with a smile full of secrets and damning evidence–a vault that he wanted to break open and force you to face.  

–

Miles fucked up. 

He yanked open that fucking car door–specifically when told not to–and set off the dinner bell for whatever undeads still wandered the streets of New York. 

The race through the city streets wasn't so easy, not after years of the military, militia and more trying to block off streets, take a stance against the unending hordes threatening human existence–tanks, trucks, barricades and more littered and cluttered the streets like the puddles after a storm. Every vault and jump was uncertain despite determined, never really knowing if the next car the group jumped onto would throw one of you to the ground with a broken leg or twisted ankle. Miguel almost wished Miles shattered his knee. 

Especially when you nearly didn't make it inside. 

Miguel pulled you through just as they got the shitty garage door down, and he pulled you up, eyes wide and jaw set as pain jolted your features. 

“Hey, hey, what's–you're fine. You're fine,” he whispered. His hand frantically touched where they could before settling on either side of your face as you both fought to catch your breath. “You're fine.” 

But you shook your head. “I, uh--need you to back away from me, baby.” 

“No.” 

“I gotta make sure, be careful–” 

“No.” 

You pulled his hands away from your face, and Miguel saw liquid ruby stain his skin, too. 

“Listen,” you rasped as you limped toward a rundown car with your cuffs unlatched from your belt. “We gotta–gotta clear the shop. Miggs, you take care of the doors.” 

But he didn’t. He stood still, shoulders rolling with the heavy breaths he sucked in while you and Gwen puttered around the small, homely garage to the tune of the undead hissing and snarling just beyond the metal door. Miguel took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the–

“I–uh, what should I do?” Miles asked. 

Miguel whirled around and stalked to him, explosive rage fuelling his steps across the room. He grabbed Miles’ shirt and slammed him into the wall, looming over him like a titan. 

“You are not going to do anything,” Miguel growled. Miles’ eyes widened as he shrunk. “This is your fucking fault in the first place.”

“Hey, he’s just a kid–” Gwen tried, but Miguel’s quick glance her way stalled her. “He didn’t mean to–”

“That’s the problem. He doesn’t know how to survive out here and he’s not willing to use his fucking brain to fill in the gaps.” 

“Dude, let go of me!” Miles snapped, panic lancing through the quiver in his voice. “You can’t–” Miguel slammed him into the wall again. The undead shrieked and howled a mere half a foot away beyond the stone walls barring them out. 

Miguel basked in the dread eating away at Miles’ confidence. “It was a mistake to bring you here. You were a mis–” 

You yanked Miguel off the kid and slammed him into the wall, hand clapping over your partner’s mouth while your red-hot stare bore into the back of his skull and pinned him still. Your other hand held firm over his throat. You didn’t hurt him, but the fingertips digging into the straining tendons of Miguel’s neck threatened the opposite. 

“Quiet,” is what you commanded.

The room fell silent. And it stayed that way. It was hard to tell if anyone still breathed or lived in the minutes you all stood, patient, suffocating, and you stayed in that unsure limbo while the bloodthirsty reverie gradually de-crescendoed in the placid muteness. Slowly, slowly, with each wandering corpse that left to chase errant noises or to wander aimlessly with no mission left in mind, the air in your sanctuary began to heal. 

Your grip became kinder, and you let go, staggering back on unsteady legs. Then, you collapsed.

–

Your injury turned out to be a gash, not a bite. It ran across your shoulder horizontally, accented by a few other gouges bloodying your exhausted face and Miguel's busy hands. 

He stitched you up carefully yet thoroughly, eagerly trying to finish the job while you squeezed your eyes closed and gnawed on the belt wedged between your teeth. To your credit, you handled the temp stitches well. You only really shifted and panicked when Miguel tried to flush the wound with what water he had on hand. 

“That should hold until we get back,” he murmured for your ears only. He cut the thread with his teeth after tying it off, and wrapped your arm with a strip of torn shirt. 

You nodded tiredly and let him take the belt from between your teeth. “Thank you.” You sat up a little straighter against the wall and took deep breaths, eyes squeezed closed and brow beaded with sweat. 

Heat flared in Miguel’s chest. If not for you, Miguel would have ripped Miles a new one. He might have even thrown him to the undead in your name. If you'd come out infected, doomed to die, he'd make sure Miles suffered the same. 

“Don't be so hard on him,” you rasped, voice blending with the soft crackle of the unconvincing campfire. 

Miguel's stare hardened into ice. “He could've–” 

“Miguel.” He looked at you, and melted as you leaned into his warmth. “Lectures can wait. We need to get home first.” 

You were right. And it enraged Miguel further. He wanted to take his anger out on something, or better yet someone, but you just–

“You remember when you proposed?” You whispered. 

The creases between Miguel's brows lifted and smoothed. “‘Course I remember.” He slid a careful arm around your waist and held you to his side. He kissed the top of your head and inhaled your scent. “You were coming home from a night shift.” 

He remembered it too clearly, actually. You, being exhausted and out of it, still suited up in your uniform when you came through the door with a yawn. 

Coffee, your other beloved, lured you to the kitchen where Miguel knew you'd find him. Though he hated not waking up beside you those mornings, he cherished the sleepy back hugs you'd greet him with while you both waited for the carafe to fill. 

“Mornin’,” you grumbled into his neck between small kisses. “Sleep good?” 

Miguel always leaned back into you and basked in the wander of your hands and the scent of cigarettes hiding in your words. It all meshed too well with the bitterness of coffee. “Woulda slept better with you here.” 

You hummed, crackly and apologetic. “Good thing that was my last night shift this block, hey? Get to wake up with you tomorrow.” Your fingertips dragged up the hem of shirt in your search to feel the dips and curves of his toned stomach. “And the next day, and the next day…”

Miguel turned in your arms to spy your drowsy smile. He cupped your face, running his thumbs along the bags under your eyes, before giving you a peck. “I think you need a nap, mi amor.” 

“No, no, ‘m fine. Promise. Just need a shower ‘n I'll be right as rain.” You took one of his hands in your own and turned to kiss his palm. “Wouldn’t be opposed to a mid-morning nap, though.” 

“Lucky for you, I'm getting back in bed after coffee's done.” Miguel kissed you again, purposely mooshing his nose against yours. “Go take a shower. I'll pour you a cup.” 

You hummed, accepting the offer, and very very reluctantly separated from your lover. “Just don't make mine too crazy sweet, alright?” 

Miguel huffed. “Tch. I don't even make it that sweet.” But you were already sauntering off to the ensuite, loud yawn punctuating your departure. “Pendejo.” 

The coffee maker beeped not too long after. Thoughts of what to do with the weekend swirled through Miguel's mind with the springy, disoriented bounce of ADHD while he made up both of your coffees, one just sorta sweet, and one just a little (a lot) sweeter. Honestly, Miguel was bad at making coffee to your taste. Too often he'd watch you stand at the coffee maker, measuring cream, sugar and coffee in your quest to achieve a perfect bitterness to sweetness ratio. 

But when Miguel made you coffee, you never complained. Simply requested it not be too sweet. And everytime Miguel handed you that cup, trepidation filling the childish part of his pride, you always declared it was perfect from the first sip. 

Perfect. Like you. Like his life. That's why he needed to–

“Honey,” you called, bringing your partner back to the present. He turned to you, eyebrows raising in interest at just how low the towel hung from your hips–until he saw the small box in your hand. That made his heart start pounding. 

Miguel crossed his arms and cleared his throat, trying to hide his sheer panic. “Where did you–”

“You forgot it in the bathroom. I think. Found it on the counter.” 

Shit. Fuck. Shit. He really forgot to put that stupid thing away. He really went all cliché romcom and rehearsed in front of the mirror and didn't put the fucking ring away. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was supposed to be a goddamn genius, and yet–

You opened the box because of course you would. Anyone with a shred of curiosity would. And you whistled in a way that only cowboys could. Back when you were both young, you whistled at Miguel like that when he walked by. Lyla said you weren't one to do that, that that was a first for you.

“Damn. This thing looks expensive.” You pulled the gold ring out and looked it over as Miguel came to you. The band was simple gold, yes, but inlaid was a diamond flanked by your birthstone and his, all shaped in a striking baguette cut. The piece was simple and masculine, something befitting you entirely. 

But you were too out of it to realize what the fuck it was you were holding. 

“Bet I could buy a farm with this.” 

Miguel had to laugh a bit at that. “Most people would say a house, you know.” 

“Farm's better. Comes with a house.” You snatched up his hand and examined his fingers, probably sizing up which one the ring–your ring--was supposed to fit on. “Either way, you’re gonna turn heads with a whole mortgage on your finger, I'll tell you what.” 

Miguel's chest warmed. Maybe because of your smooth way of talking, or maybe because you were too sweet and admiring of your partner. Miguel couldn't tell. But it was probably both. 

“On my finger?” He repeated as he plucked the ring from the box. His heart beat in his ears. His face burned. But it was now or never. “I think it'd look better on yours.” 

“What?” You asked, soft and confused, sorta like you'd realized what that ring meant halfway through. “Wait, wait–” 

“I was going to.” Miguel slid the fine gold band on your left ring finger. “But then you ruined the surprise.” 

There was something magical in that moment. Your hand in Miguel's, the sparkle of new promise shining on your finger, the glitter of crystals pooling in your eyes. And your eyes were so wide, like you didn't quite believe Miguel would want to marry someone like you, so he had to say it, if not for the cliché, movie finale:

“Will you marry m–” 

You kissed him before he could finish. Your arms flew around his neck as your weight hit him like a ton of bricks. But he caught you both and held you close, laughing against your lips as the ball of doubt unraveled as every whispered chant of ‘yes, yes, yes,’ touched his skin. 

Those days were good. They were simple. They were The start of everything Miguel could have dreamed of–and then he ruined it. 

“Still hard to believe you wanted me, sometimes,” you reminisced, looking down at the dull, chipped set of rings hugging your finger still.

“You're the only one,” he murmured into your hair. “Even when–even if I–no matter what. No matter what, it was always you. It'll always be you.” Then where's your ring, Miguel?

You hummed and sunk into your partner's warmth more, staying silent with your thoughts as you watched the dim flicker of the fire and the two others collapsed around it. “Try not to be so hard on Miles.” Ah. “He screwed up. But we need to keep morale up.” 

Miguel huffed. “So you only mentioned our–you just wanted me to stop thinking about today.” 

“I wanted you to relax, sweetheart.” God, that smile was so clear in your voice. 

“Tch. Pendejo. He deserves to be yelled at.” 

“By his father. At home. Where it's safe.” 

“Fine.” 

[on-my-vigilante-sht]

Masterlist

The Hunger Games

Finnick Odair

You’re Losing Me

Inspired by Taylor Swift’s “You’re Losing Me.” How Finnick loses the best thing he’s ever had.

Haymitch Abernathy

Capitol Punishment Masterlist

A story in which Haymitch’s lover is a plaything for the Capitol

I'm Sorry

Moments of Haymitch having to mentor his ex-girlfriend

Percy Jackson and the Olympians/Heroes of Olympus

Luke Castellan

Follow Me

Luke's girlfriend is excited to finally become a year-round camper so she can spend it with him. But Luke has other plans for them.

Delicate

"Is it chill that you're in my head? / Cause I know that it’s delicate"

Competing With Gods

When Apollo is sent to camp as a punishment, he sets his sights on Luke's girlfriend.

The Way I Loved You

"But I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain / And it's 2 a.m. and I'm cursing your name / So in love that you act insane"

The Final Quest

How a quest with the love of Luke's life turned him away from the gods

Asshole Instructor

Luke has been an asshole but he can't help it until he realizes the girl he likes could be gone any minute

Mine

"You are the best thing that's ever been mine"

Apollo

Immortal Danger

Apollo marries a half-blood without realizing how dangerous it can be

Immortal Danger II

Despite an extravagant wedding, Apollo is still confronted by those who want to end his marriage

John Wick

Forced Love Masterlist

Arranged marriages aren't uncommon in the crime world but John Wick never expected to be forced into one with his boss' daughter.

Criminal Minds

Aaron Hotchner

Undercover in a Skin Tight Skirt

The BAU Chief isn’t fond of sending his scantily clad wife in as bait

That Skirt

Smutty follow up to Undercover in a Skin Tight Skirt

I Can’t Leave

When the reader is forced into hiding, she’s desperate to inform her fiancé and his son

Move On

Rossi tells Aaron he should move on

Moving on to You

Aaron finally tells his longtime crush about his feelings when he almost loses her (Sequel to Move On)

Sparring Matches

The BAU undergoes PT evaluations, that includes sparring matches. And in the ring will be the secret couple, tipping off the rest of the team

Home Sweet Home

Sometimes going home isn’t always a good thing. Especially when your hometown is obsessed with marriage and you have a secret boyfriend.

"You're Okay"

After Aaron and his agent are saved from captivity, she grapples with returning to her regular life with her husband when the only person she wants to be around is Aaron.

Spencer Reid

Erotomania

Spencer’s girlfriend has a stalker

Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon

Sandor Clegane/Robb Stark

Between a Wolf and a Hound I

Sandor Clegane was never naïve enough to think he could marry the king's daughter but it doesn't make it any easier to see her married off.

Between a Wolf and a Hound II

The new Lady of the North tries to cope with the fact that she is now married and has a responsibility to her husband.

Robb Stark

The Godswood

When the newest Lady of the North is chased into the woods, the lords of the north search for Robb Stark's wife

Cregan Stark

Wrong Person (College AU!)

Aemond's girlfriend has a group project with the man he hates the most, Cregan Stark.

Forgiveness

Cregan begs for his wife’s forgiveness when he accidentally injures her

The Wall

When Cregan is forced to bring his wife to the Wall, he tries to ensure her protection but does not hesitate to defend her honor when necessary.

Grey’s Anatomy

Mark Sloan

Haunted

Mark finally finds where his wife has been hiding

Twilight

Carlisle Cullen

Sorry to Meet You

The moral dilemma of the patriarch of the Cullen clan finally meeting his mate after 350 years

Attack on Titan

Levi Ackerman

Amnesia

When the Levi Squad goes out on a mission with a few rookies, accidents happen

Favoritism

Captain Levi wouldn't let his feelings for a scout under him get in the way of his professionalism, right?

Reiner Braun

Guard

When Reiner returns from his ten year long mission, he is assigned to protect the the woman he could never have.

[caramelarchive]

╾ Assorted Box of Headcanons

like a box of chocolates!

for L (strawberry chunk white chocolate swirl), Light (orange tang dark cocoa drink), Misa (chocolate mint icecream parfait) and Matsuda (chocolate mousse + full milk cream) I have moved to my main @lawlietscaramels please follow there for new content!

　★━━─・‥…━━━☆

L: strawberry chunk white chocolate swirl

I think L's actually very prone to getting freaked out by jumpscares and unexpected loud noises. For this reason he hates horror movies and thunder. If he happens to experience a fright like this, he'll either go very very still and start trembling, OR he will jump ten feet in the air, drop whatever he's holding, and curse loudly.

I don't think L swears much outside of that, actually.

if you wear glasses he'll just put his hands on your face at any given moment to push them up your nose because the lenses aren't even in front of your eyes any more and what is wrong with you.

he would not kiss you if you have recently eaten something that does not contain heart-attack levels of caffeine and sugar.

yeah he's actually pretty germophobic.. at the same time man will straight up forget to have a shower/shave/brush his teeth.

well actually for that last one he just eats peppermint candy and calls it a day.

When L's handcuffed to Light, they sleep in the same bed. Well, usually L's still working, but he actually does a lot of things in Light's side of the bed. Like eat his food. especially crunchy crumbly food. petty ass.

if you can manage to sit on his lap while he's in his 40% frog pose you can stay there.

you will be used as a stress ball.

feed him sweets. he'll melt once he's distracted from work enough to realise your fingers are pressing the candies into his mouth

what lovely hands you have perhaps you should put them in his mouth

L loves the rain but I think he would prefer experiencing it in a small garden rather than a rooftop. or just in a driveway. the rooftops are just too high. he can see everything and it makes him feel small at a time he wants to feel at one with the whole world.

I'm seriously debating over whether he can square dance you drunk or if he has three left feet because it's one extreme or the other

his wardrobe looks like Homer Simpson's.

sigh. I kind of feel like L is often too busy to shave and usually has some degree of stubble. if you don't like it help him shave please he'll die kiss you

L probably has a lot of burner phones but no matter how you contact him, even in person, you're only allowed to call him L or Lawliet when you are completely completely definitely alone and you'll usually have to whisper. whisper in his ear and lick his neck he will literally shiver

anyway the point I was ACTUALLY going to make is call him lollipop (sweets. and sounds like Lawli-pop)

likes to just stare at you. no emotion in those pretty bottomless grey eyes of his but his internal monologue has suddenly switched to describe everything he likes about you.

big sucker for kisses. no time. :(

Light: orange tang dark cocoa drink

Okay but Light, when he isn't Kira, would actually be the sweetest boyfriend alive. Now yes I know he's portrayed as bored and apathetic but if he fell in love he would fall HARD!! to the centre of the earth!!! in his confession he might even propose getting married and raising 10 kids!!

honestly this kid shuts himself off from other people as much as L does, the only difference is that he's easier to get to. be his friend. ask about him.

sigh he'd buy you flowers.

he's got such a goofy laugh he sounds like a baby hyena or something.

Light is the kind of guy who would have the weirdest dreams. like "my entire class from high school went to a water park and I uncovered a cult that was plotting to kill me and sacrifice me to the teacher and-" if you let him explain in detail it's going on for hours.

every time L eats his food on Light's side of the bed, Light cuts his nails on L's side of the bed. petty ass #2

he would not like an "orange tang dark cocoa drink."

I feel like the best way to meet Light would be through the school's debate team. I started thinking about this when watching the musical (it wasn't a debate team but it WAS a debate)

omg if you managed to BEAT him?

who is this. he must know immediately. and also you were wrong back there- you hang out in the library? why hello there

his favourite food as a child was dinosaur nuggies. he thought they were made from dinosaur meat.

he still loves dino nuggies

okay as for when Light IS Kira. some of this is for if you have a relationship beforehand, some if you meet after.

you're actually one of the few people, along with Sayu and to some degree his parents, who he REALLY doesn't want to tell in case you hate him. but at the same time would you like to be the first angel of the new world?????

so he tries to figure out what you think of Kira. God or the Devil?

please love him. please don't hate him.

and let's be honest even if you don't think much of yourself you'd be much better help than Misa, who cut her life in half anyway.

I think Light's the kind of guy who, if he did perchance meet you as a detective on the Task Force would condition you to like him with a neat little psychological trick we like to call POSITIVE REINFORCEMENT.

you get something you like every time you see him and soon enough you get excited to see him!

at the same time he's constantly making you question whether Kira SHOULD be caught, all Inception style.

you'll love him. or you'll die. jk! (he's not)

Misa: chocolate mint icecream parfait

when she was little she wore rainbow clothes. real 180 when it turned to black black black.

loooves the beach.

sand! sun! swimming! bikini modelling! seashells! surfboards! sexy men with no shirts on! LIGHT WITH NO SHIRT ON!!!!

Misa has a really large collection of earrings of all types. kittens, the solar system, swords.

If you're friends with her she'll eventually pull you along to a modelling gig. No matter how much you protest, it will eventually happen. You'll just be there. Just pray Misa didn't forget to check the schedule and today is lingerie day.

she has 4000 photos on her phone, 3500 of which are selfies and 1750 of which have you in them.

her favourite Pokémon is Stufful!

Misa loves making origami and had a couple hundred paper cranes hanging from the roof of her bedroom when she lived with her parents.

This girl's FAVOURITE thing to do is hold hands. She would never let go if possible. Paint her fingernails and do her makeup, she'd be utterly devoted to you forever and ever. She'll do the same for you if you want.

Has a great singing voice!

Loves flowers. she reminds me of sunflowers in particular. give her bouquets. she'll put them everywhere and watch them slowly die with a smile.

Out of all food "types" I think Misa would like pastries and bakery food the most.

Her favourite letter used to be "L" but then she met L and it immediately became "H". "L" is now number 26 on the list.

Misa has the biggest collection of unused stickers and stamps to ever exist. She thinks they're really pretty.

if you're dating her or even someone else, DOUBLE DATES. anywhere and everywhere. parks. movies. restaurants. she will show up in your bedroom at night.

dressed up as the grim reaper for the past 5 Halloweens straight. only ate candy in pink wrapping.

she's a little like a cat in that she's prone to just knock coffee over paperwork or press her hands all over your keyboard. but, like a cat, she's too adorable to be angry at.

pick her up. spin her around. kiss her.

Matsuda: chocolate mousse + full milk cream

got really excited when Misa started talking about Pokémon but realised she just liked them because they're cute.. sob! he just wants someone to play Pokémon Go! with him!!!!

a very good chef. more actual meals than pastries etc though.

ughhhh his chicken parmigiana tastes like HEAVEN. the salad on the side is LIQUID GOLD.

just a silly little man who takes four tries to tie his tie properly every morning.

he can walk on his hands *bites lip sexily and accidentally breaks the skin, gets an infection and goes to hospital*

sigh he's so pathetic I love him

but goddamn. you guys remember that episode Matsuda overheard the Yotsuba meeting?? When he got his colour like L and Light AND HIS EXPRESSION???

sometimes he has unintentional moments like that, so serious and cool.

If you were dating him during the Kira case he'd ask L to help him erase every single record of your name to protect you. if L didn't agree the first time he'd make sweets with you to give to him. Matsuda is as cunning as anyone when he needs to be, though he hates doing it and can usually get along with puppy eyes.

"you really don't have to do that" when you tell him you love him or kiss him or just smile at him. he's too nice for his own good.

please coach him out of people pleasing.

I think he'd be really into camping actually!! can you imagine him in a silly little hat sitting around a campfire and toasting s'mores and damper?

His ENTIRE face lights up when he sees you. He thinks he's slick about hiding his crush from you but he really isn't.

he would just die if you had time to cuddle and watch a movie together one night. little kissies and calling him cute and really in general not watching the movie, just cuddling

He'd be the best friend EVER. super supportive and funny and generally just great. he'd make you soup if you got sick. he would hold your hair out of your face when you threw up. and then he would probably have to throw up too.

sorry that got a little gross dhbdbd

uhh Matsuda only drives Mazdas. he thinks it's funny (the name of the car came from the surname Matsuda). I think he'd like blue cars.

he likes to decorate the Task Force for the holidays to bring cheer and raise morale. he's the one reason nobody's gone insane yet (except Light but that couldn't be helped)

　★━━─・‥…━━━☆

𝖎𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊𝖉 𝖎𝖙 ˏˋ⋆˖⁺˖⁀➷ 𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖊 𝖗𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌 + 𝖋𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖔𝖜

[piscespetals]

summary: in which sevika comforts you after having a nightmare

content: fluff, arcane au, soft!sevika

You can't see.

The sound of your own gasping breath causes a nauseating sensation to settle within you. Everything around you is stark black, with no sign of anything familiar to pull you back to reality.

"It's okay," Her voice just barely keeps the dam from breaking. "It's okay now. I'm here."

Another sobs rips through you.

"I know," Her coaxing is tender. "It's okay. I promise." And even though she hadn't just relived your dream, you believe her. You know that she knows. She gets it. She gets you. Somehow, without you having to explain anything, she remains right here; understanding exactly what you need. "You're safe now."

Light illuminates the room suddenly. Despite the gentle click of her bedside lamp, the change is still jarring. Your eyes begin to burn as they struggle to adjust to your restored vision.

She stares back at you with piercing grey pools of care.

In that moment, the world rights itself again.

She doesn't say anything more. Your breathing calms to a steady pace, hair rising at the base of your neck as you realize that this is all you had needed. You can't help but marvel at how easy this is. How easy she makes it. All of those months of crying yourself awake, struggling through nightmares and flashbacks, only to realize that the simple gaze of someone you care for has washed it all away.

"I'm right here." She reminds you. And then you're pressed against the side of her, your head buried in her neck as her left arm circles around your waist. Naturally, you allow your legs to rest over hers. The cool surface of her headboard against your back is the only thing that keeps you from fully melting into her embrace.

Your hands grip onto her arm, the same arm wrapped around you, and you can't help but give her a light squeeze. It's an unspoken thank you. A gesture that you know she understands. She always understands.

Beads of sweat drip down the sides of your face and onto her shoulder. You don't bother to wipe them away.  And you don't think she necessarily cares.

Once you finally muster up enough courage to speak, you mumble, "It was a bad dream."

Her hold around you tightens. "Do you want to talk about it?"

You pause to ponder on her offer. Then you snort out a weird combination of a chuckle and sigh. "Not tonight. But I am more concerned that it's," You glance at the digital clock on her nightstand. "2 am in the morning and you somehow aren't tired of me."

"Why would I be?"

You lift your head, a wave of disbelief washing over you. "I've managed to disturb your sleep at 2am in the morning, Sev. Who wouldn't be even slightly annoyed by that?"

Even though you're grateful to be in this predicament, you hadn't necessarily thought you would ever get to this point with Sevika. Your friend group often teased her about being emotionally constipated. When you first met her, a month had passed before she even initiated a conversation. She wasn't the most outgoing. And she wasn't usually the type to hold people during strange hours of the night and listen to them complain about their issues.

But here she is. Holding you—asking you to complain. You struggle to fully understand why.

"The time of night is the least of my concerns right now." Sevika replies, pulling you out of your reverie. You're close enough for her breath to tickle your lips. Her pupils are dilated, gaze flickering to a space between your eyebrows. Then they trickle down to the slope of your nose before she peers at your lips. "Are you sure you don't need to talk about anything?"

You swallow thickly, reveling in the feeling of her skin against yours. Her hand slides to the base of your neck, fingers rubbing into the back of your scalp; holding you there. Tethering you to her.

A lump lodges itself in your throat. The sweetness of it all becomes painfully overwhelming. You aren't used to her being like this. And you definitely hadn't expected it. Every passing day that the two of you grow closer, the more that Sevika surprises you. The layers that come with her are multifaceted and sometimes entirely the opposite of what you initially thought.

Like now.

You blink slowly. "Why does it matter so much to you?"

A lapse of silence follows. Her eyebrows raise, head tilting in slight annoyance. You can already tell that she thinks your question is ridiculous. "You know why."

You suddenly feel naked despite being fully clothed.

Her gaze is unwavering, dark full lips parted and absolutely stunning. Your heart hammers in your ribcage. You're almost convinced it'll leap out of your chest as her words echo through your ears: You know why.

There's something between the both of you that's been boiling for a while now. You've been aware of it. It doesn't take rocket science for you to realize that friendships don't usually consist of shared kisses and slow morning rises with countless cuddles and breakfast food. At least, that's not how it's been for you with your past friendships.

But despite the line that's obviously been crossed, the both of you have yet to define exactly what you mean to each other.

It's something that you haven't been willing to say—for the fear of being rejected. For the fear of scaring Sevika away (it's taken a long time for her to become completely comfortable with you), and also for the fear of things changing.

You don't like change.

Not when everything is already perfect as it is.

But the signs are starting to become increasingly harder to ignore when she says things like 'You know why.'

"Did I scare you off..." She asks, grip tightening around your scalp in an attempt to regain your attention. It's a habit of hers you've grown to love. Your body grows rigid, a powerful magnetic force hitting you right in the gut. Within seconds, she loosens her grip, scratching gently into your scalp, completely oblivious to the sparks that she's triggered.

"No," You reply, mind fuzzy. "The opposite, really."

Her expression remains placid, as usual. But there's a tender shift in her eyes. It's subtle but it's there.

She tugs you closer to her and that's when you realize that you're in an awkward position of halfway sitting in her lap. You find yourself shifting your weight, trying to get comfortable despite the crick in your lower back.

"Here," She mumbles, pulling you towards her more. You allow her to guide you before repositioning yourself. You face her as you sit in her lap fully, legs straddling her. Both of her arms take this moment as an opportunity to wrap around your hips. Your heartbeat jumps up to your throat.

These feelings, these thoughts, are something that you don't ever think you'll get used to. Your mind can't help but focus on her half-lidded sleepy eyes, and how perfect they are when gazing at you in this way. She's wearing a tank top, which displays her broad shoulders and bulging bicep muscles.

And her hands....

God. Those hands.

She squeezes your hips and you bite your tongue to keep from reacting too strongly.

"Where do you keep going?" She inquires, searching your face with mild concern. She taps gently on one of your temples. "You don't always have to think so hard, you know."

Your throat is dry.

Like, desert dry.

You try to swallow but you can't.

Because she's so fucking handsome and caring in this moment.

You swallow thickly, an undeniable hunger rumbling through you. Out of complete desire, you reach up, fingertips brushing against the warmth of her brown skin.

You nod. "I know."

Then you bring your other hand up to cup her right cheek, caressing her for a few gentle moments, before traveling down to her neck. Your fingers graze against a few of her scars, rubbing gently into the skin, testing out the waters; hoping that this sort of intimacy is okay. She sighs at the feeling. Her eyes soften.

"You were screaming," She continues. "And no matter how hard I was trying to wake you, you wouldn't budge. I was worried."

Your eyes widen, realization settling within you from her admission.

She's still worried.

The kind of worry that she's never shown towards you before.

The kind of deep-seeded worry that people only have for those they really care about.

"I'm okay." You reassure her. Your hands shake as you squeeze her shoulders. "It was just a dream. Nothing worth mentioning for the time being, but I'm okay." Your chest hurts. Your throat hurts...your eyes. All of it. Feelings crash into one another, creating an impactful explosion within your heart. "You're here with me. So I'm more than okay."

Her eyes resemble something raw—almost close to...

"Okay." Her expression becomes heady. She allows her gaze to focus on your lips, incredibly transparent in her wanting—not holding back in the slightest with her intentions.

You analyze her in return, both confused and curious by her behavior. She lingers for so long, close enough for you to taste her breath, yet so far away. Your heart jumps into your throat as she peers back with an indescribable glint.

You feel a strong surge overtake you with a stuttering breath before you're leaning forward.

Lips and breath draw together, forming into the shape of one, and shooting a trail of shivers straight down your spine. Your mind buzzes, her affection unraveling you; breaking you. She's all soft skin and devastating fervor, with sounds of stars exploding between you two. The feeling of her holding you with immense regard—and the sensation of her chest pressing against yours, hands chaining you to her lap, digging into the flesh of your thighs with a delicious strength—has you falling apart pathetically.

You can certainly determine that there's been poems written about Sevika. The push-and-pull feeling of such perfection like her, with all of her charm and strength, is the sort of beauty that not every human is lucky enough to come across.

She bites and sucks and licks and it's otherworldly. Kisses melt into one another as a rhythm of panting and gasping materializes. She pulls away, lips planting into warm patterns against your neck. Your head tilts, need washing through every inch of your body.

Your grip on her shoulders tighten almost dangerously—to pull her close? Or steady yourself?—You can't be sure anymore. But she doesn't seem to mind, moaning into your mouth at the action.

Sevika is the first one that breaks away, lips puffy and pulled into a gorgeous grin.

Your lungs nearly collapse at the sight. This kind of smile that she wears is rare, laugh lines prevalent around her mouth with her gapped teeth on full display.

"As long as you continue to do that," You utter, still struggling to catch your breath.  "I'm pretty sure I'll always be okay." Then you shake your head, attempting to center yourself from the high.

She chuckles knowingly, smile widening so much that her face almost breaks. "I'll make sure to hold you to that."

[stuckinnet]

a few notable stuff:

1. Advice he would give a young Sidney Crosby "Probably to say no a little bit more as far as the off-ice stuff. That's one thing I look back on and it was just, it was pretty hectic. I think it's easier said than done. I think at that point there was just so much going on, coming out of a lockout. There's a lot of expectations on and off the ice as far as doing your part as a young player to try to help the league. I think it's easy to say that now but at the time I think it was the right thing. It's just, it was a bit of a year. It was a lot. You feel that pressure, you feel that expectation."

2. "Do you yet consider your context? Your place in hockey's history? Top five. Stuff like that. And I know you're gonna say you don't, but come on, by now you gotta." "I don't (laughs). Why would I? I mean, that's a debate for other people, not me. I don't really- There's no reason for me to really think about that. Obviously there's a ton of reasons and things you could debate so there's not much point in me even going there." "I'm not asking you to declare yourself the top five but I just wonder if privately you wonder. Not at all, huh?" "No, I don't. It's a compliment when your named with so many great players and you're put in that category. But I love the game and I respect all the players who've played before and what they've accomplished. I don't really need to figure out what that is or have that number in mind. It really doesn't change how I feel about the game or how I feel about what I've done in hockey. It's not really about that."

3. "Do you ever just sit on the couch and watch TV and eat junk food?" "Yeah pretty much Sunday and off days is what it is."

4. "What's it like to go the distance with Malkin and Letang? Now it's apparent you're gonna play the length of your careers together as far as it can go." "To be able to go this long and hopefully be able to go a few more years that would be incredible. It's been a pretty amazing ride to this point. To be able to have those guys around, to go through the experiences we have, to see their drive at this point in their career and what they've accomplished, I think is something that we all push each other and we all have really high expectations. They're driven. They care. They're competitive. And it's really fun to see that after all these years. That hasn't changed.

5. "What would you rather win? A gold medal or another Stanley Cup?" "There's no way I'm answering that one (laughs)".

6. Last movie he watched was, of course, Oppenheimer. "The long one. Really good. They mentioned Halifax, Nova Scotia in it too so that doesn't hurt." "Why not Exorcist? Too scary?" "Yeah, not really a scary movie guy."

7. "Are you engaged, married or is anyone expecting?" "Nope. Nothing to report there."

8. "You are very comfortable with your age, aren't you, at this point in your life and career. 36. Even the grey hair. I don't think it fazes you at all." "Yeah, no. What would faze me about my age?" "You tell me. Cus you and I talked a bit about dyeing your hair which you have no intent to do." "Well I might have to if I everybody comes up to me and chirps at my greys, I just might have to eliminate that conversation starter."

9. "You gonna fight Bedard?" "No, you don't have to worry about that."